Chapter 1

Patricia Rockwell groaned, abandoned reading Chocolat and wandered from the lounge to the dining room. Her husband was seated at the table, the one he’d commandeered for his work.

“Why are you humming dear?” she asked as she stepped to the back of his chair.

Detective Inspector Alistair was tall and his wife five feet two, so she scarcely needed to bend forwards as she snuggled her mouth into the crook of his long neck. His hand came up and fondled the bunch of loose sand-gold hair which dangled across his face.

She smoothed a kiss against his cheek and lowered herself onto the nearest chair. “Well, my lord? Why the noise?”

He regarded her across the paper strewn table. “Noise! I wasn’t aware I was disturbing you,” he challenged with an innocent expression.

“You weren’t.” Her delicate mouth smiled back. “However we both know you’ve been hoping to attract my attention for near on an hour - no doubt to assist you with your latest investigation. If I’d had my druthers, you wouldn’t have tortured one of my favourite McCartney songs.”

“That’s unfair. My handling of the melody was excellent. Apart from which the Met doesn’t authorise the use of torture these days. It’s considered an outdated method of interviewing.”

She stared in silence at the handsome face, boring into his deep blue eyes while he maintained stone faced innocence. Realising he wouldn’t back down, her scrutiny traversed the litter of records and folders until she saw the grey bound journal between his arms. She gestured towards it. “May I?”

Without a word he slid it over the table top until it rested by her hands.

Opening the cover she looked at the title. “‘The Diary of Eleanor Risby,’” she read. “Is this it? Is this what you want me to read?”

He nodded and grinned.

“Who is she?”

“A missing person.”

“Missing Persons isn’t your department.” Pat’s slim brows pulled down over her green eyes. “What’s your involvement? Do you suspect murder?”

“No, not now. We’ve ruled out foul play, however the case intrigues me. I can’t let it go.”

“And you wish me to help.” It was a statement - not a question.

“It’s right up your street. You’ll love it. It’s an enigma, a challenge. I suspect even you may be flummoxed.”

She knew he was whetting her appetite. She couldn’t resist a whodunit, however she was not yet convinced. “I’m not committing myself. Outline the basics first.”

“She’s a local girl; lived in Camden. Aged thirty one.”

Pat made a quick mental calculation. “That makes sense. She was born a short while after the Beatles released Eleanor Rigby. Did her parents have a quaint sense of humour? I wouldn’t name my child after a lonely spinster.”

“We don’t know, there are no close relatives to question. Her parents were killed in a road accident when she was an infant and her only other relative died five years ago. She’s lived alone since then.”

“Do I assume she inherited from her parents?”

“Yes, a small fortune. They were successful musicians and owned a small record company, mostly opera and chamber music. Eleanor enjoyed a comfortable income from the estate and she owned the house.”

“Ah, there’s a will.”

He smirked, edging her on.

“Right then, who benefits from her death?”

He chuckled. “Sorry, that’s another blind alley. The local hospital is the sole beneficiary and I doubt the NHS would arrange a contract killing. No-one knows her and the only local we were able to interview was her next door neighbour. She was useless - thoroughly batty. Martha Willis, well into her eighties and severely confused. Kept insisting we should talk to her parents - Jack and Vera.”