“Come in, Mrs Bigwood. How’s Tony and the youngsters?”
Her eyelid pinched.
“Mr Dickenson… it’s a painful issue. Can I talk to you? Confidential?”
“My head is full of the best-kept secrets.”
“Langton… can I use your first name?”
“Of course.”
“Call me Anne.”
“At the start of last week, I found out he’s having an affair. Sandra Titian. Industrial estate.”
She paused.
“A friend told me. Someone drove past the golf course. Saw them. Parked up.”
Tears now.
Let her tell it.
“And those earlier times. The one you dealt with…”
“I remember. He was lucky.”
“I wanted the boys to have their father.”
A breath.
“I asked someone to watch him. Billy Farrell. Schooldays. Cement works.”
Langton said nothing.
“He spent an evening at her place. Said he was at a night class.”
She looked at him.
“What should I do?”
“A week,” Langton said. “Then decide.”
“I won’t push it.”
“Call me.”
Days passed.
A call in the car.
“Worth. Tony Bigwood’s been stabbed. No one at the house. Sandra Titian’s missing. No sign of Mrs Bigwood or the boys. Can you reach her?”
“I’ll try.”
“Anne. It’s Langton.”
“Why—what’s happened?”
“Tony’s dead. At your house. Police are looking for you.”
“I’ve been up north with the boys.”
“Come in.”
“An hour.”
He waited.
She didn’t come.
Morning.
“Billy’s confessed. He thinks I did it. He didn’t do it. Will you act for him?”
“Billy, the only evidence is your confession.”
The weapon was under his house. Tony’s DNA.
Trial.
Guilty.
Life.
In Australia, Sandra Titian kept quiet.
After the verdict, she withdrew.
Didn’t turn up to work.
Her flatmate found her in bed.
Dead.
A pink envelope.
“Confidential.”
Langton opened it.
A photograph.
Sandra. Blood on her dress. The knife.
Tony on the bed behind her.
Langton stared.
Then the phone.
“Anne. Come in.”
She came. He showed her.
She said nothing.
Next day she drove south.
A few days later, Billy Farrell was released.
They drove home together.
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