Later that night after Doris had gone back to hers, I transferred the photos I had taken of David’s body onto my desktop computer. It felt a little macabre. The knowledge that we could have averted the murder if I hadn’t overridden Doris’s wish to go straight to the Tupperware stall still gnawed at my conscience. I knew I couldn’t be blamed for my actions, but I still felt responsible. As I scrolled through the images, I felt the weight of the loss of my favourite tennis instructor, sitting on top of the earlier loss of Mum.
One image held my attention. I sat back and gazed at the dead man’s face, the look of shock in his eyes, the disbelief. He was a good-looking man, even in death. Self-assured. I took in his clothing. He had on a navy-blue polo top over tan chinos. He’d kept himself tr
