the college gateways lose all distinction, and the great statue of Henry VIII doffs his hat, doublet and hose for a heavy-hooded mantle of white. Joe’s hair and coat turn the colour of cobwebs as the snowflakes land and melt, land and melt.
The temperature drops again, and the willow trees along the riverbanks are claimed by frost. Tendrils of white lace droop into the water and the bridges turn silver. The water surface crinkles and its movement slows. The Cam is starting to freeze over. Snow slides down its banks and finds purchase on the ice. The Cam, too, is taken.
The council works hard to keep the main roads clear, but soiled, salt-strewn snow piles up at the roadside, and the Environment Agency worries about the already flooded groundwater system. Schools are closed more than they are open, the elderly keep to their homes, and the rough sleepers, those who can be found, are taken indoors, because when all is said and done, Cambridge is a kind city. Knowing his homeless are safe from the cold is a small comfort to Joe.
The weather turns once more, the snow melts and low-lying fields become shallow lakes. Swans glide proprietorially over the Backs and the water meadows. The Environment Agency opens all the floodgates but the run-off can’t escape. Roads turn to rivers, cellars begin to stink and in an old drain not far from Peterhouse College, the body of Dora Hardwick is found at last.
Joe gets the call halfway through the morning and clears his afternoon appointments. He arrives at the hospital mortuary at three o’clock, when the sky outside is already darkening, and a minute or two before his mother. The pink hair of last summer has gone. Delilah is looking older and more tired, thinner but not healthier. The unsolved murder, possibly about to become two unsolved murders, has taken its toll. Since the start of the new year, she has been talking about retirement.
‘Sorry,’ she says to her son, when she has announced herself at reception and she and Joe are on their way to the place where the dead are stored. ‘There wasn’t anyone else.’
‘How was she found?’ There is no doubt in Joe’s mind that he is about to identify Dora.
‘Unusual flooding down at the Mill Pool off Silver Street,’ his mother says, ‘even allowing for how much snow we’ve had. The Environment Agency suspected a blocked storm drain and sent some equipment in to clear it. They pulled out Dora.’
‘Do they know how long she’d been down there?’
His mother’s face is grim. ‘A while.’
In a brightly lit examination room they are met by a lab technician. Expecting to see a human form beneath a white sheet, Joe is puzzled by what lies on the central steel table.
‘Clothes?’
‘You don’t need to see the body,’ Delilah replies. ‘There’s very little of her left, and nothing recognizable. If you can identify the clothes, that will be enough.’
Ashamed of how relieved he feels, Joe steps closer. The green woollen duffle coat has not had chance to dry out but he knows it is Dora’s. The toggle buttons are exactly as he remembers. The blue beret is Dora’s, as are the Wellington boots. He is less sure about the dress but the blue sweatshirt carries a worn picture of Elsa, the heroine from Frozen.
‘These are Dora’s clothes,’ he says.
‘How sure are you?’ his mother asks.
Joe looks sadly at the thick silver plait, the wry smile, the form-hugging blue dress of the Disney princess. ‘One hundred per cent.’
‘There was a wrapper from a packet of chocolate buttons in one pocket,’ the lab technician tells him.
‘Dora,’ says Joe.
‘There’s also this.’ The technician holds up a plastic evidence bag with a small slip of card inside. Joe takes the bag and sees one of his own visiting cards. On the reverse, he’d written, 8.20pm, Tuesday.
‘She liked to have appointment cards,’ he says. ‘I gave her one every time I saw her.’
‘We found them in another pocket,’ the lab assistant says. ‘Wet through and stuck together. Looks like she kept them all.’
‘This one gives us a good idea of when she died,’ Delilah says. ‘She obviously intended to keep that appointment with you.’
‘She never missed,’ Joe says.
His mum reaches out, as though to pat his shoulder, and thinks better of it. Her hand falls back to her side. ‘So, if you can confirm when you last saw her, and what Tuesday that card refers to, we’ve got a window.’
Joe finds the calendar on his