Until It's Over by Nicci French

love?’
    ‘Anything.’
    ‘At the double,’ said the detective.
    The two officers scuttled out of the room. The detective gestured at me to sit down. He placed the two files on the table one beside the other. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Paul Kamsky,’ he said. ‘How are you doing?’
    ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said.
    ‘This isn’t really by the book. I know you haven’t given a statement yet, but as soon as I heard, I had to come and talk to you myself.’ He gave a baffled smile. ‘I had to ask, what the hell is going on?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    He picked up a file – green cardboard – and opened it.
    ‘On Thursday, the tenth of May, you were the last person to see one Margaret Farrell alive.’
    ‘Me and a couple of my friends, yes.’
    He put the file down and picked up the other one – brown cardboard, this time. ‘And now, a little over three weeks later, you are the person who finds the body of Ingrid de Soto. I wondered if you had any comment to make.’
    ‘For what it’s worth, I’m a bit shaken by it.’
    ‘So am I, Miss Bell. Anything else?’
    ‘Like what?’
    He paused for a moment.’ ‘Miss Bell, I’m not sure if you’re entirely recognizing the oddity of the situation.’
    ‘I am fucking recognizing it. It’s a horrible, horrible coincidence and it’s not nice being the victim.’
    ‘You’re the witness, not the victim.’
    ‘That’s what I was trying to say.’
    ‘I could put it this way. I’ve been a copper for twenty-eight years and the only time I’ve ever found someone on two murder scenes within a month is because they were the murderer.’
    ‘You’re not saying…?’
    ‘No, no, of course not. But I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to be here for a while. These statements take a ridiculously long time. But I’m just here to ask a couple of very simple questions.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Like, can you think of any connection between these two women?’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said. ‘There’s no connection at all.’
    ‘Well, there’s one,’ he said.
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘You.’
    ‘That’s mad.’
    ‘Please, Miss Bell. Help me. Tell me about your relation to these women.’
    ‘Honestly, there is no relation. Margaret Farrell lived in the same street I do, a few doors along. But this is London. I knew her face but I’d never really met her until I ran into her car.’
    ‘You ran into her car?’
    ‘Well, pedalled. It probably says that in the file.’ For the millionth time, I gave an account of what had happened. ‘But that was it. I didn’t know her. And I was in a shocked state, so I can’t even remember saying anything coherent to her.’
    ‘What about Ingrid de Soto?’
    I started to shiver violently.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, my teeth chattering. ‘I’m not thinking in the clearest way.’
    Kamsky leaned forward with a concerned expression on his face. ‘Do you need a doctor?’ he said.
    ‘Seeing her body,’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen a dead body before.’
    ‘And not arranged like that,’ he said. ‘Some of my young constables were pretty shaken as well. Do you want to stop for a bit?’
    ‘No, I’m all right. What was it you wanted to know?’
    ‘Ingrid de Soto. Tell me about her.’
    ‘I didn’t even remember her full name. Maybe I saw it on a package.’
    ‘Why did you go to the house?’
    ‘I wasn’t planning it. My boss rang me. He could have rung anybody.’
    ‘How many others?’
    ‘Five or six.’
    ‘Had you been to the house before?’
    ‘A few times.’
    ‘Can you think why anyone would want to kill this woman?’
    ‘Which woman?’
    ‘Mrs de Soto. Do you know anything about her?’
    ‘No. I’m not her doctor, not her neighbour, not her friend. I deliver packages and take them away. Usually I don’t even know their names.’
    ‘Anything?’
    ‘She’s rich. She was rich.’
    ‘That’s something,’ he said.
    ‘She’s rich, so someone may have killed her for her