Free In Bitter Chill by Sarah Ward Page A

door she could hear the woman shouting at her. A sum of money was mentioned, more that she had earned last year.
    ‘Did you know they’re reopening your case? How do you feel about that, Ms Jones?’
    Rachel felt her heart pause. Had she heard that correctly? Shaking, she walked over to the phone and pulled out the card Superintendent Llewellyn had given to her yesterday outside the hotel. With trembling hands she dialled the number.
    ‘Llewellyn here.’ She remembered the younger him now. When he had spoken to her on the steps of the Wilton Hotel, her shock at the news of Mrs Jenkins’s death hadn’t stopped her noticing his familiarity with her but she had been too stunned to comment on it. Now she could marry up the name on the card with her memory of the young policeman in the interview room with his shock of ginger hair carefully brushed to one side. He had been kind, she remembered that. And now he was a superintendent, high up in the echelons of the police force.
    ‘It’s Rachel. Rachel Jones. They’re here already.’
    ‘Who? Who’s there?’ The voice was sharp, concerned.
    ‘The press. A journalist’s just knocked on my door. Trying to get in.’ She sounded calm to her own ears and it cost her an effort.
    There was a sigh down the line. ‘I’m sorry, Rachel. It doesn’t take them long to pick up on a story.’
    ‘But they said that you’re reopening the case. Is that true? Are you?’
    There was a silence down the line. ‘I’m getting a team together to look over the case again. It’s been a while since there was a review. Look, Rachel . . .’
    ‘But I don’t want it reopened. I don’t want people looking at me all over again. I—’
    ‘It’s time the case was looked at again, especially in the light of Yvonne Jenkins’s death. It’s important to do these things, however painful. I’m sorry.’
    He sounded firm but also genuinely sorry.
    ‘Will they want to speak to me?’
    ‘They’re going to have to, Rachel. I can send—’
    ‘I don’t want a policewoman. I’d prefer a man.’
    Again, silence.
    ‘And what should I do about all those journalists outside the door?’
    ‘ Draw all the curtains and put lights on in a couple of rooms so they can’t work out where you are in the house. Don’t answer the telephone or mobile unless you recognise the number. Add my mobile to your contacts so I can get hold of you. And sit tight for tonight. I’ll send a patrol car past your house a few times to check all is OK. And I’ll be back in touch tomorrow morning. And Rachel . . .’
    ‘Yes?’ She couldn’t conceal the tremor any longer.
    ‘Try and get some sleep.’

Chapter 12
    As usual, Connie woke at five and listened to the birds chatter as they anticipated the cheerless dawn. She switched on her bedside lamp and contemplated her newly painted ceiling. The first thing she had done once her probationary period at Bampton had been concluded was to look for another flat to replace the dank bolt hole taken in haste when she arrived in the town from nearby Matlock. Unfortunately, despite the recession, house prices were still high, people attracted to the market town with its views of the Derbyshire Peaks. The landscape was stunning whatever the weather, from the slate grey hues of the wintry hills overhung with heavy black clouds to the verdant green of a summer’s day. It was a landscape to catch your breath and wonder. So to buy anything had been out of reach of her limited budget. However, instead of rushing to find a replacement for her scruffy apartment, she had taken her time over three months and had eventually found this place.
    What had surprised her was that it overlooked the town’s canal. In her old flat, she had hated the fact that the stagnant water ran across the bottom of the garden. She refused to venture near it, but it preyed on her mind, its deep still waters rocking unseen at night. She had nearly not viewed her present flat. Once she saw from the