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Chapter One

‘We could go see a movie,’ Johnnie suggested. ‘One of the new talkies, even. If you wanted.’

Dahlia sighed. ‘Oh, all right. But only because there aren’t any good murders that need solving right at this minute.’

Dahlia Lively in Murder Looks Lively

By Lettice Davenport, 1933

Caro

Caro Hooper took her date’s hand and stepped out of the car onto the red carpet. ‘Anton must be positively seething somewhere, watching this.’ Her words were almost lost in the noise of the crowd gathered in Leicester Square, but Kit was close enough to hear them.

He chuckled. ‘If you attending this premiere as my date is the only thing our esteemed director is worrying about tonight, then I reckon we’re doing okay. Don’t you?’

Given the long road it had taken to get them there – metaphorically, rather than the journey from the London townhouse she shared with her wife, Annie – Caro had to agree.

Against all odds, the movie reboot of The Lady Detective had been completed, and very soon the world would be able to watch it. Posy Starling had officially taken her place in the detective pantheon by starring as the lady detective herself, Dahlia Lively. And the original Dahlia, Rosalind King, had also managed to not only appear in the latest movie, but also survive the experience – which hadn’t seemed such a sure thing eighteen months earlier.

They’d had to recast and relocate after the murderous events of the original film shoot in Wales, but filming up in Scotland instead hadn’t been such a bad thing. For instance, the handsome laird whose family owned the estate they’d filmed at had taken a considerable shine to their script writer, Libby McKinley. Caro smiled as she watched Libby and Duncan make their way along the carpet ahead of them.

‘Our turn.’ Kit tugged her hand through the crook of his arm, and they stepped forward together. He really was an old-fashioned gentleman – even though Caro knew she wasn’t the Dahlia he actually wanted on his arm tonight.

Annie had laughed when Caro told her that Kit had invited her to the premiere as his date.

‘Which one of them do you suppose put him up to that?’ she’d asked. ‘Posy or Rosalind?’

‘Probably both,’ Caro admitted. ‘But Anton can’t really complain if it’s Kit taking me, not them.’

Kit Lewis was a rising star whose brightness was starting to eclipse the rest of them. If Anton wanted him back on set for the sequel, starring as DI Johnnie Swain once more, he couldn’t afford to offend him. Which worked out nicely for Caro.

Anton hadn’t wanted her on set in Wales, and he certainly hadn’t wanted her on set in Scotland, but in the end he hadn’t had much choice in the matter. Caro wasn’t about to start letting men – or anyone – tell her where she could and couldn’t go at this point in her life. And besides, Anton knew she was writing a novel based on their first murder investigation at Aldermere – the investigation that had turned Rosalind, Caro and Posy into the Three Dahlias, each of them as famous now for solving murders as for playing fictional detective, Dahlia Lively, on screen. Given his part in the events that transpired at Aldermere . . . Anton really did need to stay on her good side.

Which didn’t mean he had to like it. Caro glanced around the gathered celebrities and film people on the red carpet to try and spot him, intending to give him a rather smug smile, but he must have already headed inside as he was nowhere to be seen.

It had been a long time since Caro had been on display like this. Ever since her TV series, The Dahlia Lively Mysteries had been cancelled, she’d not exactly been in high demand for premieres and parties – or for parts, either, as it happened. The lack of roles for forty-something women in TV and film was just one of the reasons she’d turned author.

But she hadn’t forgotten how this all worked. She smoothed down her green silk dress, smiled her brightest smile, and raised a hand to wave to the crowd as they walked towards the cinema entrance, and the photographers and reporters waiting for them. Tomorrow, her photo would be in the papers beside Kit’s, forever connected with Dahlia Lively and this movie – and there was nothing that Anton could do about it.

Revenge really was best served cold.

‘Not that I don’t appreciate you inviting me,’ she said to Kit as they walked. ‘But can I assume that you’ll be going home with a different Dahlia tonight?’

Posy had been frustratingly cagey about her relationship with Kit – whether it was on, off, serious or imaginary was the subject of much gossip online and on the film set. The fact that Kit had spent so much time out of the country filming new projects over the last year couldn’t have helped matters, though.

Posy was very protective of her privacy – and for good reason – but really. She could at least put Rosalind and Caro out of their misery and give them the details. Even Rosalind shared the basics of her developing relationship with her old friend, ex-detective inspector Jack Hughes – although she’d just smiled beatifically when Caro had asked her how the sex was.

If Posy would give her the same, Caro wouldn’t have to interrogate Kit for the gossip.

As it was, he just shook his head. ‘That’s entirely up to her.’

‘Hmm.’ Caro cast a glance back over her shoulder to where Rosalind and Posy were making their way along the red carpet, both looking utterly stunning in their own ways, as usual. ‘Well, if she doesn’t, she’s a fool.’

Kit squeezed her hand in gratitude for her support. ‘Not a fool. Just . . . cautious.’

It would do Posy no harm at all to throw caution to the wind every now and then, in Caro’s opinion. But then, she hadn’t been around for the period of Posy’s life where she’d had no caution – or common sense – at all, so what did she know?

Still, the most rebellious thing Posy had done in a while was to buy a flat in an area of London that may – or may not – be on the cusp of regeneration. Caro hadn’t had the opportunity to visit yet, but she was bracing herself, all the same. Rosalind, she knew, had continued sending Posy listings for flats long after the sale went through.

Kit stopped for photos and to sign autographs for many of the fans who’d waited probably hours to see him. They waved their phones and notebooks, and Kit just smiled and posed, camera flashes brightening the summer evening around them. One or two of the fans wanted to catch Caro’s eye, too, which was gratifying.

They’d barely made it halfway along the red carpet when she heard another voice calling her name – this one with rather more insistence than the others.

‘Caro! Caro Hooper!’

Best smile in place, Caro turned to try and find the fan, scanning the crowd.

When she saw her, Caro knew in an instant that the woman wasn’t there for an autograph, or a selfie. She wasn’t even there for the movie.

She was there for Caro. Her own past coming back to haunt her.

‘Caro!’ the woman called again, waving wildly.

It was the eyes she recognised first. The pale blue eyes so like her brother’s. She was older now, of course – it had been over four years since Caro had seen her, across the courtroom, staring accusingly at her.

Her fluffy blonde hair hung around her shoulders, the summer evening sunlight making it glow like a halo. She’d pushed her way to the front of the rope line, so Caro could see she wore a long, embroidered dress with flowers on it. And this time, there wasn’t accusation in her gaze.

There was hope.

Caro turned away.

‘Everything okay?’ Kit murmured, as he tucked her hand through his arm again. At the front of the cinema, the security team were starting to beckon them in.

‘Fine,’ Caro lied. ‘Your fans done with you?’

‘For now.’ Kit gave her a wink. ‘What about yours?’

‘Oh, this is your crowd, not mine,’ she said, as casually as she could. ‘I’m saving my hand strength for all the books I’ll need to sign at festivals and such this summer, now The Three Dahlias is published.’ The release had been cunningly timed by her publisher to coincide with the premiere of the new movie, and she’d held her launch event the night before.

‘Probably a good idea. From what I’ve heard, it’s going to be a huge hit.’

‘That’s the idea.’

As they stepped towards the foyer, Caro comforted herself with that thought. Soon her name would be back on everyone’s lips, not because of a film she didn’t even appear in, but because of something of her own. A book she’d written, herself, and a murder she’d solved – with a little help from her friends.

This was going to be her year, and no face from the past was going to change that.

Behind her, she heard the desperate voice call again.

‘Posy! Dahlia! Please! I need your help.’

A chill settled in Caro’s chest, despite the summer evening, and her steps slowed. She didn’t turn, though. Just listened.

‘He didn’t do it! You have to help me prove it.’

Of course he did it. Who else could have?

‘Caro?’ Kit asked, frowning.

She waved a hand to shush him. ‘One moment.’

Reluctantly, she twisted halfway round. Behind them, her fellow Dahlias had almost reached the doors, too – Posy sparkling in the silver dress from some up-and-coming London designer, and Rosalind elegant in a russet gown that looked too warm for the British summer but perfectly fit her classic brand.

They’d stopped on the red carpet, staring out into the crowd at the rope line. And Caro knew exactly who they were looking at.

Sarah Baker.

The security team were ushering Rosalind and Posy inside now. But Sarah’s last words echoed in behind them.

‘The real murderer is still out there. You have to help me find them!’

Caro grabbed Kit’s arm and started walking again.

She might be a part-time private detective and part-time crime author now, but the case Sarah Baker was talking about wasn’t one she had any interest in revisiting.

Ever.

Rosalind

The movie was good.

No, it was better than good. It was everything Rosalind had hoped it would be.

She’d seen snippets before the premiere, of course. But she hadn’t wanted to watch anything much until it was the finished article, complete with the music score and credits and everything. The way audiences would watch it, around the world.

And they were going to love it.

She smiled as she considered the individual performances. For herself, her turn as Aunt Hermione came across well – at least well enough to forestall having to move into voicing funeral plan adverts any time in the near future, she hoped.

But more importantly, Posy’s performance as Dahlia Lively shone. Oh, she wasn’t the Dahlia Rosalind had been, or even the Dahlia that Caro had embodied. She was her own Dahlia, a Dahlia for now, and she was perfect.

Which, Rosalind had to admit, was a relief. Not least because it meant Posy might stop squeezing her hand so hard now the credits had rolled.

‘It was good,’ Rosalind murmured to her, while around them the theatre burst into cheers and applause. ‘You were perfect.’

Posy let out a long breath, as if she’d been holding it for the entire one hundred and ten minutes. ‘Thank God for that.’ She looked up at Rosalind with a shaky smile. ‘Now we just have to make it through the after party.’

Because, of course, the film was only the start of it.

Rosalind hadn’t planned to attend the premiere alone, but Jack had little to no interest in being photographed on the red carpet and, besides, he had some sort of plumbing or guttering emergency to deal with back at his cottage in the hills of Llangollen. Rosalind might have finally learned to say the name of the town where he lived, but she drew the line at assisting with home maintenance when Jack could easily have paid someone else to fix it. But he liked to believe he was still a jack of all trades, so she ignored the fact it was clearly an excuse to avoid the cameras and went without him.

It did occur to her, as she travelled home from Wales, that there were rather a lot of things they were ignoring in their fledgeling relationship – like the two hundred miles that separated them most of the time, and kept the relationship perpetually in those early stages, even more than a year after their first official date.

Posy probably would have come with Kit, Rosalind assumed, if he hadn’t been bringing Caro. It was fun to see Caro on the arm of the hottest young actor on the block, though. Rosalind imagined Annie was in stitches, watching at home.

They were led out of the cinema, past more fans and more cameras, to the cars waiting to take them to the after party. Rosalind had hoped to catch up with Caro, to see what she’d made of it, but she and Kit were too far ahead, and there were more autographs to sign, anyway.

She saw Posy scanning the crowd, and guessed what she was looking for – the woman who’d called out for Dahlia’s help before the movie started. Heaven only knew what that was all about. These days, the three of them were almost synonymous with amateur murder investigations – although whether that was because they’d solved two genuine murder cases together, or because they were famous for playing Dahlia Lively, Rosalind wasn’t entirely sure. Either way, the papers had enjoyed coming up with pun-filled headlines for both.

‘Any sign?’ she asked.

Posy shook her head, without Rosalind needing to elaborate. ‘She must have gone.’

‘Perhaps.’ Except, why would she leave after so desperately calling for their help, when she knew they’d be coming back out this way again?

Probably just a crank, Rosalind decided. Or a ploy to get their attention for a photo or autograph. Nothing to waste time worrying about.

She ignored the strange feeling in the pit of her stomach that suggested otherwise.

The after party was being held at a museum space not far away, and sprawled over several floors and rooms, all well stocked with champagne and canapés. The museum itself seemed to specialise in crime memorabilia, which was presumably why it had been chosen, but Rosalind wasn’t entirely sure that all of the rooms really fit with the Dahlia Lively vibe.

Almost as soon as she was through the door she was collared by an old acquaintance for a chat, and lost Posy in the melee. It was a very boring five minutes before she was able to escape and explore the rest of the party.

She spotted Posy looking cosy with Kit in a far corner as she passed through one of the side rooms, and the sight made her smile. She was about to move on through the archway to the next exhibit space when Posy looked up and noticed her. She placed a hand on Kit’s arm, murmured something to him, then broke away to head towards Rosalind – only to recoil at the exhibit she had to pass close by to reach her.

Looking at it even from a greater distance, Rosalind didn’t blame her.

‘Okay, I could have lived without ever seeing that,’ Posy said, as she stepped around the display of a murder victim’s severed head rendered in alarming – and hopefully not authentic – detail. Really, the death and gore theme didn’t go so well with the designer dresses and diamonds filling the rooms.

Rosalind tugged on her arm and led her back through to the main atrium, where the displays were less, well, niche. ‘Come on. I want to find Caro.’

‘Me too.’ Posy worried at her lower lip with her teeth. Rosalind had a fairly good idea what was bothering her.

‘Stop worrying. She’ll have loved you, too.’

‘Then where is she?’ Posy murmured, as they moved through the crowd.

Rosalind didn’t have an answer to that. She’d expected Caro to be waiting at the door, ready to congratulate their Dahlia protégée on a stunning performance – just like they’d both been there at Caro’s book launch the night before, to celebrate with her. But so far, their third Dahlia was nowhere to be seen.

The problem with a party like this one, especially when in the company of the star of the movie, was that it was almost impossible to get anywhere quickly. There were too many people who wanted to stop and chat – to pay compliments or, more often, fish for opportunities. Several women stopped Posy under the pretence of asking who had designed her dress, when they had to know that information would be on the gossip sites the next morning. Still, Posy took the chance to promote the work of Kit’s up-and-coming designer friend, and Rosalind kept a fixed smile on her face as they made their way around the gathered horde.

Ignoring the waffling of a film critic who was apparently trying to suck up to Posy with some barbed backhanded compliments about other actresses, and occasionally Posy herself, Rosalind scanned the crowd again. She didn’t find Caro, but she did spot someone who put a real smile on her face this time.

Across the marble hall, Libby McKinley waved from the sweeping staircase, and her companion gently grabbed her arm to stop her from slipping.

‘Sorry, you must excuse us,’ Rosalind said, not really caring she’d cut the critic off in the middle of a sentence. She slipped a hand through Posy’s arm and led her towards the stairs.

‘Libby! And Duncan. It’s so good to see you both!’ Posy leaned in to hug both Libby and her Laird-of-the-Manor boyfriend, and seemed genuinely relaxed and happy for the first time that evening.

Rosalind gave them her own embrace, then stood back. ‘So, how did it feel, Libby? Seeing your story up there?’

Libby laughed. ‘It’s hardly my story, Rosalind. It will always be Lettice’s.’

‘Your interpretation, then.’ Rosalind thought that the script writer wasn’t giving herself enough credit. Yes, she might have adapted the story from Lettice’s original novel, but she’d certainly made it her own, adding touches and twists that brought it up to date for a modern audience. And that was before she got started on Anton’s request for five possible endings.

In the end, Rosalind suspected that everyone would be satisfied with the one he’d chosen for the final cut. Libby certainly seemed to be; she was glowing as she gushed about how good they’d both looked up on the screen, how beautiful the cinematography was, and how the cast had brought her script to life.

Or maybe that glow had to do with something else.

Rosalind reached out to grab Libby’s left hand as she waved it around for emphasis as she talked. ‘Never mind the film – tell us about this!’

‘This’ being the giant diamond sitting on Libby’s ring finger. Posy gasped and wiggled closer for a look, while Libby blushed a delightful shade of pink.

‘Oh, well, yes. I wasn’t going to steal anyone’s thunder by announcing it tonight but… invitations will be in the post!’ Libby smiled up at Duncan soppily, and even Rosalind’s creaky old heart was warmed by the look they shared.

‘We’re thinking of a Christmas wedding, up home in Scotland,’ Duncan added.

‘It sounds perfect,’ Rosalind said, approvingly, wondering how Jack would feel about spending Christmas in Scotland. ‘And I want to hear all about it later. But first…’

‘Have you seen Caro yet this evening?’ Posy finished for her.

‘Oh, she was just upstairs in the detective fiction display room,’ Libby said, waving a hand in the general direction of where she’d last seen Caro.

‘Of course she was,’ Rosalind muttered. ‘Probably looking for an exhibit about her personally. We’d better go find her before she starts giving tours to the guests. Congratulations again, you two. Come on, Posy.’

From the balcony level at the top of the main staircase, Rosalind could see out over the whole party. Camera flashes sparkled off champagne glasses, and the volume of the conversation rose well over whatever music was being played over the speakers. But the buzz was good. The buzz spoke of a successful movie, one everyone had enjoyed. Even the producers and the investors were looking relaxed.

Only Posy still looked tense. And Rosalind was sure that as soon as they found Caro, and the other Dahlia told her she’d done a good job, Posy would unclench.

‘There you are!’ Caro emerged from a side room, glass of champagne clutched in one hand, beaming as she leaned in to kiss Posy’s cheek. ‘Kiddo, you were amazing.’

Rosalind bit back a laugh as she watched Posy’s shoulders visibly relax at her words.

‘You weren’t bad either,’ Caro continued, as she embraced Rosalind.

‘For an ageing relic?’ Rosalind asked, pointedly, one eyebrow raised.

‘For a national treasure,’ Caro countered.

‘What are you doing up here, anyway?’ Posy asked, looking around them at the mostly empty balcony.

Rosalind frowned as she followed suit. There were a few small clusters of people up there talking more quietly than the raucous conversations downstairs, but this definitely wasn’t where the party was.

And Caro was always where the party was.

‘Oh, just checking out the amateur detective display, to see if we’re mentioned,’ Caro replied, too casually.

Posy clocked it, too, if Rosalind read her look right.

Something was going on with Caro. But finding out what it was would have to wait until after the party, she decided, as Anton was moving purposefully in their direction.

‘And here they are. Our three Dahlias.’ Posy and Caro both turned as one at the sound of Anton’s voice behind them. He gripped hold of the banister as he took the last two steps, followed by three women – one Rosalind recognised, and two she didn’t. ‘I’ve got some people who’d like to talk to you three.’

Rosalind glanced across at her friends, and saw all the colour drain from Caro’s face.

Maybe they wouldn’t have to wait, after all.

Chapter Two

‘In my experience, there’s nothing so dangerous, or more insidious, than an open and shut, cut and dried case,’ Dahlia said, slamming the file closed. ‘They’re always the ones that turn out to be far more complicated than anyone expected.’

Dahlia Lively in A Secret To Tell

By Lettice Davenport, 1959

Posy

Posy stepped forward, her hand out, conveniently blocking Caro from view as she greeted the women. She cast a hurried glance at Rosalind, but from her barely perceptible shrug she had no idea what was going on with Caro either. Which meant they’d just have to distract Anton and his friends from her strange reaction until they were alone and could quiz her properly.

All Posy knew was, this wasn’t the Caro she’d expected this evening – or the one who’d spent a fair portion of her own book launch the night before fishing for details about what was going on with her and Kit, and why he wasn’t there. She didn’t recognise this Caro at all.

She did recognise the first of Anton’s companions – a twenty-something Black woman in a stunning scarlet dress.

‘Posy Starling,’ Posy said, shaking the woman’s hand. ‘And you’re Eleanor Grey, right? I watched your recent TV programme on . . . ’ Dammit, what had it been on?

‘The Devonshire Ripper Theory,’ Eleanor finished for her. ‘What did you think?’

‘It was . . . a fascinating theory,’ Posy said, diplomatically. In fact, as far as she could tell, there was practically no genuine evidence linking the series of eighteenth-century murders across Devon to one serial killer, but what did she know? She had enough to worry about solving crimes that happened on her watch, without travelling back in time to solve ones where the murderers were already long dead too.

She’d only watched the documentary in the first place because she’d been alone for the weekend and determined to chill out and not leave her tiny, new London flat unless absolutely necessary.

But Eleanor, with her intelligent brown eyes and engaging manner had been strangely compelling to watch, as she linked the cases across the county. Even if Posy hadn’t quite believed it, the presenter had made her want to believe, which was quite an achievement in itself.

‘It was a stretch,’ Eleanor admitted, with a self-deprecating smile that made Posy like her more, all of a sudden. ‘But it made a good story.’

‘It definitely did that,’ Posy agreed, turning to Eleanor’s companions.

The second woman she didn’t know at all. She was of an age with Eleanor, wearing a simple black dress with heels, classic rather than standing out. She kept a comforting hand on the back of the last woman, who Posy felt somehow that she should know. She was a few years older than the others, white, slender, and with fluffy blonde hair that fell to her shoulders. But in the end, it was the embroidered dress she was wearing that Posy recognised.

‘You were in the crowd earlier,’ Posy said, holding out her hand again with a little less certainty this time. ‘Did you come to see the film?’

The blonde smiled. ‘I did. I loved it – you were great. And it was such a treat for me – my husband always falls asleep in films so I never get to go to the cinema.’ She was babbling. Nervous, Posy guessed.

‘Then I’m glad you enjoyed this trip,’ Posy replied. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Posy, this is Milla Kowalski and Sarah Baker,’ Eleanor said. ‘Milla, Sarah, I’m sure you both know Posy Starling, and Rosalind King, and—’

‘Caro Hooper,’ Sarah finished for her, her eyes narrowing just a little as she looked over Posy’s shoulder at Caro.

Oh. Maybe Caro hadn’t been avoiding them because of the film, because she thought Posy wasn’t a good enough Dahlia.

Perhaps this was what was going on with Caro.

Was it wrong that Posy felt kind of good about that?

It probably depended on what this turned out to be.

‘Sarah,’ Caro said, her voice chillier than Posy had ever heard it before. ‘I’m surprised to see you here.’

‘Eleanor was just telling me all about her podcast series, and mentioned that she’d hoped to meet the three of you tonight to discuss it with you,’ Anton explained. ‘Obviously, I did the chivalrous thing and offered to make introductions. And now I’ve done that, I’ll leave you all to it.’ He nodded a goodbye, then jogged away down the stairs back to the party proper.

Leaving them to try and figure out the rest themselves.

‘A podcast?’ Rosalind said. ‘What about? Women in the arts? Roles for women over forty?’

‘Murder,’ Eleanor said, succinctly. Because of course it was.

Posy sighed. ‘Why don’t we all go find somewhere to sit down, and you can tell us all about it.’

The best place to sit in the entire museum, according to their new acquaintances, was a tiny cinema set up in one of the side rooms. It was really just four rows of old flip up cinema seats, set up in front of a large screen playing some sort of documentary about murder investigations on stage and screen through the ages. Fortunately for them, the sound was off, with subtitles scrolling across the bottom of the screen instead.

‘This is perfect,’ Milla said, flashing a smile at Sarah before stepping away. ‘I’ll go get things set up.’

‘Get what set up?’ Posy asked, but Milla was already gone, her black heels clacking against the floor as she hurried towards the door at the back of the room.

The rest of them took seats in the back two rows. It was awkward, with Posy and Caro having to twist round to see the other three in the row behind them. But it was still better than having this conversation out on the balcony. Especially given the way that Caro wasn’t turning around, not all the way. As if she didn’t want to look at Sarah or Eleanor at all.

‘You mentioned to Anton that you wanted to talk to us about your podcast?’ Rosalind prompted.

Eleanor nodded. ‘Writing A Wrong. It’s been going for three seasons now, and has a dedicated audience supporting it.’

‘You re-examine unsolved cold cases, right?’ Posy wasn’t sure exactly what that had to do with them, since both cases they’d been involved with they’d solved.

‘That’s right.’ Eleanor’s gaze slid left towards Sarah. ‘At least, usually.’

‘I approached Eleanor with a different sort of case I’d like her to look at,’ Sarah explained. ‘Milla . . . she’s my best friend, the only one who stuck by me after everything that happened, but she was also friends with Eleanor at university, and she put me in touch with her. Sort of a last roll of the dice.’ She glanced over at Eleanor with a small smile, the sort of thankful smile that said she still couldn’t quite believe her luck. ‘We knew it was a long shot, but Eleanor agreed to help us—’

‘With conditions,’ Eleanor put in, leaving Posy wondering exactly what those conditions were. She suspected that was where they came in.

‘And she got us in here tonight to talk to you three,’ Sarah finished.

The room suddenly darkened. Posy glanced over her shoulder and saw that the dry documentary that had been playing had disappeared from the screen, leaving it black.

Then suddenly it burst into life again, only this time the image was something different entirely. Now, it showed a man – maybe late twenties, or early thirties – with very close cropped, pale blond hair and tired blue eyes. He was frozen, waiting for someone – Milla, Posy assumed – to press play.

She didn’t recognise him, but beside her, Caro stiffened.

‘This is Sarah’s brother, Scott. Four years ago he was convicted of the murder of Victoria Denby.’ Eleanor pulled a thick file from her black leather shoulder bag and rested it on her knee. ‘You might remember the case? She was the daughter of Charles Denby, the famous essayist and author, so it got quite some attention – for that and, well, other reasons. The important thing is, Sarah and Milla believe that Scott was wrongly convicted, that the police screwed up the investigation and prosecuted the wrong man.’

‘And they want to use your podcast to prove it,’ Posy surmised.

‘He didn’t do it,’ Sarah said, fervently. She had the conviction of a true believer, Posy had to give her that. She could see it in her eyes – the same blue as her brother’s, up on the screen. Now that she knew the connection, the similarities were there to see – even if it looked like only one of them had any fight left. ‘I know he didn’t. He couldn’t. Scott . . . you’ll see. He wouldn’t hurt anyone, not ever.’

‘But the police obviously thought he did, and so did the jury, if he was convicted. So I assume you have new evidence, if you’re making such a strong accusation?’ Rosalind said, one eyebrow raised. Posy hid a smile. She’d been spending too much time with Jack, lately, if she was rising instantly to the defence of the police.

‘That’s where my conditions come in,’ Eleanor explained. ‘This would be a big shift for my podcast, but I think it could be a good one – if it works. But I’m going to need more to convince my bosses to go with it. My podcast’s not one of those ‘recorded in my basement conspiracy theory’ types. It’s serious broadcasting, and we need to know where the investigation is going to go before we start recording. We need evidence – and we need proof of public interest.’

As she spoke, Milla re-emerged from the back room, a small remote control in her hand, and took a seat at the end of the row.

‘We’re still gathering evidence.’ Milla’s voice was soft, but Posy could hear steel underneath her words all the same. ‘We feel that there were lines of investigation that weren’t pursued by the police, once they’d arrested Scott. By our reckoning, there are four possible alternative suspects to pursue – six if you include Sarah and myself.’

‘Why now?’ Rosalind asked. ‘Why pursue this now. It’s been, what, four years?’

‘Five since the murder. Four since the trial finished,’ Milla replied. ‘And we’re doing it now because Scott just lost his last appeal. In fact . . . ’ She pressed a button on the remote control in her hand. ‘I’ll let him explain himself.’

The screen flickered for a moment, then settled, as Scott Baker’s lips began to move.

‘I . . . Sarah asked me to make this video but, uh, I don’t really know what to say.’ Posy didn’t know what she’d expected from Scott Baker’s voice, but it wasn’t this. He sounded diffident, gentle. Not like a murderer at all.

Although, murderers didn’t always sound – or look, or seem – like murderers. She’d learned that over the past couple of years.

‘I’m Scott and, well, five years ago I was arrested for a crime I didn’t commit. I . . . I know why they thought it was me. I get it. And I can’t prove that I didn’t do it. I mean, it’s like Dahlia always says, right? It’s far easier to prove than disprove. But I guess that’s what I’m asking you to do. Because you’re my only hope now, I think. And I don’t want . . . ’ His voice broke, and they could all see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, larger than life up on the big screen. ‘I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in this place for something I didn’t do. I did other things wrong, I know that. But I’ve paid for them with years of my life. And I’ve learned to do better. But I never, ever killed anyone. And I never would.’

The camera didn’t move, and neither did he, but suddenly Posy felt like he was staring straight into her eyes. It felt intimate and immediate, in a way the film they’d actually gone to watch that evening never could.

‘Help me. Please.’

The screen went black and, for a long moment, they all sat in the semi-darkness in silence. Milla pressed another button on the remote, and the informational film that had been playing before whirred back into life again.

‘I still don’t see where we fit into this,’ Posy said, staring somewhere between the screen and the podcast hosts. ‘Why ask for us?’

‘I know,’ Rosalind said. ‘We’re the public interest. Right?’

‘But what’s the link?’ Posy carefully didn’t look at Caro as she asked. There was a fine line here somewhere, and she suspected they were already a long way to the wrong side of it. But whatever was upsetting Caro . . . they couldn’t help her unless they knew what it was.

‘Victoria was found with a paper flower beside her, made from the pages of a Dahlia Lively novel,’ Sarah explained. ‘Just like in the Lettice Davenport mystery, D is for Dahlia.’

‘The Paper Dahlia Case,’ Rosalind whispered, and Posy started with surprise.

Five years ago, she’d been still in LA, still struggling with everything that had almost ended her. Around the time the case must have gone to trial, she’d have been moving to London – alone and lonely, and ignoring the outside world. But even she’d heard of the case, in passing.

‘Not to mention the fact that you three have been making something of a name for yourselves solving crimes over the last couple of years. You’re good at it, by all accounts. And yes, also newsworthy. If you’re involved that gives us an added edge.’ Eleanor didn’t seem at all bothered to admit the commercialisation of their notoriety.

Rosalind was staring at Caro. ‘Are those the only reasons?’

‘Of course not,’ Caro snapped. ‘They don’t just want us for the lurid publicity of it all, or because they think we might actually solve the case. Or even because of that bloody paper flower. No. They want me to stand up in public and say that he’s innocent, because I’m the one who put him behind bars in the first place.’

Caro

She’d known, Caro realised. From the instant she’d seen Sarah Baker in the crowd outside the premiere, she’d known this moment was coming. She couldn’t even really blame her. Wouldn’t she do the same if Posy or Rosalind or, god forbid, Annie were accused of something she knew in her heart they couldn’t have done?

Because Sarah had never believed her brother was guilty – had said so loudly and often to anyone who would listen at the time. And now she was here again, asking to reopen a period of Caro’s life she’d hoped was behind her for good.

Seeing him up there on the screen . . . it made her insides feel cold.

‘You . . . you testified at his trial?’ Posy asked, tentatively, and Caro sighed.

Of course she would have to explain it all to her sister-Dahlias now. They weren’t the sort of women who let something like this pass without asking a lot of questions. Fat lot of good they’d be as detectives if they were.

She just wished the questions were still about their love lives, rather than their past associations with murderers. Which, between them, they really had too many of already.

‘I did,’ she admitted. ‘I’ll explain after. But honestly, I only came in at the end of the whole thing.’ And she really didn’t want to talk about why in front of his sister.

‘But yours was the face next to his in all the papers.’ Sarah sounded almost apologetic about that, as if it was her fault her brother had dragged Caro into the whole mess. ‘Which is why your involvement in freeing him would make such an impact.’

‘So you want us to prove he didn’t do it? Or catch the person who did?’ Posy sounded doubtful of them achieving either, which Caro thought was fair. The trail was long since cold.

And she wasn’t remotely convinced that the right person wasn’t already behind bars, anyway.

‘Ideally both,’ Eleanor admitted. ‘It would make incredible listening. Maybe even a TV show, I don’t know. But first, we just want you to poke around, ask a few questions. See if you think there’s a story to uncover here.’

‘People will talk to you,’ Milla added. ‘In a way they won’t talk to Sarah or even me about the case. We were both there, we were part of it. But you . . . you’re coming from outside, you’re famous, and you’ve solved murders before. They’ll talk to you.’

‘Who is they?’ Rosalind asked. ‘Who, exactly, do you want us to speak to?’

Caro suspected she knew. She remembered them, all lined up in the court room that day for the sentencing.

‘There were seven people who attended the Market Foxleigh Crime Festival committee meeting at Victoria’s house on the day of the murder, beside Victoria herself,’ Sarah explained. ‘Scott and I, Milla, and the other four committee members. And every member of that committee had issues with Victoria, not just Scott. All we’re asking is that you talk to the others – and to us, of course – to see if there’s anything that stands out to you. Something that doesn’t make sense. A clue, I suppose, to what really happened.’

It didn’t sound like much, when she put it that way.

Caro glanced between the other two Dahlias, and knew they were already wavering.

‘Obviously you’d be credited on the podcast,’ Eleanor said. ‘You could be as involved as you like, once we start recording. If we end up going ahead with it, I’ll get my people in touch with your people to draw up contracts.’

‘Contracts?’ Those shivers inside her were being replaced by an angry warmth at least. ‘We haven’t said yes yet.’

Rosalind shot her a look, and she realised what she’d said. Yet.

From Eleanor’s slow smile, she’d noticed it too. She held out her file to Posy over the back of the cinema seats. ‘Just take a look through this. That’s all I’m asking. Then, when you’re done reading, maybe we can talk.’ She got to her feet, smoothing down her dress. ‘Come on, Sarah, Milla. We’re done here for now.’

They inched their way out of the row of chairs, the flip down seats crashing against the back rests as they moved. Caro flinched at the noise.

‘I’ll see you next weekend, Caro,’ Milla said, throwing the words back over her shoulder as she followed Eleanor out of the room.

Caro looked away. And for a moment, the only noise was the faint sounds of the party below, and the whirring of the projector playing the detective documentary that still flickered on the screen.

Then Rosalind turned to Caro and said, ‘Well. I think you’d better tell us your side of this story. Don’t you?’

She felt slow, like the air in the little cinema room had thickened, holding her still. Her memories of that horrible time felt like that, too. Stuck, so she could never get rid of them.

Caro swallowed, and forced herself to speak. ‘How well do you remember the case?’

‘Only a little,’ Rosalind said. ‘And only because of the paper flower, really.’

Caro nodded. That was the detail that had drawn her in, too, before she even realised she had any connection at all to the case.

‘I heard about it, I think,’ Posy said. ‘But I was still in the States when it happened and, well, it wasn’t a good time.’

Right. Five years ago Posy wasn’t close to being the woman she was today. Caro gave her friend a reassuring smile. She wasn’t the only one with memories she could never fully outrun.

‘I’m sure that Eleanor’s file will tell you anything you want to know about the actual murder,’ she said. ‘But the TL;DR version—’

‘T.L.D.R.?’ Rosalind asked.

‘Too long, didn’t read,’ Posy murmured.

‘Right. Okay. Sorry. Carry on.’

‘Basically, aspiring author and festival organiser, Victoria Denby, daughter of Charles Denby, was murdered less than a week before the fifth Market Foxleigh Crime Writing Festival, after what was described by several people as a ‘contentious’ festival committee meeting. There was no sign of a break in at her house, but people in Market Foxleigh didn’t tend to lock their doors until they went to bed, apparently.’ Which sounded like tempting fate to Caro, but she didn’t live in a bucolic little market town, so what did she know? She’d never even visited Market Foxleigh. That wasn’t her part of the story. ‘She was hit over the head with a blunt object – later determined to be a trophy from the awards due to be given out at the festival – and a paper flower was left at her side.’

‘Made from the pages of a Dahlia Lively novel,’ Posy said. ‘Is that how you got involved?’

‘Sort of. I’m getting to that.’

‘Sorry.’ Posy looked chastened, and Caro realised she must be on edge if they were both apologising to her unnecessarily.

Caro ordered her thoughts to get through the rest of the story quickly.

‘Like I said, there’d been some meeting that afternoon that had everyone worked up. But Scott Baker was the prime suspect more or less from the start. He was crime-obsessed, in serious debt from an online auction habit, and the bank had just contacted Victoria to say that someone had been taking money from the festival accounts – and Scott was the treasurer. Added to that, a neighbour came forward pretty quickly to say that they’d seen him fleeing the scene. He was missing for a couple of days, but when they tracked him down he was sitting outside my house, another paper dahlia in his pocket, and that’s how I got involved.’

The police told her the last thing Scott had bid on was a charity auction for afternoon tea with Caro, as Dahlia Lively.

Annie had been terrified. It wasn’t that long after they’d got married, and suddenly she’d been drawn into this world of celebrity Caro had never wanted her to see.

‘The papers at the time kept talking about a possible serial killer,’ Rosalind said, softly. ‘Because of the flowers, I suppose.’

Caro nodded. ‘That was the worry. Because of what the flowers meant in the book, too.’

‘In the book?’ Posy’s forehead furrowed. ‘Is this in one of the later ones I haven’t read yet?’

Posy was making good progress working her way through the works of Lettice Davenport, but in fairness there were a lot of books, and she had been busy filming. Not to mention solving murders. Caro could forgive her for not having read all seventy plus novels and short stories yet.

‘One of the very late ones,’ Caro confirmed. ‘1975, I think. D is for Dahlia. Dahlia solves a case where a murderer leaves paper flowers are left by the bodies of his victims. It was one of the last of my episodes to air, before the show was cancelled that year, and they think that’s what gave Scott the idea. They found . . . ’ She swallowed, then forced the words out. ‘They found something of a shrine to me in his bedroom, it seems.’

Under other circumstances, Annie would have found that hilarious. As it was, she’d clung to Caro all night long, instead.

Caro really wanted to stop talking about this and go home to her wife. But from the looks on Rosalind and Posy’s faces, that wasn’t about to happen any time soon.

‘So they got me to stand up in court and confirm that I’d seen the car outside our house. That I was the woman in the photos and things he’d pasted up on his wall, but that I’d never met him or had any other communication with him. That sort of thing. It wasn’t so much a testimony as . . . confirming the police evidence.’

But the prosecution had used it to paint a picture of a man obsessed. One who had stalked and threatened a well-known actress, and perhaps had killed Victoria Denby as practice for the real thing – as well as to cover his obvious embezzlement of festival funds.

Annie hadn’t slept for a week. And if she knew Caro was even considering getting involved in the case again, especially with a view to getting Scott Baker out of jail . . . well. That would go down like a lead balloon.

Except, she wasn’t considering it. She knew she wanted to stay as far away from Sarah, Milla, Eleanor and their podcast as possible.

She just wasn’t sure that her fellow Dahlias were on quite the same page.

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