NINETY-ONE
Terry turned down the volume on the television. They had been watching Question Time on BBC which seemed to him to be a panel of opposing politicians shouting, interrupting and pointing fingers at each other. The host seemed to have lost control of the proceedings whilst the audience were as noisy and raucous as the crowds at the Colosseum in Rome baying for blood at a gladiatorial contest.
Grace had fallen asleep against him, his arm around her shoulder and he felt as contented as he did when his daughters used to cuddle up to him when they were younger.
It had been a tiring day with little progress in the hunt for the killer of Amanda Morton and Alice Salthouse.
There had been no sign of the VW Golf used to transport the body of Alice Salthouse to the car park at the ‘Bag
