It was so clever no one thought it was a murder, not at first. “How did it happen?” Emma asked, eyes red, twisting her handkerchief as if she were trying to tear it apart. I adjusted my uniform, trying to avoid sinking further into the voluminous chintz sofa. It was obvious her husband, late husband now, had not chosen the decor. High flying IT entrepreneurs tended to go for minimalism, not English Country House. “It was an RTA . . . sorry, road traffic accident. They’re unusual but not unprecedented,” I replied. “But no one dies in a crash these