Looking Good Dead

of items belonging to her for DNA testing. We took some hair samples from a brush in the bathroom and a piece of chewing gum we found in a pedal bin,’ Grace explained.
    Derek Stretton held his cup without drinking, eyeing him warily.
    ‘We sent these up to the Police laboratory at Huntingdon, and earlier this morning we received the results. The DNA from the chewing gum and from the hair is from the same person, and there was a complete match with the body that we found on Wednesday. I’m afraid the only conclusion we can come to, sir, is that the murdered young lady is your daughter, Janie.’
    There was a long silence, and for some moments Grace thought that Derek Stretton was about to throw his head back and roar with laughter. Instead, all that happened was that the cup began to rattle in the saucer, louder and louder, until the man leaned forward and set it down.
    ‘I – I see,’ he said.
    He looked at Grace again, then at Branson. Then slowly, like a complex folding chair, he seemed to collapse in on himself. ‘She’s all I have in the world,’ he said. ‘Please tell me it’s not true. She’s coming today – it’s my birthday – we’re going to dinner. Oh God. I – I . . .’
    Grace stared rigidly ahead, avoiding Branson’s eye, wishing desperately that he could say it wasn’t true, that it was a mistake. But there was nothing he could add, nothing that would make this man’s grief any less.
    ‘I lost my wife – her mother – three years ago. Cancer. Now I’ve lost Janie. I . . .’
    Grace gave him some space, then asked, ‘What kind of a daughter was she, sir? I mean – were you close?’
    After a long silence Derek Stretton said, ‘There’s always a specialbond between a father and daughter, I’m told. I’ve certainly found it so.’
    ‘She was a caring person?’
    ‘Immensely. Never ever forgot my birthday, or Christmas or Father’s Day. She’s – she’s just – a – perfect . . .’ His voice tailed away.
    Grace stood up. ‘Do you have a recent photograph of her? I’d like to get a picture out into circulation as quickly as possible.’
    Derek Stretton nodded bleakly.
    ‘And would you mind if we took a look in her bedroom?’
    ‘Do you want me to come – or . . . ?’
    ‘We can go on our own,’ Grace said gently.
    ‘First floor – turn right at the top of the stairs. It’s the second door on your right.’
    It was a young girl’s room, a tidy, organized, methodical young girl. A row of cuddly toys lay back against the cushions. A U2 poster hung on the wall. There was a collection of seashells on the dressing table. Bookshelves stacked mostly with children’s books, girls’ adventure stories and a few legal thrillers from Scott Turow, John Grisham and several other American writers. There was a pair of slippers on the floor and an old-fashioned dressing gown hanging on the back of the door.
    Grace and Branson opened all the drawers, rummaged in her clothing, through underwear, T-shirts, blouses, pullovers, but they found nothing to remotely suggest what she had done to expose herself to a savage killer.
    Then Grace picked up a velvet jewellery box and popped open the lid. Inside were some delicate amethyst earrings, a silver charm bracelet, a gold necklace, and a signet ring with an embossed crest. He closed the lid and held on to the box.
    After fifteen minutes they went back downstairs. Derek Stretton did not seem to have moved from his chair, and he had not touched his tea.
    Grace held up the box and opened the lid, showing Janie’s father the contents. ‘Mr Stretton, are all these your daughter’s?’
    He peered at them and nodded.
    ‘May I borrow one of the items? Something that she might haveworn recently?’ He ignored the strange look that Glenn Branson gave him.
    ‘The signet ring’s probably the best,’ he said. ‘It’s our family crest. She used to wear it all the time until quite recently.’
    Grace removed a small plastic evidence bag from his pocket, which he had brought with him for this purpose, and, lifting the ring out of the box with his handkerchief, carefully placed it in the bag.
    ‘Mr Stretton, is there anyone you can think of who might have had any reason to harm your daughter?’ Grace asked.
    ‘No one,’ he whispered.
    Sitting back down opposite Derek Stretton and leaning towards him, Grace cradled his chin on his hands and asked, ‘Did she have a boyfriend?’
    Staring at the carpet, Derek Stretton said, ‘Not –