A SHAMEFACED MURDER

A British Murder Mystery

THE DEVONSHIRE MYSTERIES

MICHAEL CAMPLING

For Erica and Megan - welcome to the family.

"Don't you think the things people are most ashamed of are things they can't help?”

C.S. LEWIS

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CONTENTS

Good Friday

Chapter 1

Saturday

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Sunday

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Monday

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Tuesday

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Wednesday

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Thursday

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Friday

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Epilogue

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Author Notes

About the Author

Also by Michael Campling

GOOD FRIDAY

CHAPTER 1

The Reverend Gregory Southgate stood alone in the Parish Church of St Raphael, the sole place of worship in Embervale. This parish was only one of the four he served as vicar, but he often lingered here when his regular duties were done for the day. Of course, all of God’s houses were equally splendid, but there was something about this small but elegantly proportioned church that spoke to his soul.

Outside, the sun was setting at last, the pale light of the evening rapidly fading. The daylight hours were growing longer as spring tightened its grip, but the day had been a cold one and cloudy too. There’d been talk of a storm, and though the ancient stone walls had stood firm against the elements for centuries, the roof was a different matter. The wind already whistled and whined through the rafters high above him.

The problem lay somewhere in the roof’s complex framework of struts and joists, so he’d been told. The oak timbers were strong, but they were not immune to the passage of time, nor the increasingly wet winters. A tiny gap here, a drip or two there, and the seeds of destruction and decay had been sown.

Birds and beetles had been quick to make the most of every new niche, and earlier that day, the vicar’s service had been accompanied by the chatter of starlings, the birds squabbling as they made their nests and pecked at the masonry to enlarge their homes.

The vicar walked slowly to the front of the church and perched on a pew, but he fought off the urge to kneel and pray. It wasn’t right to ask the Almighty for the money to fix the roof. Prayer, as he’d often told his parishioners, wasn’t like a slot machine where one pressed a button and hoped that the whirring wheels would align in a favourable way. Prayer, true prayer, was so much more difficult. He could ask for guidance, but there was little purpose in that; he already knew what he must do.

Another round of fundraising, he thought with a heavy heart, and as if to reflect his mood, a sudden outburst of rain pelted against the stained glass windows. The staccato sound reverberated through the empty church, rising to a crescendo like the rapid beat of a snare drum heralding the charge of an unseen army.

Buffeted by the wind, the heavy church door shook back and forth, rattling the venerable cast-iron knocker. The door had been growing troublesome of late, sometimes sticking in its frame, so perhaps he hadn’t closed it properly. He’d have to get a carpenter to look at the door, but at least that repair shouldn’t be too expensive.

The storm outside became stronger, the gale sending out a low moan as it forced its way through the myriad holes in the roof.

“Time to head home,” the vicar murmured. Clapping his hands against his thighs, he rose from the pew, and in that moment the wind’s plaintive cries seemed to take on a different form, becoming more human. It was as if the stones themselves were letting go of a long pent up sob of despair.

He froze, transfixed, his gaze turned upward, his hand going to his chest.

Again, the sob rang out, a heartrending wail of anguish.

“No,” the vicar muttered. “This isn’t…”

He turned on his heel and started toward the door, but suddenly, without warning, the lights went out. The vicar stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. It wasn’t quite dark outside, and stray beams of dull evening light filtered through the stained glass windows. Ahead of him, the dark wooden door was barely visible through the shadows. But he could see all too clearly what happened next. Slowly, inexorably, the door swung open.

SATURDAY

CHAPTER 2

Her trusty trug in the crook of her arm, Marjorie Treave let herself into the chicken run and securely fastened the door behind her. Her bantams were a feisty bunch, and there were one or two who’d make a dash for freedom given half a chance.

But today, they obediently gathered around her, gazing up expectantly.

“Here you go, my lovelies,” Marjorie cooed, dipping into the trug to dispense a generous handful of freshly pulled weeds from the garden and offcuts of vegetables from the kitchen. The chickens set to, clucking excitedly as they pecked away. A few of the dandelions were complete with roots, and the soil clinging to them harboured slugs and insects or even, if the chickens were lucky, a worm or two.

Her flock contented, Marjorie strolled over to the hen house. The chicken wire enclosure was topped with nylon netting to keep the wild birds out—a precaution against outbreaks of bird flu and the like—but there was plenty of headroom. She could walk across the whole run without stooping.

The henhouse, too, was of generous proportions. The size of a small shed, she’d had it built by Jay Markham, before he’d turned his hand to painting and decorating, and he’d done a decent job. The henhouse was a few years old but still kept her flock warm and dry, and there were extra ventilation slots that could be opened in the warmer months.

She’d insisted on the whole thing being built with good quality timber, all of it planed smooth, and though Jay had grumbled about the extra work, it had paid dividends. She’d had no problems with the mites that made their home in less well-built henhouses, and while she had breath in her body, so it would remain.

Marjorie examined the layer of wood shavings on the floor. Despite the heavy rain of the night before, it didn’t need changing yet. And the straw lining the nest boxes was still in good condition.

Marjorie inspected the nest boxes and murmured, “Well done, girls.” Between the four nest boxes, there were five eggs, their pure white shells clean, and some were still warm when she picked them up and placed them gently in her trug.

She checked the small containers of crushed oyster shells hanging on the henhouse wall, and they were fine. All that remained was to change the birds’ drinking water. Marjorie lifted the plastic drinker carefully so as not to spill a drop, but as she stepped out of the henhouse, she almost let go of the thing entirely.

A young man stood in the lane, watching her over the fence. The narrow road reached her house and ended in a turning circle, so it was used only by visitors, or those who came to buy eggs or honey or homemade jam at the garden gate. This young man looked like he didn’t belong in either category.

He was tall and deeply tanned, and though he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or so, he wore a full beard. His long hair was tied back, and there was something about his brown eyes that put Marjorie in mind of a film star, though she couldn’t for the life of her remember the actor’s name.

“Hello,” she called out, her tone making it clear she didn’t enjoy being spied on. “Are you lost?”

“No. Not at all.” The man smiled, and Marjorie almost found herself grinning in return. She might be old enough to have stopped counting the years, but that didn’t stop her from recognising a good-looking man when one chanced into her path. And this chap had a smile that could turn a head or two. Sean Connery, she thought. That’s who he looks like.

Still, she was not about to go all dewy-eyed over some slip of a lad. Bustling to the chicken run door and letting herself out, Marjorie fixed the young man with a stern look. “Where are you headed?”

“Actually, I was looking for this place. I was told you have eggs for sale, the best for miles.”

Marjorie didn’t care much for flattery. She’d a good mind to send the young man on his way, but she could hardly deny she had eggs; the evidence was right there in her trug.

“There’s a wooden box by the gate,” Marjorie said. “There should be a dozen in there, and there’s an honesty box. There’s some blackberry and rosehip jelly, too. I made it myself.”

“I’ve already checked, but there were no eggs. Someone must’ve beaten me to it.”

“Oh. Well, I have a few inside. I dare say I could make up half a dozen, if you don’t mind waiting.”

The man spread his hands in an expansive gesture. “Sure. What better place to wait for a while? It certainly beats standing in a queue at the supermarket.”

“I suppose so.” Marjorie strode to the cottage door. “I won’t be long.”

From the safety of her kitchen, she peered out through the window. The young man had stayed put, turning his face to the sun, and it was then that Marjorie realised something. She’d neither seen nor heard a car, so the man must’ve walked all the way from the village. He could more easily have walked to the village shop where he could’ve found eggs and more besides. It was usually only the locals, those in the know, who trekked out to buy her produce.

His money is as good as anybody else’s, she thought, and she found a half-filled egg box and added three of the newly laid eggs to it. Looking back out of the window, she paused. There was no one in sight. The man had gone.

“Waste of blooming time,” Marjorie muttered, but when she went outside, the box of eggs still in her hand, she found the young man standing inside the garden gate. Bloody cheek, she thought, and she marched toward him.

The man gestured to the gate. “I do hope you don’t mind. I thought I’d save you a trip.”

“Is that right? You reckon the poor old biddy can’t make a few yards on her own, is that it?”

The man’s face fell. “Oh no. I’m sorry, I really didn’t⁠—”

“Never mind,” Marjorie interrupted, holding out the egg box and naming a price. “I’d like the right money, please. I don’t like dealing with change.”

“Of course.” The man rummaged in the pocket of his trousers and produced a handful of coins mixed with a few crumpled notes.

Marjorie kept a watchful eye on the man’s hands as he carefully counted out the coins.

“There you go.” He handed over the money and took possession of his eggs, opening the box immediately, his face lighting up. “Ooh, these look great. They might be on the small side, but I always say you can’t beat an egg from a bantam.”

“That’s not right, or they wouldn’t be much good for omelettes, would they?”

The man’s laughter was warm and seemed to come easily. “I walked into that, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Marjorie hesitated. “Know a bit about hens, do you?”

The man nodded. Looking over to the chicken run, he said, “Those are exchequers, aren’t they? A kind of leghorn.”

“That’s right. I raised them myself.”

“They look happy, scratching around. They can look after themselves, bantams, and they need a lot less food than a full-size bird.”

“You’re not wrong, and they’ll lay pretty much through the winter so long as they’re looked after.”

The man looked thoughtful as though taking this knowledge in.

“Keep hens, yourself, do you?” Marjorie asked.

“Not yet, but I hope to one day.” He gazed around. “I’d like a smallholding of my own, something like this.”

“Easy enough said. A different matter when you’ve to deal with a sick animal in the middle of the night.”

“I don’t mind a bit of hard work.”

Marjorie picked up a hint of determination in the man’s tone and looked at him afresh. Maybe he wasn’t a typical tourist, after all. But she couldn’t stand around chatting.

Brushing her hands together she said, “Well, I have jobs to do.”

“Of course, I mustn’t slow you down. Well, it was good to meet you, er, Mrs Trevor, isn’t it?”

“Treave.”

“Yes. Sorry.” The man wiped his hand on his shirt and then held it out. “My name’s Hugh.”

Marjorie regarded the man’s hand but wasn’t about to take hold of it.

“As I say, I’ve got a lot to be getting on with.”

Hugh lowered his hand but kept smiling. “Thanks for the eggs. I’ll look forward to eating them.” He paused. “When I’ve figured out somewhere to stay.”

“Aren’t you in one of the holiday cottages?”

Hugh shook his head. “No. I’m heading for the campsite at Hennock. I stopped off in Embervale for provisions, and someone directed me here. I’m glad they did.”

“Hennock, eh? It’s all uphill from here to there. Are you walking?”

“I’ve got my bike. It’s in the lane.”

Marjorie didn’t reply. She had a deep mistrust of bicycles and all who rode them.

“Actually, before I go, could I trouble you for some water?” Hugh went on. “It sounds like it’ll be hard work pedalling up the hill. With all my gear, my bike weighs a tonne, and my bottles are almost empty.”

“All right. Hand them over.”

“Thanks.” Hugh exited via the gate and wheeled a bike into view, the machine loaded with more panniers and bags than Marjorie would’ve thought possible. Hugh unclipped a couple of large plastic bottles from the frame and brought them in.

“If you’ve got an outside tap, I can do it myself.”

“No, no, I’ll do it.” Marjorie took the bottles and strode back to the house. She rinsed the bottles out at the kitchen sink and filled them to the brim then replaced the caps.

When she went back into the yard, she found Hugh squatting on his haunches by the chicken run. He stood quickly, taking the proffered bottles with a smile.

“Thank you so much, Mrs Treave. It’s very kind of you.” He looked around and let out a murmur of content. “This is a wonderful setup you’ve got here. I’m told you’re pretty much self-sufficient.”

“Who said that?”

“The man who directed me here. I didn’t get his name. He was sitting on a bench near the pub, although it wasn’t open.”

“Some people have nothing better to do.”

Hugh’s smile vanished, and Marjorie quickly added, “I didn’t mean you. I expect you’re on holiday.”

“Not exactly. I’m working my way around Devon, on farms mostly, but I’ve had to do a few other jobs to keep me in food. There’s always a cafe in need of someone to wash up and clear the tables. I didn’t mind in the winter, but now…” He took a deep breath and smiled as though savouring the air. “Who’d be stuck in a hot kitchen on a day like this?”

“Not me, that’s for sure. But you won’t find much farm work around here. It’s not like it used to be. It’s all done by machines, these days, and the tractors and combine harvesters—you need a degree in engineering just to get them going.” Marjorie smiled to show she was joking, but the young man looked crestfallen.

“I dare say you’ll find something if you ask around,” Marjorie went on. “Try the pub. There’s usually a few farmers in there, and if they can’t help you, Sam might want someone to clear tables and wash glasses.”

“Thanks, I’ll try that. Is Sam the landlord?”

“Landlady. That might not be what they call politically correct, but I’m old-fashioned. Anyway, Sam’s in charge of the pub and she’s always complaining she’s short staffed, so you may as well ask.”

Hugh nodded, a wistful smile on his lips. “I don’t… I don’t suppose you have any jobs that need doing, have you?”

“No. I manage very well on my own, although…”

Hugh’s eyes lit up expectantly. “I don’t mind what it is. I’ll do anything.”

“Know how to use a scythe?”

“Erm, it’s been a while, but I think so. Most people use a strimmer.”

Marjorie shuddered. “Nasty, whining gadgets. I can’t stand the noise of them; it’s like somebody kicked a wasp’s nest. And they do a rotten job, hurling grass all over the place. No, I use a proper, two-handed scythe. Keep it sharp and it does a grand job. And you can dry the grass for hay.”

Hugh cast his gaze around the carefully tended cottage garden, perhaps looking for an untidy lawn.

Before he could ask, Marjorie hooked her thumb over her shoulder and said, “It’s my field that needs cutting, part of it anyway. It’s out the back there. It’s where I keep my goats and geese. They’re in a little paddock, but there’s a stretch of grass that could do with knocking back. It gives the flowers a chance to grow, and that’ll be good for my bees.”

“I’d be happy to give it a go. It sounds ideal.”

“I can’t afford to pay you much.”

“That’s okay. I’m looking for experience as much as anything.”

“You might change your mind when you see the field.”

“I won’t.”

“Come on. I’ll show you what’s to be done. You’d better put your bike out of the way.”

Marjorie waited while Hugh fussed over his bike, wheeling it along the garden path and propping it against the wall by her front door.

When Hugh was ready, he stood before her, beaming like an excited schoolboy. And when she saw the eagerness in his eyes, Marjorie had to smile.

CHAPTER 3

Dan cleared the table after his evening meal. It was Saturday, and The Wild Boar beckoned, but since he’d become a self-employed private investigator, he’d learned there was no such thing as office hours. And today there was one important task still on his to-do list.

He settled at the desk in his home office and began compiling the invoice for his most recent client.

Twenty minutes later, he checked the figures for a final time and clicked send, then Dan sat back, satisfied. It was the end of another successful case, and his client, a firm of solicitors in Plymouth, had assured him they’d pay promptly.

The case had been a simple one. He’d been engaged to trace a man by the name of Tom McGuire, the sole benefactor of a will. Dan had wrapped up the business within a week. He’d spent most of that time knocking on doors and asking questions, and he’d found the middle-aged Mr McGuire living alone in a small and rather dilapidated cottage in Brixham.

The man had paled when Dan had given him the news, and their conversation had been somewhat strained, but Dan had completed his task, and that was that. Job done and a payday on the horizon.

Just as well, Dan thought. There were bills to pay and the amount that disappeared into direct debits each month had risen sharply over recent months. He was keeping his head above water, but it sometimes felt as though he were bailing out a ship that had far too many holes in its hull.

But this was the path he’d chosen. Life as a private investigator was never going to make him rich, but it had its compensations. He was his own boss, he chose his hours, and he could work in whatever way he pleased. Besides, he enjoyed the challenge, and that was worth more than gold.

Dan checked the time, surprised to see that it was almost half past seven. He hadn’t quite got used to the lengthening days, and the fact that it was still light outside made his heart glad. These extra hours of daylight were a bonus, a prize for having endured the short, dark days of winter.

Dan considered grabbing a bottle of beer and sitting in the garden to enjoy the evening, but he quickly rejected the idea in favour of a trip to The Boar for a pint or two. With a bit of luck, Alan might be there. If not, he could chat with Sam; she was sure to give him a warm welcome.

Dan turned off his computer and headed through to the hallway, grabbing a coat from one of the hooks by the door. Lifting his Berghaus waterproof jacket, he revealed a purple coat belonging to Sam. The sight made him smile.

It hadn’t been long since Sam had officially moved in, and he enjoyed making these little discoveries: the fragrant soap in the bathroom, the fresh flowers on the kitchen table, the framed family photo on the mantelpiece. There’d been no great upheaval of his orderly routine, but he suspected that was deliberate on Sam’s part. There’d be changes in the future, but neither he nor Sam were in any rush. One step at a time, Dan thought. Steady as she goes.

In the pub, he found Alan propping up the bar, an almost empty pint glass in front of him.

“Excellent timing,” Alan said. “I was just about to get another. What do you fancy?”

“I think I’ll go for the Jail Ale tonight,” Dan replied. “But I’ll get them. It’s my round.”

“I won’t argue. I’ll have the same as you.” Alan studied him for a moment. “You’re looking cheerful. I take it that you had a successful trip to Brixham.”

“Oh yes. I was finally face to face with the long lost Mr McGuire. I gave him the news, and that was all I was asked to do. Another case done and dusted.”

“Excellent.”

“Is Natalya not with you tonight?”

“No,” Alan said. “She’s at home, catching up with some studying.”

“She must be keen. There can’t be many who’d give up a Saturday night to pore over the intricacies of double-entry bookkeeping.”

“Natalya takes everything seriously. She’ll be a qualified accountant within a year, or she’ll want to know the reason why.”

“Good for her,” Dan said. “She’s nothing if not determined.”

“Oh yes,” Alan said. “She’s that, all right.”

Despite having an MBA, earned while living in her native Ukraine, Natalya hadn’t found it easy to land a job. But defeat was not an option she was prepared to consider. Eventually, she’d been taken on by a firm of accountants in Exeter. It was an entry-level position, but the company had recognised her potential, and they’d steered her toward a course in accountancy. It was a part-time course, but Natalya had thrown herself into it with her usual gusto.

“She’ll do well,” Dan said. “I’ll bet she’ll be promoted before long. They’d be fools to let her go. And it’ll be handy for you too. She’ll be able to help you with your accounts.”

“I thought so, at first,” Alan replied. “But we’re trying to keep business and our personal life separate.”

“Was that Natalya’s idea or yours?”

“It was a joint decision. We both agreed it would be for the best.”

Dan knew better than to comment. He had a profound respect for Natalya, but there were times when she was a force of nature. Alan, on the other hand, rarely missed an opportunity to pour oil on troubled waters. Dan guessed that any negotiation between the pair of them would be distinctly one-sided. Still, Alan and Natalya were happy together, and that was all that mattered.

Alan looked as though he was about to go on, but Sam appeared behind the bar, favouring them with a warm smile. With a twinkle in her eye, she looked at Dan and said, “Hello stranger. I was beginning to wonder if you’d turn up.”

“I was catching up with some admin, but it’s all done. I’m taking the rest of the evening off.”

“We’ll see,” Sam said. “I give it ten minutes before you two start talking about some case or other.”

Dan raised a hand, his fingers spread wide. “Not tonight. Strictly no talking shop.”

“I second that,” Alan said. “I’ll keep him on the straight and narrow, Sam. Everyone needs a night off.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Sam replied. “What can I get you?”

They ordered their drinks and Sam dispensed their pints with her usual efficiency before bustling off to greet a new arrival: a man who’d just come in alone, trudging across the room, his hands in his coat pockets. Dan couldn’t help noticing the man’s heavy woollen overcoat, and the way the collar was turned up as if to shield the man’s face from harsh weather. It was fresh outside, but the spring evening was by no means chilly.

There was something familiar about the man, but before Dan could place him, Alan interrupted his thoughts, leaning close and lowering his voice to a stage whisper.

“So, tell me about the mysterious Mr McGuire. What was he like?”

“I thought we weren’t talking shop?”

Alan was all innocence. “This doesn’t count, surely. The case is over, isn’t it?”

Dan nodded.

“There you go then. Tell me all about it. Was he a recluse?”

“Not exactly,” Dan replied. “But he lived quietly, and he’d taken pains to make sure he couldn’t be found online.” Dan took a sip of his beer. “It was a bit sad, really. His house was very run down, and his shirt was frayed at the cuffs, but when I told him he was about to become quite a wealthy man⁠—”

“Don’t tell me,” Alan interrupted. “He didn’t want the money.”

Dan was taken aback. “How did you guess?”

“It wasn’t entirely guesswork. I spend a lot of time thinking about characters and their motivations. It’s all part of the writer’s toolbox. It occurred to me that Mr McGuire was estranged from his family, and there had to be a reason for that. Am I on the right track?”

“You are. He said he’d rather die than touch a penny of that money.”

“I knew it.” Alan raised his glass and took a celebratory drink. “Did you find out the reason why?”

Dan shook his head. “That wasn’t part of my brief. I found him, and that was all I was asked to do. I left him in peace. I’d intruded enough.”

“Quite right. But all that money… I wonder what’ll happen to it. You said it was half a million, didn’t you?”

“That’s right, plus a sizeable house in Plymouth and some investments. I don’t know the full value. It’s up to the solicitors now. They’ll have to figure out what to do with it.”

“No chance of a distant relative coming out of the woodwork?”

“None. I’ve already checked, and Mr McGuire was the last of his line.”

“He may well change his mind,” Alan suggested. “The next time he gets a gas bill or his car needs repairs, he might have second thoughts.”

“I doubt it. He was adamant. I told him he could give the money to charity, but he didn’t even want to talk about it. He seemed to be a man of principle.”

“Fair enough,” Alan said. “It’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle and all that.”

Someone let out a loud chuckle, and Dan turned to see the lone customer regarding him with a wry smile.

The man had turned to face them, and seeing him properly, Dan realised why he’d seemed familiar. If his craggy features and Roman nose weren’t enough, the clerical collar was a dead giveaway.

“Good evening, erm, Reverend,” Dan said.

“Good evening to you, too. I know Alan, of course, but you’re Dan, aren’t you? Dan Corrigan.”

They shook hands, exchanging pleasantries, then the vicar said, “Please, call me Greg—everyone else does.”

“It’s nice to see you,” Alan replied. “I didn’t recognise you when you came in. It’s meeting you out of context that threw me. I don’t think I’ve ever bumped into you in here before.”

“No. I don’t often partake. I’m more of a tea man these days. Doctor’s orders.” The vicar glanced at the tumbler of amber liquid on the bar in front of him. “There are times, though, when a tot of whisky does no harm. I felt a cold coming on, and I find a drop of single malt keeps the sniffles at bay.”

“I swear by a hot toddy myself,” Alan said. “Whisky, honey, lemon and cinnamon. Most people add cloves, but I can’t stand the things.”

Greg nodded. “I quite agree. By the way, the phrase you quoted was from Matthew, Chapter 19, Verse 24, although it’s also in the Gospels According to Mark and Luke. It’s a widely quoted phrase but often misunderstood.” He waved his hand in the air. “Apologies. You don’t want a sermon while you’re enjoying a quiet pint in the pub. Forgive me. I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying.” He hesitated. “The person you were talking about—the one with the unwanted inheritance—is he a friend of yours?”

“No, he’s someone I met in connection with my business,” Dan said. “I’m a private investigator, so I ought to have been more careful. I didn’t realise I was speaking so loudly.”

“Your secrets are safe with me,” Greg replied. “But you weren’t being indiscreet. It’s just that my ears pricked up when you mentioned money. We’re always in need, you see. St Raphael’s Church is very beautiful, but the upkeep alone…”

Greg took a sip of his drink, sighed and took another.

Dan and Alan exchanged a look.

Alan was the first to reach for his wallet.

“If you’re fundraising…” Alan began, but the vicar raised a hand to cut him off.

“Dear me, no. I’ll admit that the thought of an unwanted inheritance gave me pause for thought, but I wouldn’t dream of importuning Sam’s customers. Aside from anything else, I don’t think she’d approve.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind,” Dan said. “Sam’s always been very supportive of anything to do with the local community.”

“Oh, I know. All the more reason not to overstep the bounds.” Greg polished off his drink and placed the empty tumbler on the bar, his fingers lingering on the glass as though reluctant to let go of it.

“I must be off,” he went on. “But before I go…”

“Yes?” Dan said.

“I was wondering whether I might call on you, Dan, in your professional capacity.”

“Of course. If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate. I’m at⁠—”

“Number 2, Fore Street,” Greg interrupted. “The Old Shop.” He tapped the side of his nose. “I have my sources, Mr Corrigan. There’s not much that gets past the ladies of the flower arranging rota. Not that I encourage idle gossip, but a healthy interest in one’s neighbours is not to be sniffed at.”

He took out a pocket diary and consulted it. “I’m distinctly old-school when it comes to my schedule. It may not be fashionable, but pencil and paper have never let me down yet.” Looking up, he added, “Would tomorrow afternoon suit?”

“Yes,” Dan replied. “But it’s Easter Sunday. Isn’t that a busy day for you?”

“Every day is a busy one, but I’d rather not wait. Would three o’clock be all right?”

“Certainly.” Dan took out his phone and added an appointment to his calendar. “I’ll see you then.”

“Wonderful.” Greg beamed as he took his leave, saying “Bless you” as he shook each of them by the hand. Then he strode from the pub, his steps lighter than they had been when he arrived.

“What do you think he wants to see you about?” Alan asked.

“I have no idea,” Dan replied. “But I’m looking forward to finding out. Something tells me that this could be the start of a new case.”

Sam strolled across the room, her hands full of empty glasses. She paused in front of them and said, “I told you. Ten minutes you’ve been in here, and you’re already up to something. I can see it in your faces.”

“That’s not true,” Dan protested. “We’ve been here for at least fifteen minutes.”

CHAPTER 4

The Reverend Gregory Southgate halted on Fore Street, a sudden dizziness making his head spin. He took a deep breath of cool evening air, and that helped a little. His sense of stability returned, but his heart still raced. He closed his eyes, counting silently as he breathed in, held the breath and then released it.

That did the trick. The whisky had gone to his head, that was all. He wasn’t used to it, and to make matters worse, he’d drunk the stuff on an empty stomach. He ought to have known better.

It was getting dark now, and the chill air pinched his cheeks. He fastened his coat buttons and turned up the collar. Surely the evenings should be warmer by now. New leaves were in evidence on the hedgerows, and he’d seen many a tree festooned with blossom. On his last walk in Brandle Wood he’d seen hundreds of bluebells. It was spring, so why did he feel so cold?

The pub must’ve been too warm, he decided. Hot and stuffy. It was the contrast between the pub’s fuggy atmosphere and the crisp evening air that had thrown him off balance. Nevertheless, his fingers were tingling as though it were still winter.

The walk will do me good, he thought. He’d parked on the unimaginatively named Church Lane, his Old Ford Focus directly opposite the churchyard gate.

As he walked, Greg thrust his hands into his coat pockets and felt the old iron key nestling there. Perhaps he ought to call in at the church, just in case.

He might be there again, he thought, but immediately scolded himself for jumping to conclusions. He was still by no means certain of what he’d seen the night before. It had been real, the dark figure he’d glimpsed in the church doorway, but the sighting had lasted for a mere fraction of a second. He hadn’t been able to make out any facial features; he hadn’t even been able to tell whether it was a man or a woman. So the chances of it being him were slim at best. The odds were decidedly against it.

Still, he had to hope.

Greg wrapped his right hand around the key, the metal worn smooth from centuries of use. There was something reassuring about the key’s weight, its solidity. It had been in use for over two hundred years, protecting the church and all those within its walls from the outside world, creating a place of sanctuary.

Yes, sanctuary, he thought. A soul in need of help. And a weight lifted from his mind.

He’d worried that the person he’d glimpsed had been up to no good. After all, they’d run away as soon as he’d spoken to them. He’d followed, peering outside into the gloom, but they’d vanished completely.

In the past, there’d been problems with local youths: kids who’d thought it would be fun to hang around in the churchyard after dark, hiding away to share illicit cigarettes and alcohol.

But he’d looked around that morning, and there’d been no evidence of teenage indiscretions: no litter or empty cider bottles or cigarette stubs. There’d been no sign that anyone had been there at all.

His instincts told him that the person he’d seen was no local teenager mucking about. There was something unsettling about the unknown visitor: a presence, perhaps, a sense of strange familiarity. It could be him, he told himself again.

Greg arrived at his car, but even as he fished in his trouser pocket for his car keys, he knew what he must do. Leaving the car locked, Greg turned toward the church.

Four stone steps led up to the churchyard’s iron gate, and he took them slowly. Once again, his heart beat faster than it ought to. That wasn’t good. He thought of his doctor’s warnings, the leaflets he’d been given about exercise and lifestyle. There’d been talk of daily walks at a pace brisk enough to get him out of breath, but where would he find the time?

Greg paused to let his heart rate settle, then he pushed the iron gate open. The hinges groaned, the sound setting Greg’s nerves on edge. A palpitation fluttered in his chest, but he was not about to be deterred.

This was sacred ground, and he’d always felt safe here. To be in the hallowed environs of God’s house was a privilege, and if there was anyone here who might be in need of aid, he would not shirk from helping them.

Marshalling his spirits, Greg followed the path to the front door, his gaze roaming over the rows of headstones as he went.

Let him be here, he thought. Please, let him come back to me. But he reached the church door without seeing any sign of life.

Nevertheless, he’d watch and wait, ready to offer help. It would be a lonely vigil, and an uncomfortable one, but he lived to serve. That was his calling.

Greg inserted the key and unlocked the church door, then he pulled it open and stepped inside. He switched on a few of the ceiling lights, hoping he was lighting a beacon, a warm glow at the windows to offer a welcome for any lost souls who might be lurking nearby.

That done, he closed the door and sat on a pew at the back of the church, making himself as comfortable as he could.

The next hour passed quickly, lost as he was in thought. A stream of memories came to him unbidden, some of them happy, glorious even, some less so.

Greg checked his phone. There were two missed calls from his wife. Brenda was used to him working late, and she knew he often needed time to reflect, to read, to conjure up ideas for his sermons. But there were limits to a wife’s patience, even for a self-possessed person like Brenda.

I may as well head home, Greg decided. He’d tried, he’d done his best, but it had yielded nothing. It was time to accept that he’d waited in vain.

Greg rose stiffly and stretched his arms, then he made for the door and turned out the lights. Outside, the sky had grown darker, and he supposed that the stars had been hidden by a layer of cloud. He locked the church door, listening for the metallic sound of the mechanism engaging. A final check. Yes, the door was securely fastened.

Greg turned on his heel and marched back through the churchyard, already thinking of home, of putting his feet up and relaxing with a mug of cocoa. On the other hand, he still had that slight muzziness of mind that signalled an oncoming cold, and Alan’s recipe for a hot toddy had sounded appealing. He might have everything he needed in the kitchen.

You’ve already had one intoxicating drink, he chided himself. But another wouldn’t hurt. It would help him sleep, and he needed that more than anything.

Greg was almost at the gate when the sound came from behind him. No, he’d made a mistake. It had been his imagination.

But there it was again—quite clear and unmistakable—the sound of sobbing.

Greg spun around on the spot. And there, just like last time, a dark figure emerged from the shadows. Whoever it was, they were hesitant in their movements, unsteady in the way they stepped forward, shoulders hunched. Greg could make out no details, but this was the same person he’d seen before. He was certain of it.

“It’s all right,” Greg said, making his voice as steady as he could. “You’re safe here. But—” Greg broke off abruptly as the figure took a shuffling step back.

Don’t run away, he thought. Not again. Greg ran his tongue over his lips and tried once more.

“If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. If you do, I’m here to listen. I’m Greg. I’m the vicar here. What shall I call you?”

The murmur that came from the figure was so faint and choked by sobs that he could barely hear it all, and he could discern no actual words.

“It’s all right,” Greg said. “You don’t have to explain anything. But if you’ll allow me, I can help.” In the silence that followed, Greg swallowed hard. He shouldn’t push, but he had to ask the question that forced itself to the front of his mind. He had to know. “Josh? Is it you?”

The only reply was a muffled whimper, and then the figure was gone, melting into the night with only the faint sound of rapidly retreating footsteps to prove that the visitor had not been conjured by his imagination.

Greg didn’t waste time in calling out or trying to search for the mysterious visitor. He’d tried both approaches the night before without the slightest success. Instead, he sent up a silent prayer and made for the gate, his stride lengthening as he went.

A minute later he was in his car and pulling out from his parking space, the heater on full blast and the radio blaring out classical music. In his rearview mirror he saw the churchyard gate and thought, just for a moment, that something shifted in the shadows behind the iron bars. He put the brake on and turned in his seat. But no. There was no one there.

With a weary sigh, Greg put the car into gear and drove away.

CHAPTER 5

Marjorie Treave sat quietly at her customary table in the corner of The Wild Boar and sipped the last of her sherry. Dan Corrigan, she thought. He’s still here then.

When she’d first met the man, she’d have bet a fiver he’d be gone within a year. It was like that with a lot of newcomers, or blow-ins as some folk called them. They liked the idea of country life, they hankered after some daft notion they’d seen on the telly, but when push came to shove, they couldn’t make a go of it. They couldn’t live without their fancy supermarkets and posh restaurants. One wet winter was enough to see most of them off. A bit of mud and a couple of power cuts, and before they’d even made it to Christmas, up went the For Sale signs.

The problem was, the townies always mucked around with their cottages before they left, putting in shiny kitchens and walk-in showers. And then there were the conservatories, all framed with plastic, and the daft water features in the gardens, not to mention the decking and the log cabins. And when they moved out, the prices they demanded for their countryside hideaways were always sky-high.

Once the townies had done their worst, none of the locals could afford even a tiny cottage, so the inevitable happened. Another couple of city types rolled up with their heads full of fanciful ideas and the whole process started all over again.

Or worse, Marjorie thought bitterly. Second homes. She scowled at her empty glass, thinking back to better times. Not so long ago there’d been a bit more life in the village, a better sense of community. There’d been families with three or more generations living within shouting distance of one another, and plenty, like her, who’d spent their whole lives in Embervale. Now, she was one of the last few. The old guard.

Marjorie pictured some of the friends and neighbours she’d lost over the years. They’d died, or retired to somewhere where life was easier. Some had gone to retirement flats in Teignmouth where they only had to amble across the road and they could stroll along the seafront, the pavements dead flat. They’d joined the ranks of the old folks you’d see, pushing their walking frames, stopping for a rest on the benches, gazing out to sea.

There were some benefits, she supposed. The town had some handy shops and quite a few cafes where you could get a hot dinner without paying tourist prices. And there was always fish and chips. They always tasted better when you ate them by the seaside.

Retiring to the coast wasn’t such a bad idea, but it wasn’t for her. It would mean giving up her garden, her land and her livestock, and that would break her heart. It might be hard work to keep on top of it all, but she’d never shied away from a bit of hard graft.

We don’t stop working because we get old, Marjorie thought, we get old because we stop working.

Marjorie roused herself. She had a long list of jobs to tackle in the morning, so it was about time she headed back. She made to stand up, but something twinged in her knee and she thought better of it. I’ve been sitting down too long, she decided. I ought to have known better.

Gritting her teeth, Marjorie readied herself for another attempt, and a shadow fell over her.

“Do you need a hand, Marjorie?”

Old habit sent a cross word to the tip of her tongue, and Marjorie prepared to do battle. She needed help from no one: never had, never would. But then she saw who’d asked, and her expression softened.

Hugh stood with a half empty pint glass in his hand and an expression of concern on his handsome features. He wasn’t a bad young man, so long as you saw past the ridiculous way he tied his long dark hair in a bun.

He might be a townie, but he was always polite. What was more, he seemed to care about the countryside almost as much as she did, and that was saying something.

“No, thank you, m’dear,” she said. “I’m right as rain, but the old knee plays up if I don’t keep it moving.”

“It’s what my grandma would call getting riggwelted,” Hugh replied with a smile. “It’s an old word for a sheep that’s fallen onto its back and can’t get up. I think their fleeces soak up water and get too heavy.”

“I know what it means.” Marjorie frowned up at him, her eyebrows lowered. “Are you likening me to an old ewe, young man?”

Hugh’s face fell. “Oh, no. Sorry, Marjorie. I didn’t mean⁠—”

He was cut short by Marjorie’s warm-hearted cackle of laughter. “Don’t worry, m’dear, I was having you on. I’ve been called worse, believe me. Anyway, happen I am like an old draft ewe. Do you know what that means?”

Hugh nodded. “A sheep that’s drafted out of the flock because it can’t manage the rough grazing. But you’re tougher than that, Marjorie. You’ll outlive us all.”

“We’ll see.” Marjorie had no time for flatterers, but when kind words came from Hugh, they didn’t seem so bad. “Was she a sheep farmer, your grandma?”

“Oh yes. She came from a long line of farmers, all in the Dales. My grandad wasn’t born into the life, but he loved it. My parents, not so much.”

Marjorie nodded wisely. “That’s the way it goes sometimes. It’s a tough life, and some folks don’t take to it, but you have a feeling for it, don’t you? Happen it’s skipped a generation.”

“I hope so.” Hugh gestured to Marjorie’s empty glass. “Can I get you another?”

“No, thank you. I ought to be heading home. The way I’m faring, it’ll take me a while to get back.”

“I’ll tell you what, let me get you a drink and then we’ll walk back together. We’re going the same way.”

Marjorie hesitated. They would, indeed, be heading back the same way. To the same destination, in fact.

She hadn’t intended it to happen, but somehow, she’d agreed to let Hugh set up his tent in her field. He’d done such a good job of mowing the long grass, setting to with the old scythe, and he’d looked exhausted afterwards. It had seemed a shame to send him on his way to Hennock. It was a steep road up the side of the valley, and it wouldn’t be easy on a bicycle, especially when it was fully loaded with bags and camping gear.

Besides, Hugh had been happy to accept a campsite in lieu of wages, and that suited Marjorie very well. Although, come to think of it, she wasn’t sure if that had been her idea or his.

“It’s all right,” Marjorie said. “I can walk home on my own, thank you very much. Anyway, you don’t want an old fogey trailing along with you.”

“You’re nobody’s idea of an old fogey, Marjorie. You walk faster than me.”

“Maybe but⁠—”

“On the way, we can talk farming,” Hugh interrupted. “I’ll bet you know more than I can learn from any book.”

“Happen I’ve picked up a thing or two, but you don’t want to listen to me going on. Nobody wants that.”

“I do. Actually, you’d be doing me a favour. If I’m ever going to have my own smallholding, it won’t come easy. I have a lot to learn, and who better to have as a teacher?”

Marjorie blinked up at him. Hugh was a charmer, all right, but that wasn’t always a bad thing. He seemed to mean what he was saying, and maybe she ought to give him the benefit of the doubt. But something stopped her.

“Another time,” she said. “Pop up to the house one day, and we’ll have a cup of tea.”

“Okay, that would be nice.” Hugh took a sip of his beer then glanced at the bar.

He smiled to himself, and when Marjorie followed his gaze she saw it had settled on Sam. No surprise there. Sam had always been a handsome maid, and many a local man had grown tongue-tied in her presence. What she saw in Dan Corrigan, heaven only knew, but that was the way of the world.

Marjorie cleared her throat to regain Hugh’s attention. “Will you be stopping much longer, do you think?”

“I’ll stay for another pint, then I’ll head back to the tent.”

Lowering her voice to a whisper, Marjorie said, “I meant, how much longer do you think you’ll be camping on my field?”

“It’ll take me at least another day to finish cutting your meadow. After that, it depends if I can find work, but I love it here. I was hoping I might be able to stay for a couple of weeks, if that’s okay. I’ll pay, obviously, or I can do more work for you. Whatever you prefer.”

“I expect we can work something out, but remember what I said.” Marjorie tapped the side of her nose. She didn’t want people saying she’d turned her field into a campsite. The land was officially agricultural, and she suspected there’d be rules and regulations about such things, especially since her place was within the borders of the Dartmoor National Park.

She’d explained all this to Hugh earlier. There was an old outside toilet he could use, and a tap in the yard where he could get water, so he’d have everything he needed. There was nowhere to take a bath, of course, but she had to draw the line somewhere. She was not about to invite him in—she’d made that plain—and Hugh had been happy to agree to her terms.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Hugh said. “I won’t breathe a word.”

“Good. But I’ve dawdled long enough. I’m going home.” Marjorie set her mind to it and shoved off from her seat, ignoring the pain in her knee and getting to her feet, steady as a rock.

She bade Hugh goodnight and then headed for the door. She glanced back, just once, and saw the young man making a beeline for the bar, favouring Sam with one of his disarming smiles.

But Hugh hadn’t gone unnoticed. From his table by the fire, Dan Corrigan was watching the young man with that sharp stare of his.

Young Hugh had better watch his step, Marjorie told herself as she let herself out into the quiet street. Dan wasn’t such a bad sort, now that he’d settled down a bit, but people who tangled with him always seemed to come off worse. Some had even ended up in prison, though not without good reason.

Maybe she ought to have a word with Hugh, let him know the way things stood between Sam and Dan. But what business was it of hers? Besides, when it came to love and romance and all that, there was no telling what might happen. It does no good to interfere, she decided. Best to stay out of it.

SUNDAY

CHAPTER 6

Dan cleared the clutter from the kitchen table and laid out a pad of paper and a pen. The room looked presentable, so all that remained was to make sure he had a couple of clean mugs to hand. It was almost three o’clock, and he guessed that the vicar was the kind of man to be punctual. Dan wasn’t sure of the etiquette involved in a meeting with a clergyman, but tea would surely be expected.

But the next person to arrive was Alan, tapping on the kitchen window and waving.

“It’s open,” Dan called out, and Alan let himself in.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Alan said, “but I thought I might sit in when you meet the vicar.”

“You’re very welcome,” Dan replied. “But don’t you have your own work to be getting on with?”

“And miss this? No chance.”

Dan smiled and fetched an extra mug. “It might be something and nothing. A lost cat, a missing heirloom or a bit of village gossip that’s gained momentum as it went along.”

“We’ll see, won’t we? Are we talking to the vicar in here or in the lounge?”

“In here. I thought it might set him at ease.”

“Good thinking,” Alan said. “He seemed a little overwrought in the pub last night.”

“Did he? I don’t really know him.”

“He’s usually quite a jolly character, all smiles and little jokes. He gets on with everybody, even the nonbelievers.”

“Such as me?”

Alan nodded and loaded his tone with mock severity. “Even lost causes such as yourself.”

“What about you? I didn’t see you trotting off to the church this morning.”

“No, I’m agnostic, but I think there’s something out there, something greater than us. Not everything can be explained by cold logic and hard facts.”

Dan made a noncommittal sound in his throat. He and Alan had been down this road before, and it led to nothing except frayed patience.

Alan made himself comfortable at the table. “I see you’re all prepared. Would you like me to take notes?”

“That would be great. Then I can concentrate on Greg.” Dan made to sit down, but a thought made him stop. “I ought to have bought some biscuits. He’s bound to expect biscuits.”

“Don’t you have any?”

“No, I try not to keep too many sweet things in the house.”

“What about those digestives I brought round a while back? Have you eaten them all?”

“Ah, I don’t think so.” Dan hunted through the kitchen cupboard, more in hope than expectation, but he found a half-empty packet of digestive biscuits lurking behind a bag of risotto rice.

“Here we are.” Dan retrieved them, opening the torn packet and trying an experimental sniff. “They should be okay.”

Alan held out his hand. “Here, let me.”

Dan handed him the packet, and Alan pulled out a biscuit and took a bite, pulling a face as he chewed. “Soft. And they taste a bit strange. You ought to have kept them in an airtight container. I wouldn’t give them to the vicar if I were you. You don’t want to poison the poor man.”

“Never mind. Tea will have to do.” Dan took the biscuits and left them on the counter, then he went to fill the kettle.

At three o’clock on the dot, there was a knock on the front door, and Dan showed the vicar into the kitchen.

“What a lovely room,” Greg said, but his joviality didn’t ring true.

The man was tense and nervy. Dan could see it in the way Greg’s gaze flitted from place to place refusing to settle, and in the set of his shoulders, which were hunched to the point of approaching his ears.

He’s in pain, Dan decided, though whether Greg was suffering from physical pain or emotional anguish, Dan couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was both.

“I spend most of my time in here,” Dan said. “Please, have a seat.”

Alan stood and shook hands with the vicar. “I’d like to join you and Dan if that’s all right. We often work together.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.” Greg sounded less than enthusiastic, but he didn’t object, and Alan sat back down.

“Would you like tea or coffee?” Dan asked. “I only have oat milk, but most people don’t seem to notice the difference.”

“Really? My wife, Brenda, has been trying to get me to drink the stuff, but I find the idea off-putting. Still, I’ll give it a go. Tea would be most welcome. Thank you.”

“The trick is not to use too much and not to judge the tea by the colour.” Dan gestured to the chairs by the kitchen table. “Make yourself comfortable. The tea won’t take long.”

Greg sat facing Alan and remained quiet while Dan made the drinks. When the tea arrived Greg expressed his gratitude, and after a suspicious glance at the contents, he took a sip and nodded.

“You’re right, it’s fine. I must tell Brenda. She will be pleased.”

“All part of the service.”

Dan sat beside Alan, who pulled the pad of paper toward him and then looked around as though hunting for something.

Dan saw that Greg had picked up the pen from the table and was absent-mindedly rolling it between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.

“Would you mind passing that pen to Alan?” Dan asked. “He’s going to take notes.”

“What? Oh, sorry. I did it without thinking.”

Greg offered the pen and Alan took it with a smile.

“Thank you,” Alan said. “I’ll jot down a few things as we go along. Dates and times, that sort of thing.”

“Anything you tell us is confidential,” Dan stated. “We take that very seriously.”

Greg looked uncomfortable. “Forgive me, but I feel bound to point out that I’ve seen several of your cases in the local press.”

Alan’s smile disappeared, and Dan knew the reason why. Alan had once been bamboozled into talking to a photographer, little knowing that she would sell his story to the tabloids.

“You needn’t worry about that,” Dan said quickly, addressing himself to Greg but sending Alan a meaningful look. “Yes, there have been times when our cases have appeared in the press, but that wasn’t down to us. We don’t talk to reporters or anyone else unless we come across something illegal or we believe someone is in danger. In those circumstances, we’d almost certainly have to contact the authorities.”

Greg nodded thoughtfully. “Very well. There’s one other question I’d like to get out of the way. How much do you charge?”

“We can discuss that later,” Dan replied. “I don’t accept every case I’m offered, but if we are going to work together, I’ll lay everything out for you in advance. For the time being, let’s call this an initial consultation, free of charge. Is that all right?”

“Yes, that’s very reasonable.” Greg clasped his hands on the table, his fingers interlaced, but that didn’t last long, and he parted his hands, running his fingers over the kitchen table.

“Do you smoke?” Dan asked.

Greg gave a guilty start. “No. At least, not anymore. I used to. How did you know?”

“You don’t seem to know what to do with your hands, and when you picked up my pen, you held it like a cigarette.”

Greg looked at his hands as though mildly surprised. “I had no idea. I thought I’d left all that behind a long time ago, but I suppose old habits die hard.”

“That’s very true,” Alan replied. “But you did the right thing, giving up smoking. I’m sure you feel better for it.”

“I didn’t have much choice. My doctor gave me a stern talking to, and I listened. Otherwise… well, you know.”

Dan nodded, but he looked more closely at Greg, taking in the sallow complexion and the broken capillaries in the skin around his nose.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” Dan began, “but how is your health at the moment?”

“Me? I’m fine. I’m a little tired, that’s all. There’s always so much to do. And I’ve had a lot to think about. Especially recently.”

“Because of Easter?”

“Yes. And there’s something else. That’s the reason I’m here.”

Dan nodded. “I see. What’s on your mind?”

There was a pause before Greg spoke. “Do you have children, either of you?”

“No,” Dan and Alan answered together, although in Alan’s case, Dan detected a hint of regret.

“I thought not,” Greg said. “But in my line of work it pays not to make presumptions.”

“In mine too,” Dan replied. “I take it there’s a family matter that’s causing you concern.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Greg took a drink from his mug, then he sat quietly, apparently in no rush to go on.

Dan gave him a moment, then said, “How many children do you have?”

“Two. My daughter, Ellen, is at university and doing very well, but my son…” Greg’s smile was pained. “Joshua will be twenty-three now, but I… that is, we haven’t seen or heard from him in some time.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Alan said. “How long has it been?”

“It’s almost exactly six years ago to the day. He was seventeen when he left home. He was still at school. Sadly, he got in with the wrong crowd, and he turned his back on the church. I could’ve borne that. We raised our children to think for themselves and make their own choices. Still, we hoped he’d come back to the faith in time. But it wasn’t to be.”

“When did he stop going to church?” Dan asked. “Was it immediately before he went away?”

Greg shook his head. “I don’t think the two were connected. From the age of thirteen, Josh gradually moved away from the church. He was still the same, sweet boy, and he’d say grace at the table, but he wouldn’t attend a service except at Christmas and Easter. For him, Sunday mornings were for staying in bed, like most of his peers, I imagine.”

“I’d say that’s fairly typical for a teenager,” Dan said. “But was there anything that might hint at a problem? Any trouble at school, for instance?”

“Not as far as his teachers were concerned. Academically he was bright and capable, but…” Greg’s expression clouded, and when he went on his voice was heavy with sadness. “We don’t know for sure, but we think he was experimenting with drugs. We did everything we could, but…” Greg held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“Where did he go to school?” Dan asked.

“Kingsteignton Community College. The local comprehensive.”

“A good school,” Alan said. “I gave a talk to some year-seven students. I was impressed.”

“Oh, I don’t blame the school. The trouble was with Joshua’s friends. They’d go to each other’s houses, and we thought it was the usual stuff. You know, video games, pizza, perhaps the odd cigarette. Josh never invited his friends back to our house, but we understood that. What teenager would relish the prospect of a vicar looking over his shoulder?”

Alan held his pen over the pad. “Do you have the names of Joshua’s friends?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure it would help.”

“Background information is always helpful,” Dan said. “Especially if we’re trying to find someone. Is that what you’d like us to do? Would you like us to find your son, because⁠—”

“No,” Greg interrupted. “We exhausted those avenues long ago, believe me. But the situation has changed. At least, I think it has. You see, I think Joshua might’ve found me.”

Dan waited expectantly, and after a few seconds, Greg went on.

“It started on Friday night. It had been a long day, and I suppose I must’ve been tired, but everything was fine, everything was as it should be. I was in St Raphael’s, and you know what the weather was like that night. It was wild.”

“Another named storm,” Alan said. “There were several power cuts.”

“That explains one thing. I was in the church when the lights went out.”

“That would’ve been just after eight o’clock.” Alan made a note. “Do you often stay at the church until that time in the evening?”

“Not usually, no, but my schedule varies from one day to the next. We hold meetings, we run courses and I sometimes carry out home visits. My days are always full.”

“What happened on Friday night?” Dan asked.

Dan and Alan listened attentively, Alan making notes as Greg described what he’d seen and heard on the previous Friday.

When the narrative ended, Dan said, “Is there any possibility that you were mistaken in what you saw?”

Greg sent Dan a sharp look. “You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you saw something, but what our eyes see and our mind perceives are entirely separate. We’ve all seen people standing in the shadows, only to realise it’s actually a coat hanging on the back of the door. In that first glimpse we see a person; our brain tells us that there is definitely someone there. A split second later, we know the truth.” Dan chose his next few words with care. “You said you only caught a glimpse, and if you were thinking about your son, you may have seen what you wanted to see.”

“I think about Joshua constantly, as any parent would. Over the years, I’ve sometimes been sure I’ve spotted him in a crowd or sitting by the window of a passing bus. Of course, it always turned out to be someone else, but this wasn’t like that. I didn’t imagine it. Someone was there, and they came back last night. There’s no doubt about it whatsoever.”

“Okay,” Dan said. “Tell us about last night.”

“It was just after I’d seen you two in the pub. I went back to St Raphael’s and waited, hoping that whoever it was would turn up. I wanted to believe it was Joshua and that he’d come to find me—part of me still hopes that could be so. It’s not so far-fetched, is it?”

“No,” Dan admitted. “But if your son had returned, wouldn’t he have gone to your house?”

“Perhaps it would be too much for him to face both his parents at our family home. I can scarcely imagine how much angst he must be feeling.”

“I take your point. Where do you live, by the way?”

“The vicarage up at Hennock. It’s just outside the village, actually. You can walk from here if you don’t mind the hill, but I drive.”

Alan noted down the address, then said, “Please, go on.”

“I saw someone again. It was very similar to Friday, but this time I saw him outside in the churchyard.”

“You say him,” Dan pointed out. “Earlier, you seemed less certain.”

Greg looked abashed. “You’re right. It would be more accurate to say I saw a person, but I got a better look at them than the first time. I think that’s because I was better prepared. They were tall—about your height, Dan—but slender, willowy, even. They were dressed all in black, and their clothes seemed shapeless, as if they were too big to fit, although that’s how a lot of young people dress, isn’t it? Hoodies and so on.”

“Were they wearing a hoodie or something like a hoodie?” Dan asked.

“A hoodie, I think. I’m more or less certain about that. The hood covered their hair, you see, and it hid their face. That’s what made it so difficult to deal with. If I could’ve seen their face, I would’ve known whether it was Joshua straight away, even after all this time.”

“Of course you would,” Alan said. “I can see how this must’ve been very distressing for you.”

Greg glanced at Alan, the sadness in his eyes tempered by gratitude. “There’s something else. The person tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I think they were too distressed to speak.”

“Did they make any gestures?” Dan asked. “Did they hold out their hand, for example?”

“You think they were begging, but no, it wasn’t like that. They didn’t approach me, and when I offered help, they simply turned and ran away. Surely, if they’d wanted money, they would’ve waited and, as you say, they would’ve held out their hand.”

“Okay. You say you couldn’t make out any words, but could that mean they were speaking a foreign language?”

“I don’t think so, but I can’t say for sure. They could barely whisper.”

“Was there anything distinctive about their voice? An accent perhaps?”

“Not as far as I could tell. If I’m honest, I can’t be sure whether it belonged to a man or a woman. I want it to be my son, but I know that’s unlikely. The point is, whoever they may be, I’m sure they need help. There must be something I can do to ease their burden.”

Dan made his voice gentle. “On the other hand, this could’ve been a teenager who thought it would be fun to play a prank on you. You’re an easy target.”

“That had occurred to me, but they didn’t try to frighten me. It was more as if I frightened them. They certainly ran away very quickly.” Greg paused. “The question is, can you help me? Will you try to find out who it is? I’ll pay, naturally.”

Dan looked to Alan and saw that he was keen, his eyes bright.

“Okay,” Dan said. “We’ll take a look, and we’ll ask around. It shouldn’t be more than a few hours work, but don’t worry about payment. We’re happy to help.”

“Oh, that’s very kind. I would insist on paying, but I’ve learned to accept charity with good grace.” Greg’s expression brightened, and there was a twinkle in his eyes as he went on. “Anyway, I can see you’ve made your mind up, and I doubt whether I could persuade you to change it.”

“You’re a good judge of character,” Dan said, warming to the man.

“I leave judgement to a higher power,” Greg replied. “I’m here to serve, that’s all. I take everyone as they come, saint and sinner alike.”

Dan sensed the conversation drifting into spiritual territory, so he simply said, “If you leave me your email address and so on, I’ll keep in touch. I’m sure we’ll be able to sort this out for you.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Greg reeled off his contact details and while Alan jotted them down, Dan grabbed his phone and added Greg to his address book.

“Do you need anything else?” Greg asked.

“A photo of Joshua would be useful,” Dan replied. “I can’t think of anything else at the moment. If something comes up, I’ll give you a call.”

“That’s fine. I’ll email you a photo, although it will be rather out of date.” Greg paused. “When will you start?”

“This evening,” Dan said. “I’ll pop over to the church and see what I can find out. It might be better if you weren’t there, Greg.”

“All right.” Greg got to his feet. “Whatever you find, Dan, I’d like to know straight away. I’m quite prepared for it not to be Joshua, but I must know. I can’t relax until I know one way or the other.”

Dan and Alan stood.

“If it is your son, we can ask him to get in touch with you,” Dan said, “but we can’t force him to do anything.”

Greg gestured with his hand as though brushing Dan’s words away. “That’s understood. Even a message from him would be some comfort. We’d like to know whether he’s all right.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Alan replied. “In the meantime, you must try not to worry. You don’t look well, Greg. Is there anyone you can go to for support? Within the church, I mean.”

“In theory, yes, but I’m all right. I’ve been working too hard, that’s all. It’s the way most of us live these days, isn’t it? We’re all overstretched, but we have to muddle through one way or another. I’ll be fine. What help there is, is best left for those who really need it, those who can benefit the most. I’m more than capable of carrying on with my duties.”

“I used to say the same,” Dan replied. “It didn’t end happily. It’s all very well to soldier on, but sometimes you need to look after yourself. You know what they say in those safety talks on planes: put on your own oxygen mask before you help others.”

“I’m aware of the idea. People talk a lot about self-care, don’t they? But it’s my job to put others first.”

“And will you be able to do that job if you become unwell?” Alan asked.

Greg paused for thought, then he let out a long breath as though he’d been holding on to it. “You make a good team, the pair of you. I can see you don’t give up easily, so I’ll think about what you’ve said.”

“That’s a start, but it’s important to take action,” Dan said. “Talk to someone, if not through your work, then try your GP.”

“Doctors? Oh no, there’s nothing wrong with me except for a touch of heartburn. Too many rushed meals between appointments.” Greg raised his hands to ward off further questions, quickly adding, “I must go. Thank you so much for your time. Do keep in touch, won’t you?”

“Definitely,” Dan said. “I’ll show you out.”

“No need.” With a nod, Greg bustled to the kitchen door and let himself out.

Dan and Alan watched him pass the kitchen window and walk away, his gaze down on the ground.

“A sad business,” Alan said. “Is there any chance that it’s his son, do you think?”

Dan shook his head slowly. “I doubt it, Alan. But we’ll see what we can find out. That’s all we can do.”

CHAPTER 7

Greg sat behind the wheel of his Ford Focus and stared out through the windscreen. What was he doing here? Evening was drawing on and he shouldn’t be in Embervale at all. It had been a busy day, his duties taking him on a whistle stop tour of the towns and villages that made up his parish, but somehow he’d ended up back in Embervale, parked across the road from Saint Raphael’s.

He checked his phone. There was a message from Brenda, asking when he’d be home, and he sent a brief reply, saying that he might be late for dinner. Then he tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and let his gaze return to the road. Anyone approaching the church would have to come this way.

The street remained empty, but he kept watch anyway.

I mustn’t stay too long, he told himself. There was always a chance that one of his parishioners would come along, and they’d wonder what he was up to, sitting alone like this. They might even stop to talk to him—people often did—and what would he say if they asked why he was there?

He couldn’t lie. It didn’t bear thinking about.

Greg made up his mind and turned the ignition key. He glanced over at the church, but he’d walked around the churchyard’s perimeter earlier in the day, and he’d seen no clues to suggest someone had been loitering.

Dan and Alan might fare better. They were used to such things.

Unlike me, Greg thought. I’m not cut out for this at all.

Indeed, with his optimistic outlook on life, his faith in God and in human nature, he’d make a poor private investigator.

A vision of himself bearing a magnifying glass and wearing a deerstalker came to mind, and Greg smiled. That was better. He felt more himself. Perhaps that was because he’d unburdened himself to Dan and Alan earlier. And they’d been right when they’d advised him to look after himself. Brenda would heartily approve.

“Home,” Greg murmured to the empty car, and putting the Ford into gear, he prepared to pull out, checking his rearview mirror.

But what was that? Something had flitted across the mirror’s field of view: a dark shape, no, a figure. It had looked different in the pale evening light, but it had been the same person. And it had disappeared into the narrow alley that ran between two houses, not one hundred metres from the church.

They were here.

Greg switched off the engine.

CHAPTER 8

Dan opened the churchyard gate and cast a glance at the rapidly darkening sky.

Behind him, Alan said, “We ought to have got here earlier.”

“No, I wanted to wait until it was almost dark,” Dan replied. “I doubt whether Greg’s visitor will show themselves in daylight.”

“Good point. And it’s best if the locals don’t see us prowling around. They might think we’re stirring up trouble.”

“Us? Never.”

Alan laughed quietly.

“What are you chortling at?” Dan asked.

“I remembered something I once said. I told you that you had all the tact of a gently lobbed hand grenade. Do you remember?”

“No, and I’m not sure whether to be offended. It is quite funny. When was this?”

“When we first met. It seems like a long time ago, but it’s only a few years.”

“A lot of water under the bridge,” Dan said. “Some of it stained with blood.”

“Not bad. We’ll make a writer of you yet.”

It was Dan’s turn to laugh. “No thank you. All that sitting around making things up—I’d go mad in no time.”

“Fair enough. I’d say you’ve found your calling. Speaking of which, what’s the plan?”

Dan pointed across the graveyard. “We’ll start by making a quick circuit around the church. I’ll go clockwise and you go anticlockwise. We’ll meet at the back.”

“Okay. I’ve come equipped.” Alan produced a small torch from his pocket and switched it on, the brilliant white beam cutting through the gloom.

“Ah.” Dan patted his pockets.

“Didn’t you bring yours?”

“No, but it’s barely dark, and there’s nothing wrong with my eyesight. I’ll be fine. Let’s get started.”

They set off, Dan moving slowly as he left the path and picked his way between the graves. I can’t believe I didn’t bring my tactical light, he thought. His brief exposure to the glare of Alan’s torch had interfered with his night-vision, and it was taking some time for his eyes to adapt.

He took out his phone, but as he went to activate the flashlight, Alan called out:

“Dan! Over here!”

Dan spun around and dashed back to the path where the beam of Alan’s torch was bobbing as he ran. “He’s on the road,” Alan shouted. “After him!”

Dan reached the iron gate first, yanking it open and hurtling down the stone steps. To his left, he saw the reason Alan had shouted.

A lone figure, clad in a dark hoodie, was running away along the street, sticking close to the side of the road.

Dan set off in pursuit and heard Alan fall in behind him.

“Wait!” Dan called out. “We just want to talk.”

The figure showed no sign of having heard, but Dan put on a burst of speed. He’d catch him in no time.

But the figure ran deceptively fast, turning left into a lane that would take him away from the village.

Dan followed, gaining ground as he ran. The lane was poorly lit, and Dan could make out nothing of the figure except for a silhouette and a beam of light bobbing on the road.

Whoever he was, the mysterious figure was wearing a headlight. A shrewd move. The lane’s surface was uneven and pitted with potholes, some of them deep enough to trip the unwary. A false step could send Dan flat on his face, and for the second time that night, he wished he’d remembered his torch.

But he couldn’t let his quarry get away. Throwing caution to the wind, Dan accelerated, catching up to the figure and almost colliding with him. At the last moment, the figure turned with a yell and lashed out, shoving Dan hard in the chest.

Dan stumbled back but quickly regained his balance, and he found himself facing the dark figure. Their headlight shone directly into Dan’s face, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” the figure demanded, the voice unmistakably male and hoarse with repressed rage.

“I—” Dan began, but he didn’t get the chance to explain.

“You practically knocked me over,” the man went on. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Calm down.” Dan pointed to the man’s headlight. “Could you…?”

The man grunted and reached up to lower the headlight’s beam.

Dan blinked as his eyes adjusted, but then his heart sank. No one could confuse this full-grown man for a teenager. Yes, he was slim, but he had an athletic build, and unlike the person Greg had seen, he wasn’t dressed in black.

The man’s hoodie was navy blue, and his blue leggings were similar to a pair Dan had at home. A pair of Nike training shoes and a headlight completed the outfit. The man was a runner, an innocent passerby.

“I may have made a mistake,” Dan said. “I thought you were someone else, but you weren’t in the churchyard a minute ago, were you?”

“What?” The man pulled down his hood and put his hands to his ears, pulling out a pair of earbuds. “I can’t hear a thing with these in.”

The man was in his thirties with a shock of curly black hair, and his thick eyebrows and full beard lent him a rugged look.

He turned a fierce stare on Dan, but then his gaze shifted to the road, where Alan was running toward them, the beam from his torch waving wildly as he pumped his arms.

“What’s going on?” the man demanded. “Because I’m warning you, if you’re going to have a go, I’ll⁠—”

“It’s nothing like that,” Dan said quickly. “My name is Dan Corrigan. I live in the village, and this is my neighbour, Alan Hargreaves. We thought you might’ve been in the churchyard.”

“What if I was? What business is it of yours?”

“Greg Southgate asked us to keep an eye on the church. He thinks someone has been hanging around after dark.”

“First I’ve heard of it.” The man looked at Dan as though realisation had just dawned. “Corrigan. You’re the detective.”

“Yes. Well, I’m a private investigator. Nice to meet you.”

Dan held out his hand for a shake, but the man stared at Dan in disbelief.

Alan joined them, jogging to a halt. He looked the man up and down and then let out a long breath. “Oh hell. We’ve got it wrong, haven’t we?”

“You could say that.” Dan turned his offer of a handshake into a gesture. “This gentleman was simply out for a run. He was wearing earbuds, so he didn’t hear us call out.”

Alan wiped his hand across his sweaty brow. “Oh dear. I can only apologise, Mr…”

“Bellamy,” the man replied, his voice gruff. “Simon.”

“I know that name,” Alan said. “You’re connected to the church, aren’t you?”

“I’m a deacon at St Raphael’s, yes. And I serve at the surrounding parishes alongside the vicar.”

Dan couldn’t help but look at the man askance. Admittedly, Bellamy had been taken by surprise when Dan had accosted him, but his display of bad temper had been distinctly unforgiving.

Perhaps guessing at Dan’s thoughts, Bellamy cleared his throat, and when he went on, his voice was gentler.

“I’m sorry too, about earlier. I don’t normally fly off the handle, but I’m in a world of my own when I run, and once the adrenaline starts flowing…”

“I understand,” Dan replied. “I’m a runner myself, and there’s no apology required. We were in the wrong.”

“Least said, soonest mended,” Alan said. “We should let you get on, but please be careful in the lanes. Your outfit isn’t exactly high-vis.”

Bellamy glanced down at his clothes. “It was daylight when I set off. I thought I’d head back before dark, but it’s such a nice evening I got carried away. It was a good job I was carrying my head torch. I have my phone too.” He indicated a pouch strapped around his waist. “I should be all right.”

“Have you got far to go?” Dan asked.

“About four more miles. I’m going to loop around and head back to Chudleigh.”

“If you go that way, it’s going to take you a long time to get to Chudleigh,” Alan said. “And you’ll be out of the village in no time. It’s very hilly, and it’ll be pitch-black up there.”

“I know. I’ve run this route before and I’m used to it. It’s perfectly safe. It’s not as though there’ll be much traffic. I’ll see one or two cars at most.”

“I’d be happy to give you a lift back to Chudleigh,” Dan said. “It’s the least I can do.”

Bellamy shook his head. “I need to log the miles. I’ve got a half-marathon coming up, and I want to be ready.”

“Okay,” Dan replied. “But before you go, do you mind if I ask a couple of questions?”

“Erm.” Bellamy consulted the large face of his digital watch. “Can it wait?”

“Not really, and it won’t take more than a minute,” Dan said. “Do you always run the same route?”

“No, but I come through Embervale a fair bit. I like the lanes, and the hills are good for me.”

“How about last night? Did you run past the church?”

“No, it was a recovery day.”

“How about on Friday, in the evening?”

Bellamy didn’t reply immediately. He looked from Dan to Alan, then said, “What’s this about? Are you suggesting I’ve done something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Dan replied. “But as I said, Greg Southgate is concerned that somebody has been loitering near the church, and you might’ve seen or heard⁠—”

“No. And as I said, I don’t know anything about someone loitering, as you call it. People are free to go into the churchyard at any time. Some go to visit a grave, or they might like to sit on a bench and think. It’s fine.”

“Nevertheless, Greg was concerned,” Dan said. “You can check with him later.”

“I will. And I’ll tell him what I think about you two, chasing passersby as if you’re vigilantes or something. We don’t want that kind of thing at St Raphael’s.”

“I’ve apologised for that,” Dan replied. “We were checking everything was okay at the church when we saw you, and it looked at first glance as though you were running away. That’s the only reason we chased after you.”

“But I hadn’t been to the church. I was in the street.”

“Yes, we know that now,” Dan stated. “But we’re trying to help the vicar, so I’d be grateful if you’d answer my question. Did you run past the church in Embervale on Friday evening?”

“I resent this, but I can see you’re like a dog with a bone.” Bellamy paused, then said, “On Friday, I parked near the church and went for a short run. I’d planned a longer route, but the weather was too wild. I only went a few miles, then I turned back.”

“What time would that have been?” Alan asked.

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

Dan spread out his hands. “Come on, Simon⁠—”

“Mr Bellamy.”

“Please, forgive my friend’s impatience,” Alan said. “Mr Bellamy, would you mind telling us at what time you passed the church on Friday? Because if you didn’t see anyone acting suspiciously, it would allow us to narrow down the timeframe, and we’d appreciate your help, we really would.”

Bellamy grunted under his breath. “If you really must know, it was about seven o’clock when I got out of the car. I ran a couple of miles before I turned back, so I can’t have been more than forty minutes. I didn’t see anyone near the church. The only thing I noticed was Greg’s car. I didn’t see Greg, but I guessed he was working late. He often sits in the church while he works on his sermons. He seems to like it.”

There was something in Bellamy’s tone, perhaps a hint of distaste, that made Dan ask, “What about you? Do you like it here?”

“That’s neither here nor there. I serve wherever I’m needed. St Raphael’s is a beautiful old church, but it’s cold and has no modern facilities. Personally, I prefer to work at home. Apart from anything else, I need a decent internet connection.”

“Is that where you went on Friday?” Dan asked. “Home to Chudleigh?”

Bellamy nodded. “I drove home and had a shower before cooking my dinner. I had pasta. Satisfied?”

“Almost,” Dan said. “You’re a bit vague about the timing, but I see you have a Garmin watch. It looks like the Forerunner 255. I’m sure you’re tracking all your runs, and Friday’s run will have synced with your phone, so you should be able to give us the exact times.”

“Yes, I could, but that would be an invasion of my privacy, and I’ve already answered your questions. I have to get going. Goodnight.”

Bellamy turned around, and he set off at a speedy pace. In a few seconds, all Dan could make out was the faint glow of a bobbing head torch.

“What a strange man,” Alan said. “I know we made a mistake, but he could’ve been more gracious about it. I don’t suppose…”

“No. No one could mistake him for a teenager, and don’t forget, Greg works with the man. He would’ve recognised him instantly.”

“Maybe, but Mr Bellamy was a bit cagey. And now that I think about it, he never said where he was on Saturday night. He just said it was a recovery day.”

“I noticed that,” Dan replied. “But Simon Bellamy doesn’t fit the bill, and what would be his motive? Why on earth would he want to upset the vicar?”

“I’ve no idea. But he was distinctly prickly when you asked about his Garmin. The GPS doesn’t lie, but there was no way he was going to show it to us.”

“That’s because I pushed him too far. I get the impression he expects to be treated with a little more respect.”

“I suppose you could be right. He is the deacon, after all.” Alan paused. “I’ve heard people mention his name, but I can’t recall seeing him around the village, not even at the summer fayre.”

“Maybe he hasn’t been here long.”

“I’ll check. It should be on the church website.”

“Good idea,” Dan said. “What is a deacon, anyway?”

“As far as I know, it’s a bit like an assistant vicar. He’ll have finished his training, and he’s come here to gain some practical experience.”

“So in time, he’ll move on,” Dan suggested. “He’ll become a vicar in another parish.”

“That’s right.”

The two men looked at each other.

“There’s Bellamy’s motive,” Alan said. “He wants to stay here rather than be shipped off to some inner city. Greg stands in his way, but he’s not in the best of health. Bellamy sees a chance to shake the old man up, all the while dropping a few hints about early retirement.”

“I’m not convinced. It sounds like something from one of those mystery series on TV. Murder at the vicarage, arsenic in the cream teas.”

“You think my imagination is running away with me,” Alan suggested. “A writer’s flight of fancy.”

“You said it, not me.” Dan looked back along the street. “I’m tempted to call it a night and pop to the pub, but we ought to finish what we started. What do you say to a quick circuit of the churchyard before grabbing a quick pint?”

“You had me at pub,” Alan said. “The sooner we start, the sooner we finish, so let’s get on with it.”

CHAPTER 9

The woman crept from her hiding place beneath the clump of hawthorn bushes. The thin branches grabbed at her clothing and scratched her hands, but she was too cold to feel it. Too cold and numb with a nameless pain, a kind of hunger that was eating away at her.

She needed a drink. The pub was nearby, but she couldn’t risk it. She must look a complete mess.

Finally free of the hawthorn’s harsh embrace, she straightened and brushed the dirt and dead leaves from her hoodie and her jeans.

What now?

The men had gone away, and that was good, but they might be back. They’d had a torch, and they’d been looking for someone or something. Had they been searching for her?

Yes. Who else?

She should never have let the vicar see her again. She’d thought it might be different this time, but it had all gone wrong, just like before. She hadn’t meant to frighten the old man, but he’d called out to her, his voice desperate, almost like a howl of misery, and that was what did it. She couldn’t cope with loud voices or arguments or people making a fuss. It always ended badly, and she was always the one who came off worse.

So when the old man had raised his voice, she’d run like hell, never slowing until she’d hurled herself into her hiding place. The vicar hadn’t come out after her, thank God. Hopefully, he’d given up and gone home.

It was all my fault, she thought. Going into the church like that, it was plain daft. She almost smiled. Plain Daft. That was something her mother used to say. But she was gone.

The woman sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, her fingers trembling.

It was too bloody cold out here. She’d freeze. It hadn’t been too bad under the bushes. It had been dry, at least, and she’d felt almost safe.

But she couldn’t stay there, not with those men stomping all over the place. They’d be back, she was certain of that. They’d keep looking until they found her.

The woman shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie and made for the stone wall. It wasn’t hard to climb over, and she dropped into the street with hardly a sound.

A cramp clenched her stomach, and she stopped for a moment to press her hand against her abdomen. Even through her hoodie, she could feel the unnatural tightness of her muscles, every fibre locked in a spasm. All she could do was to wait for it to pass.

When had she last eaten? She had no idea, but it felt like days had gone by since solid food had passed her lips. There were times when she couldn’t face food, couldn’t even stand the smell of it.

She looked up and down the street, but there was no one, so she leaned against the wall, waiting. Before long, the cramp faded to a dull discomfort, the sensation mingling with the million other aches and pains that were never far from her mind.

But when she pushed away from the wall, the cramp made itself felt. Oh hell. She wouldn’t get far, not like this. She had to find another place to hide, somewhere not too far away.

Where? she asked herself. Where the hell can I go? She had no answers. Maybe she should just stay right there. So what if someone found her? What was the worst that could happen?

No! she told herself. Don’t even think about it. There were worse things than stomach cramp. Much worse.

What was that? She peered along the dark street. There was no one to be seen, but she’d heard voices. Men’s voices. It was them again. They were coming back. They’d find her, ask questions, demand answers. But she couldn’t handle that. Not now, not ever.

You’ve got to get out of here, she told herself. Go on. You can do it.

Setting her jaw, the woman took an unsteady step into the road. And then another. It got easier as she went on, her aching legs coming back to life. She kept walking, never looking back, turning into one side street after another, changing direction with no idea where she was heading. Whatever else happened, she didn’t want to be followed.

The narrow streets of little houses swallowed her up, and soon she was free of that dark church and its cold stones. She wouldn’t go back there if she could help it, but where else could she go when she was in need? She still hadn’t found a way forward. She still had no idea what to do.

Say it like it is, she told herself. Just for once, say the words out loud. And into the chill stillness of the empty street, she whispered, “No one can help me. No one.”

CHAPTER 10

It didn’t take long for Dan and Alan to walk back to the church, but by the time they got there, night had well and truly fallen. They only had one torch between them, so they made their way around the churchyard together, dutifully peering into inky blackness. They even studied the clump of hawthorn bushes that had been allowed to grow in the corner: a rare concession to nature in the otherwise orderly graveyard.

“There are a few broken twigs near ground level,” Alan said, bending down to shine his torch into the thorny darkness beneath the bushes. “But that could’ve been a fox or something. It’s a narrow gap, but a person could just about crawl inside.”

“I can’t imagine anyone crawling in there, can you?” Dan asked. “They’d be scratched to pieces.”

“Yes, but if you were desperate…”

“Well, there’s nobody there now.” Dan looked around. “I can’t see why someone would hide in a bush when they could just as easily jump over the wall and get away.”

“Fair enough.” Alan straightened his back. “Let’s move on.”

They set off once more, the beam of Alan’s torch sending shadows to scurry between the gravestones, but there was neither sight nor sound to disturb the hushed sanctity of the place.

Ten minutes later they’d completed a circuit of the yard, but they’d neither seen nor heard anything suspicious. There hadn’t even been so much as a scrap of litter. The churchyard was quiet and still, tidy and well kept.

There’s nothing mysterious here, Dan decided. Perhaps there never was. He began to wonder about Greg Southgate. Was he a reliable witness? The man wasn’t in good health, and he’d seemed tired. Nervous exhaustion could play havoc with the senses, and though Greg had tried to hide it when he’d called around, he’d been worried and on edge. It was a bad combination.

This case was beginning to feel like a wild goose chase. Even Alan seemed daunted. He’d spoken little as they’d looked around, and more than once, he’d rubbed his hands together and mentioned the cold.

When Dan suggested they call it a night, Alan immediately nodded and said, “We’ve done our best.”

“I suppose so,” Dan replied. “But before we go, we ought to try the church door.”

“It’ll be locked.”

“Probably, but we won’t know unless we check.”

“Okay.”

They marched up to the door, and Dan tried the heavy iron handle. The handle turned and he felt the door give, but it wouldn’t open.

“It’s not locked,” Dan said, silently scolding himself for not trying the door earlier. He pushed the door inward, but it was stiff and barely moved.

“What’s up?” Alan asked.

“It’s jammed or…” A premonition flashed into Dan’s mind. “Oh no.”

He put his shoulder to the door, pushing hard, and it yielded a little but not by anything like enough to get inside.

Without being asked, Alan lent his weight to the door, and as it moved, a dull moan came from within.

“Again,” Dan said. “But not too hard.”

They tried once more, pressing their shoulders to the door, and very slowly, the gap grew between the door and its jamb.

“That’s enough,” Dan said, and he squeezed through the opening and into the church’s narrow vestibule. Separated from the rest of the church by another wooden door, the small space was in darkness, but Dan made out the shape of a man huddled on the floor.

“Someone’s here!” Dan shouted. “Alan, call for an ambulance.”

Dan kneeled next to the prone figure and reached out, cursing the lack of light. His hands found a heavy woollen coat over broad shoulders, and in the deathly stillness of the church, he heard the thin wheezing rasp of shallow breaths.

“Greg?” Dan said. “Is that you? Can you hear me?”

He was answered with a strained murmur that he took as confirmation.

Behind him, he heard Alan grunt as he forced his body through the too-small opening to join him. A moment later, Alan’s torch lit Greg’s face, his features drawn, his skin pale and waxy.

“The ambulance is on its way.” Alan said, kneeling next to Dan. “The operator’s on the line. Take over.” He passed his phone to Dan and they switched places. They both knew that Alan’s first aid training was superior, a legacy from his time as a teacher.

While Alan checked Greg’s airways and felt for a pulse, Dan forced himself to concentrate on the questions he was being asked over the phone. The operator’s voice was calm but commanding, and Dan answered as best as he could, assuring her that the patient was breathing and conscious, although Alan reported that Greg’s pulse was weak.

At least there was no blood. As far as Dan could see, Greg wasn’t even bruised.

“Does Greg have any medication with him?” the operator asked.

“Hang on. I’ll check.” Dan patted down Greg’s pockets but apart from a phone, a wallet and a bunch of keys, he found only a small box of Gaviscon tablets.

He reported back to the operator, adding, “The last time we saw Greg, he said he’d been suffering from heartburn, so the Gaviscon makes sense. But he looked unwell even then. Might he have made a mistake? I’ve heard of people blaming indigestion when they were actually having a heart attack.”

“It’s too early to say,” the operator replied. “All you need to do is keep Greg warm and make him comfortable. Stay on the line and if there’s anything else I want you to do, I’ll talk you through it. The paramedics are twenty minutes away. Is there a defibrillator nearby?”

“Yes, by the village hall. I could run and get it.”

“That would be Embervale village hall?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll give you the code you’ll need to unlock the cabinet. It’s best to write it down.”

“Go ahead.” Dan took out his own phone and made a note of the code.

The operator asked him to read the sequence back, then she said, “Go and get the defibrillator, but one of you must stay with Greg. Hand the phone to the person staying, then be as quick as you can, but mind how you go. We don’t want another accident on our hands.”

“Right.” Dan passed Alan’s phone back to him and quickly explained the situation, then he made for the door. Thanks to Alan’s efforts to put Greg in the recovery position, Dan was able to pull the door open much wider, and he ran from the church, striding out despite the darkness. As soon as he reached the road, Dan launched into a headlong dash.

The defibrillator was a relatively recent addition to the village, and though he only had a vague idea of how to use it, he knew the devices were foolproof. He’d be there and back in just a few minutes. He had to hope that would be fast enough.

Dan retrieved the defibrillator without difficulty, and when he arrived back at the church, he found Alan still kneeling beside Greg, one hand clamped against the side of Greg’s neck. Alan had rolled up his jacket and placed it beneath Greg’s head, so at least the poor man looked more comfortable.

Alan’s phone was on the floor, and he must’ve put it on speaker because the operator’s voice rang out, clear and calm:

“How’s his pulse? Did you manage to count it?”

“Yes,” Alan replied. “It’s weak but steady. I counted 29 beats in fifteen seconds, so that’s 116 beats per minute.”

“Thank you. Well done, Alan.”

“I think he’s breathing easier now,” Alan said. “The colour is slowly coming back to his cheeks.”

Dan squatted beside Alan. To him, Greg still looked at death’s door.

“That’s good,” the operator said. “You’re doing really well.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Dan asked. “Is he going to be okay?”

“We’ll know more when the paramedics get there. Whatever the reason, Greg has had a fall, and he’s been lying on the floor where it must’ve been hard and cold. It was a good job you found him, but for now, the best thing is to make sure Greg is quiet and comfortable. If anything changes, tell me straight away. I’ll be here, listening.”

“Thanks.” Dan hesitated. “Sorry to bring this up again, but do you think Greg might have had a heart attack?”

There was a pause before the reply came. “How do you know Greg? Are either of you related to him?”

“No, we only met the other day.”

“In that case, I can’t go into the specifics, but we’ll treat Greg’s symptoms and make him feel better. The paramedics will be with you soon. Try not to worry.”

Dan wasn’t sure how to respond.

In the silence, Greg spoke, his hoarse voice unnaturally loud, reverberating through the church.

“Did you find anybody else here?”

“I’m sorry, but no,” Dan replied. “We didn’t see anyone.”

“They were here,” Greg wheezed. “I saw them.”

“Did somebody do this to you?” Dan asked. “Were you attacked?”

Greg shook his head and closed his eyes, his face lined with pain.

Dan was desperate to know more, but he glanced at Alan and saw the warning look in his friend’s eyes.

“We’ll talk later,” Dan said. “Stay quiet for now.”

“That’s right,” Alan added. “Don’t try to talk.”

Greg shifted his shoulders and opened his eyes. “I don’t know who it was.”

“Don’t worry about it now,” Alan began, but Greg talked over him.

“Find Josh. Please, Dan. Find my son.”

“I will,” Dan replied. “Leave it with me. All you need to do is get better. Conserve your energy.”

With a long, drawn-out sigh, Greg seemed to subside, his wheezy breaths slowing but becoming deeper.

“Is there someone you’d like us to call?” Alan asked. “Your wife?”

Greg nodded and feebly patted his trouser pocket. Dan extracted Greg’s wallet and found his business card complete with an address and numbers for both mobile and landline.

“I’ll take care of it,” Alan said, holding out his hand. “But I’ll have to use your phone.”

Dan obliged, and Alan stood, adding, “Don’t worry, Greg. I’ll break the news as gently as I can.”

Alan stood and moved away, speaking softly into the phone, and not for the first time, Dan was glad to have Alan around.

The next fifteen minutes passed slowly, and Dan was flooded with relief when he heard a vehicle pull up outside.

A moment later, two paramedics, both women, bustled inside, each carrying a holdall of equipment.

Alan and Dan stood back as the paramedics went to work. In minutes, they’d assessed Greg and fitted him with an oxygen mask, inserted a cannula into his forearm and injected some medication that made Greg’s features grow instantly more relaxed.

“That’s better,” one of the paramedics said. “You’re doing well, Greg. We’re going to take you to Torbay Hospital, okay? Sandra will sit with you in the back. We’ll take care of you.”

Greg nodded and managed to say thank you, despite the oxygen mask.

“You’re very welcome,” the paramedic replied. To Dan, she said, “We’ll transfer Greg to a stretcher. If you can open the door properly and hold it to make sure it stays put, we’ll take Greg out and get him to Torbay.”

“Of course. If there’s anything we can do…”

“Just the door, thanks. You did your bit when you called us.”

One of the paramedics fetched a stretcher and they worked together to transfer Greg onto it. Dan took care of the door, feeling helpless while the paramedics lifted Greg and took him down the steps. A few moments later, Greg was safely in the ambulance, and it drove away, leaving Dan and Alan standing in the churchyard.

“This is terrible,” Alan said. “All that time we were wandering around outside, and he was in there, alone.”

“I know,” Dan replied. “I can’t help thinking I could have prevented the whole thing. I should’ve come earlier.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Dan. We don’t know why he collapsed and we don’t know when it happened. Maybe he saw someone and maybe he didn’t, but the stone floor is smooth. He might have slipped and fallen.”

“Maybe.” Dan looked back at the church. “We’d better close the door and then I’ll go and put the defibrillator back.”

“Yes. You never know when someone might need it.”

“Hopefully not for a while.” Dan paused. “We talked about going to the pub, but if you don’t feel like it…”

“To be honest, I could do with a drink.”

“Me too. And we can talk in the pub.”

“About Greg?”

“And about his son,” Dan said. “I get the feeling that this case isn’t going to be as straightforward as I first thought.”

“Agreed,” Alan replied. “I think we might be getting into dark waters, and we won’t see the light until we find Joshua Southgate.”

CHAPTER 11

The bar in The Wild Boar was quiet. A few lone drinkers, all of them male, had stationed themselves at the bar, while several small groups, mainly couples, sat drinking quietly at the tables.

Sam was busy serving a customer, but Dan waved to her and was rewarded with a secret smile.

“I’ll get them in,” Alan said. “What do you fancy?”

“I don’t mind, but I could do with a change from Jail Ale. You choose. Whatever looks good.”

“Ah, a challenge.” Alan headed for the bar, and Dan made for the small table by the fire, his favourite spot whenever there was a chill in the evening air. He took off his coat and sat down, stretching his hands toward the gently flickering flames.

His thoughts went to the case, turning over the scant information he’d gleaned so far. Dan’s gaze settled on the fire, but there was no room for logical thought in his mind. He could think only of Greg Southgate, lying helpless on the floor, cold and alone.

Alan set a pint glass in front of Dan and sat down, taking a sip before placing his own glass on the table.

“I got you a pint of Capstan. It’s local, from the Redrock Brewery. I thought it might perk us up.”

“Thanks.” Dan took a drink and felt the alcohol going to work. “Strong stuff.”

“Fortifying but not a beer to gulp down.” Alan took a few contemplative sips. “What happened to Greg, do you think? Illness, accident or foul play?”

“I really don’t know,” Dan admitted. “He said he wasn’t attacked, and I keep coming back to the idea that he has some kind of heart condition. When you think back, the signs were there. When Greg came to my house, he obviously wasn’t well. We told him to take care, but what else could we have done?”

Alan shook his head sadly. “I’ve been thinking the same thing, but Greg is a grown man. He took it upon himself to go to the church tonight. He must’ve had his reasons.”

“He could’ve been looking for the mysterious teenager in black, but I’m beginning to wonder if there’s any such person.”

“Greg certainly thought so. He was certain.”

“Yes, and I believed him, but I didn’t know he was seriously ill. Let me play Devil’s advocate for a second. If Greg was feeling weak and lightheaded, he might have seen a few shadows and imagined the rest. We’ve looked around, but we haven’t found anything except a few broken twigs. And you heard what Simon Bellamy said. He hasn’t seen or heard anything suspicious, and he’s probably around the church more than anyone except Greg.”

“The vicar is ill, but that doesn’t mean he’s lost the plot. He struck me as being perfectly rational and level-headed.”

Dan thought for a moment, recalling his meeting with Greg and searching for any inconsistencies, but he could find none.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re right. Greg saw someone. This unknown person may have had nothing to do with Greg’s collapse, but whoever they are, they were up to something. It might be a while before Greg can tell us what happened, and there’s a chance he won’t remember anything at all.”

“So what can we do?” Alan asked. “We could stake out the churchyard. We could park nearby and keep watch.”

“It wouldn’t work. We’d stand out like a sore thumb. But I’ve been thinking. Why don’t we set up one of those cameras? You know, like they use for wildlife. They’re triggered by movement, and they have night vision too. Pop one in the churchyard and we’d soon see if anyone was loitering on the premises.”

“Have you got one?”

“No, but I can buy one. You can get anything online. If I order it now, it should be here in a day or two. I’ll have a look.” Dan pulled out his phone and began searching.

“We’d need permission, and we might not get it,” Alan said. “The churchyard is private property, and people won’t appreciate being spied on while they visit the graves or attend a service.”

Dan replied without looking up from his screen. “We can’t let anyone know. It would completely defeat the object.”

“Then it’s a non-starter. We can’t do it without asking. That would be wrong. We could talk to Simon Bellamy. He⁠—”

“He’s a suspect,” Dan interrupted, looking up sharply.

“But earlier, you said he didn’t fit the bill.”

“If Greg did see someone by the church, it wasn’t Simon Bellamy, but there’s still something about the man that makes me wonder. He doesn’t live in the village, so why did he run all the way here? There are plenty of other routes he could’ve chosen, so why run past the church, and why tonight?”

“Why not? When you run, how do you pick a route?”

“I start with a certain distance in mind,” Dan said. “Then I think about the elevation.”

“There you go then. He did the same. As for the timing, it’s been a busy weekend for him. Easter is one of the most important times in the Christian calendar. He probably took the only opportunity he had.”

“You might be right, but even so, we don’t have to tell him about the camera. We can put it out the back, away from anyone who might legitimately be in the churchyard. If we hide it well enough, no one need ever know.”

Alan looked unconvinced.

“I think we should give it a go,” Dan went on, returning his attention to his phone. He tapped a few times on the screen. “Done. It should be here on Tuesday. And if it’s no good for this job, I’ll put it in the garden. I’m sure there’s a hedgehog out there.”

“There probably is—they roam far and wide—but you’re trying to change the subject. I’m serious, Dan, you can’t plant a camera anywhere near the church without permission.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Dan replied. “Anyway, I might only use it in the garden. People put out saucers of milk for hedgehogs, don’t they?”

Alan let out a dry chuckle as though Dan had made a schoolboy mistake. “Well, they shouldn’t. Hedgehogs are lactose intolerant. Milk makes them ill.”

“How about oat milk? I’ve got plenty of that, and it’s lactose free.”

“That’s not a good idea. In the wild, hedgehogs live on slugs and snails and insects, so they prefer a bit of meat. They like cat food, or so I hear.”

“They won’t get it from me.” Dan took a drink, savouring the taste, and he let his gaze roam around the bar. He couldn’t help noticing that the customer Sam had been serving was still at the bar, and he was showing little interest in the pint he’d purchased. Tall and slim, with his long dark hair tied back in a bun, the man’s eyes were only for Sam. He said something with a smile, and Sam laughed, throwing back her head and placing a hand on her chest.

The man said something else, lowering his head and looking up at her through his lashes, and Sam leaned forward as if hanging on his every word.

Despite himself, Dan watched. He wasn’t the possessive type, and besides, he’d grown used to the fact that Sam enjoyed chatting and joking with her customers. It was part of her job, and Sam was more than capable of dealing with anyone foolish enough to take things too far. This was par for the course and nothing to worry about.

But then Sam reached forward, and it looked to Dan as though she laid her hand on the man’s arm. From his seated position, he couldn’t be sure whether she’d actually made contact, and if she had, it would’ve been a fleeting touch. Nevertheless, a pang of jealousy burned in Dan’s chest.

Looking back to Alan, he said, “Who’s that at the bar, talking to Sam?”

Alan peered across the room. “I don’t know. It could be the chap who’s been doing some work for Marjorie. Hugh, I think his name is. He’s camping in her field.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was in the shop yesterday. I heard somebody mention it.” Alan paused. “He’s only been in the village a couple of days, but he seems to have made quite an impression. He’s especially popular with the ladies, so I hear.”

Dan grunted in disapproval.

“Oh dear,” Alan said. “Nose out of joint? No longer the new boy in the village?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I was just wondering who he is, that’s all.”

Dan raised his glass and drank a decent mouthful or two before setting his glass down. “Anyway, let’s concentrate on the case—or should I say cases? On the one hand, we want to know what happened to Greg and whether it’s connected to the person he saw. On the other, we have his missing son, Joshua.”

Alan nodded thoughtfully, then he took a sip of his beer. “We have to know what happened to Greg. That has to be our priority. Even if he wasn’t attacked directly, there’s a chance that someone deliberately tried to frighten him, knowing he was ill. That amounts to attempted murder, doesn’t it?”

“That’s one interpretation, but it’s tenuous at best. There’s no motive, no suspects and no evidence. But I agree—I want an explanation. To begin with, I want to know why Greg was in the church tonight. It might be some time before we can ask him, so I think we should have a word with his wife.”

“Not yet. Think what the poor woman must be going through.”

“I know, but if we figure out what’s been going on, we might be able to put Greg’s mind at rest and⁠—”

“Not if it means pestering his wife,” Alan interrupted, emphasising his words with a raised finger. “I know Brenda, and I can only imagine that she’s devastated. She needs to be at her husband’s bedside, focusing all her energy on him. On no account are you to intrude in any way. If you stop and think for a second, I’m sure you’ll agree. I hope so, anyway.”

Dan bowed his head, contrite. There were times when Alan’s experience as a primary school teacher came to the fore and he delivered a stern lecture. Dan wasn’t on the receiving end very often, but he knew it was never without good reason.

“Okay, I take your point,” Dan said. “But we have to do something.”

“To my mind, all roads lead to the church. To begin with, we could try talking to Simon Bellamy again. I’m not sure whether he has something to hide or if we just got off on the wrong foot.”

“Yes, he’s definitely on the list. Who else? You know more than me about what goes on in this village. Any ideas?”

Alan looked pensive as he took a drink. “Well, there’s a small army of volunteers who help with the flower arranging and that kind of thing, but Mrs Parkhurst is in charge. She keeps a strict rota, or so I hear.”

“Something tells me we’ll have our work cut out with her.”

“No, she’s perfectly nice. She was very kind to me when I came to Embervale. She couldn’t have been more welcoming.” He glanced at Dan and smiled knowingly. “Ah, I know exactly what’s going through your mind. You’re picturing her as a stereotypical martinet in twinset and pearls, like a character from an Agatha Christie novel. Honestly, Dan, I thought you didn’t approve of lazy thinking.”

“I was imagining no such thing,” Dan protested. In truth, his mind had conjured exactly the image Alan had described, but there was no way he was going to admit it.

“I have no preconceptions about the lady whatsoever,” Dan went on. “But she sounds like someone we should speak to. I can call on Mrs Pankhurst tomorrow.”

“Parkhurst,” Alan corrected him. “And her first name is Emma, so don’t go calling her Emmeline. She’s no suffragette.”

“I said, Parkhurst, didn’t I?” Dan made to pick up his beer but had second thoughts. It really was strong stuff. Pushing his glass away from him, he said, “Do you know where Mrs Parkhurst lives?”

“She has a place on Mayville Avenue. I don’t know the number, but we’ll be able to spot it. She had an extension built and it went upward. She put another floor on her house.”

“And you know that because some of her neighbours complained,” Dan suggested.

Alan looked slightly put out. “Somebody made a fuss at the time. They claimed it interrupted their view, but the extension went up anyway. There’s nothing in the rules to say you’re entitled to a view.”

“I didn’t know that, but then I’m never going to add to my house. It’s more than big enough for me.”

“And does Sam agree?”

Dan wasn’t sure what to say. There’d been a subtle insinuation in Alan’s tone, as though he knew something Dan didn’t.

“It’s none of my business,” Alan went on, “but now that Sam and you are together, I couldn’t help wondering whether you might move on and look for somewhere larger, somewhere more modern.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it. I’m perfectly happy where I am. And Sam is too. She loves this village.”

“Right.” Alan looked as though he’d like to say more, but he broke eye contact and gazed at the fire. “You’d think we wouldn’t want a fire at this time of year,” he went on. “It should be warmer by now. Climate change is to blame, I suppose.”

“Possibly.” Dan was about to steer the topic back to Sam, but Alan looked up from the fire and said, “Henry. We should definitely talk to him. He’s the churchwarden. I think there used to be two of them, but I don’t know if that’s still true.”

“Good idea. I’m not sure what a churchwarden does, but he must help to look after the place, yes?”

Alan nodded. “They have a lot of responsibilities, especially in a small village. They help in lots of ways.”

“So if anything was out of place, he may well have spotted it. And he might have a set of keys as well. Do you know his surname?”

“Doubleday. But everyone calls him Henry. You’ll probably have seen him around. He’s been in the village for as long as anyone can remember. A permanent fixture.”

“Is it too much to hope that he lives nearby?”

“His place isn’t far. He has a farm a couple of miles outside the village. Seven Springs Farm—it’s pretty impressive.”

“Excellent. We’ve got some starting places. I’ll get cracking in the morning.”

“Yes, we can.”

“I appreciate the offer, but⁠—”

“I’m coming with you,” Alan stated. “Henry’s a nice old boy—he’ll chat with anyone—but you need to tread gently with Mrs Parkhurst. She’s a quiet person, but she’ll talk more openly when she sees a familiar face.”

“What about your work? Don’t you have writing to do?”

Alan managed something halfway between a nod and a shake of his head. “I’m going through some edits. It’s not my favourite task. I’ll be glad of the distraction. Anyway, it’s a bank holiday tomorrow. No typing for me. I can do as I please, for the morning at least.”

“What’s happening in the afternoon—a date with Natalya?”

“She’s going to pop over for lunch, but we’ll have finished our sleuthing by then, won’t we?”

“Sleuthing? Seriously?”

“Okay, what would you call it?”

“I don’t know. Serious investigative work? But whatever, we should be done by lunchtime, and if something comes up, I can carry on by myself. Sam’s working all day, so my time is my own.”

Alan raised his glass. “The game’s afoot.”

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes, but Shakespeare said it first. Henry V, Act 3.”

“I’ll drink to either,” Dan said, and they clinked glasses before taking a long draught of ale.

MONDAY

CHAPTER 12

Marjorie trudged from the chicken run, her trug empty. Not a single egg, she thought. Not a one!

On a good day there’d be half a dozen, but she always got at least three or four. The birds had been laying like clockwork since the warmer weather had come in. Marjorie looked back at the birds, an accusation in her glare.

“What’s got into you?” she asked them. “What’s the matter?”

Nothing, she decided. They look as healthy as always.

Some pest could’ve found its way into the run—a rat most likely—but how would it have got into the henhouse? She always closed it up at night, and this morning she’d looked carefully for damage but found none. What then?

Marjorie made a circuit of the run, checking the wire and surrounding ground for holes or any sign of disturbance. There was nothing. The run was as secure as ever.

Still, there was another possibility.

Marjorie marched across the yard and set her trug down by the front door, then she made for the field.

Hugh was sitting cross-legged in front of his tent, tending to a frying pan that sat on the embers of a campfire. Seeing Marjorie, he jumped up, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Good morning, Marjorie,” he called out. “I’m just making breakfast if you’d like to join me.”

“No thank you. I had my breakfast ages ago.” She stopped in front of him, her gaze going to the three eggs frying in the pan. He’d bought half a dozen from her on Saturday, so perhaps he was still using those, but these looked very fresh. The whites had barely spread out at all.

“You like the eggs, then?” she asked.

“They’re fantastic. These are the last three, so I’d like to buy some more.” Hugh’s smile was bashful. “I hope you don’t mind, but I was up early so I collected the eggs for you. I found an old basket in the toolshed, so I popped them in there.”

“Oh, why’d you do that?”

Hugh’s smile vanished. “Sorry if I’ve done the wrong thing, Marjorie. Only, I was having a little walk to stretch my legs, and I saw that there was an egg in the run. I thought the hens would peck at it when you let them out, so I went in to pick it up. But I couldn’t resist having a look in the henhouse, and I thought, since I was there…” He left his sentence unfinished and looked downcast, shifting his feet, for all the world like a schoolboy who’d been caught in the act of mischief.

Men, Marjorie thought. They take an awful long time to grow up. Still, Hugh had meant well, and there’d been no harm done.

“Never mind,” she said. “But I prefer to collect the eggs myself, so I’d thank you to keep out of the henhouse in future.”

“Absolutely.” Hugh raised his hands to waist height, his fingers spread wide. “I’m sorry, Marjorie. I overstepped the mark. It won’t happen again.”

Marjorie nodded, then she pointed to the pan. “You want to take those off the heat before they’re cooked solid.”

“Oh!” Hugh squatted on his haunches and grabbed the pan’s handle, pulling it from the embers. But he let go of it immediately, hissing in pain and clutching at his hand.

The pan was an old one, blackened by soot, and its handle was metal.

“You should’ve used a cloth,” Marjorie said, instantly regretting her harsh tone. “Are you all right? Is it burned bad?”

“No,” Hugh murmured. “It’ll be fine.”

But when he opened his hand, Marjorie saw two vivid stripes of red across Hugh’s hand: one on his fingers and the other on his palm.

“That needs cold water,” she stated. “Come up to the house. Right away.”

“But, my⁠—”

“Never mind your blooming breakfast. Up to the house. Now.”

Hugh looked longingly at his pan, but he said, “Okay, I suppose you’re right.”

“No doubt about it. On you go. Quick as you like.”

Without further protest, Hugh set off toward the house, still cradling his hand.

Walking by his side, Marjorie said, “I don’t know. Whatever am I going to do with you? Burning yourself like that. ‘Tis careless.”

“It was stupid of me,” Hugh admitted. “And I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble. I’m sorry about this morning too. I ought to have known better.”

Marjorie wafted his apology away. “Never mind about that. ‘Tis best forgotten. We’ve got to get that hand fixed up. You won’t be able to work until it’s mended.”

“I’ll manage. I can wrap something around it.”

“No. The scythe will rub it raw.”

“I’ll do something else then,” Hugh said. “I can handle a paintbrush. Your shed could do with a fresh coat of wood stain.”

Marjorie made a noncommittal sound, but when she thought about it, there were plenty of places around the yard where a lick of wood stain would help the timbers to last: the fence and gate, the tool shed, the shelter she’d had built in the paddock for the goats. And truth be told, painting was the one job she didn’t much care for.

“All right,” Marjorie said. “I’ve a big tub of wood stain somewhere, and plenty of brushes. I’ll see what I can find.”

“Great. I’ll start right away. As soon as I’m patched up.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll stop and have some breakfast first.”

“That’s very kind of you, but⁠—”

“No ifs and buts,” Marjorie said. “You need food in you before you start work. And a mug of tea too. I’ll see to it.”

Hugh smiled gratefully, his eyes gleaming.

He’s a soft lad, Marjorie thought, but part of her didn’t mind having someone to look after for a change. She was quite looking forward to it.

At the kitchen sink, Hugh winced when his hand met the stream of cold water from the tap. But he did as he was told and kept his hand under the tap for as long he could tolerate it.

Marjorie gave him a clean towel to pat it dry, then she produced a first aid kit and expertly applied a dressing. Hugh tried to refuse the offer of breakfast, but Marjorie insisted, turning down his attempts to help in no uncertain terms. In her kitchen? Never.

Later, when Hugh had returned to his tent, Marjorie nipped out to the toolshed to look for painting materials. There was a battered old cupboard in there that she used for storing odds and ends, and on top of it, she found her old shopping basket. The eggs had been laid carefully in the basket, just as Hugh had said. There were only four, but that was fine.

Marjorie smiled to herself, but when she took the eggs back to her kitchen, something struck her as peculiar. Hugh had told her that one of the hens had laid an egg in the run, so why hadn’t she seen it herself? She’d shut up the henhouse the night before, and she’d been the one to let the hens out in the morning. So how could there have been a stray egg in the run?

Happen my eyes and ears aren’t what they used to be, Marjorie told herself. I’ll make sure to have a proper look tonight. When a hen took to laying in odd places, it sometimes became a habit, and then the daft creature would find all kinds of odd places to lay.

Marjorie busied herself tidying the kitchen. Hugh had offered to wash up after his breakfast, but she’d told him not to be so silly. The worst thing for his burned skin would be a dose of hot soapy water.

Her thoughts returned to Hugh as she placed a plate in the draining rack. He must’ve been very quiet on his early morning walk around the garden, and he must’ve opened the henhouse and the toolshed without making a sound. She’d been up and busy since dawn, and she hadn’t seen or heard a thing.

He didn’t know I was up, she thought. He didn’t want to disturb me. That was right and proper. Respectful. Hugh was a good lad at heart. But when she thought of Hugh creeping through her garden, unseen and unheard, a chill prickled the back of Marjorie’s neck.

“Don’t be an old fool,” Marjorie muttered to herself. Hugh was all right. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.

CHAPTER 13

The morning skies were blue, the sun was making a brave attempt to usher in the spring, and Dan felt his spirits lift as he drank his coffee.

It’s a good job I only had one pint last night, Dan thought. The strong beer had made itself felt all too quickly, and as soon as they’d finished their drinks, Dan had suggested they head home. Alan hadn’t argued; they’d had more than enough excitement for one day.

This morning, the case would begin in earnest, and Dan couldn’t wait.

I hope Alan’s ready, Dan thought, and as if in answer to his wish there came a knock on the front door.

Dan gulped down the last of his coffee and hurried to answer the door, but a stranger stood outside, an impatient frown on his features.

In his early thirties and dressed in a white cotton shirt and designer jeans, the man had cultivated a luxurious beard that would be the envy of a Victorian cricketer, and he wore thick rimmed spectacles that seemed to be made from purple plastic.

“Corrigan?” the man said.

“Yes,” Dan replied. “Can I help you with something?”

The man clicked his fingers. “I like it. Straight to the point. That’s what I’m talking about.”

Dan plastered a patient expression onto his features. “Yes, and I’d appreciate an answer. I have a busy day, Mr…”

“Higgs. Benedict Higgs. But people call me Brad.”

“Do they? Why?”

Higgs blinked as if confused.

“Never mind,” Dan went on. “What can I do for you, Mr Higgs?”

“Right. Let’s get into it. I have a little local difficulty, and I hear you’re the go-to guy, am I right?”

“I’m a private investigator, yes. But I prefer people to contact me via phone or my website. There’s a form on my contact page.”

“No time for all that. I wanted a job done and I asked around. I’m in the village, at weekends anyway. I bought The Old Bakery. I expect you know it.”

Dan shook his head. “There are quite a few houses in the village, I don’t know all of them.”

“But mine is one of the oldest. It’s on Mill Road, and it literally is the old bakery. It’s over 400 years old.”

“Okay. Well, thanks for seeking me out, Mr Higgs, but I am fully engaged on a case at present, so unless it’s urgent⁠—”

“You’re damned right it’s urgent,” Higgs interrupted. “Vandals, damaging my property, every time my back’s turned. They know it’s empty in the week, and up they come, spraying graffiti on the walls and putting God knows what through the letterbox. I’ve had enough, and I want it stopped now. And I want the guilty parties to pay the price. That’s only right, yes?”

“Yes, but as I said, I am working on a case at the moment, so you may have to wait.” Dan took out his wallet and retrieved a business card, offering it with a regretful smile.

Higgs glanced at the card, but he made no move to take it. “You’re a professional, yes? You do this to earn a living.”

“Yes.”

“So this is your negotiating tactic, your little dance. You’re creating an image of scarcity and exclusivity. I get it. But let’s skip past that, shall we? Name your price.”

“I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you. I suggest you contact the police, and perhaps you could have security cameras fitted. Goodbye.”

Dan made to close the door, but Higgs raised a hand and snapped a single word: “Wait.”

“Mr Higgs,” Dan began, “you don’t seem to be getting the message.”

“Neither do you. But tell me one thing, Mr Corrigan, what’s your daily rate?”

Dan mentally tripled his usual asking price and reeled it off.

Higgs studied him through narrowed eyes and then laughed.

“Yes, I thought that might be your response,” Dan said. “It’s a lot, I know, so if you’ve changed your mind, I understand.”

“A lot? Are you joking? That’s less than I pay to have my car serviced in London.”

“Is that so?”

Higgs seemed to be suppressing a chuckle. “Do you know what car I drive?”

“No,” Dan intoned. “And I don’t much⁠—”

“A Lexus RZ450. All electric. You’ve no idea how much trouble I had getting a charging point installed on the Old Bakery. It’s a listed building, and there was no end of red tape, but I got it done.”

“Then you can afford to hire someone to take care of your cottage.”

“I do. I have a cleaner and a gardener, but they aren’t going to catch the bastards who keep trashing my property. I wouldn’t be surprised if they know who’s behind it. I’ve tried talking to them about it, but they just shrug their shoulders. They’re bloody useless—you know, yokels.”

“If you feel that way about the locals, perhaps you should consider moving away and selling your house to someone who lives here all the time, someone who might actually be part of the village.”

Higgs finally let go of his smug grin, his lips tightening and a sudden anger flaring in his eyes.

“Can you really be surprised that there’s resentment towards you and your kind,” Dan went on. “This isn’t a theme park, Mr Higgs. It’s not a holiday resort where you can come and go without a thought for the people who live and work here.”

“Oh yeah? And where are you from, Mr Corrigan? I’m not hearing a local accent, and let’s face it, you’re not a farmhand. How does a private investigator fit into the local economy? Looking for lost cats, is that it?”

“If I could reunite someone with a beloved pet, I’d do it, but my cases tend to be more important. They’re matters of life and death, but since you’ve heard of me, you probably knew that already. The point is, I make an honest living. What do you do, Mr Higgs? Are you a hedge fund manager or a banker?” Dan raised a finger. “No, you’re a trader, aren’t you? Which is it, commodities or futures?”

Higgs’ only reply was a scowl.

“I knew it,” Dan said. “Listen, Mr Higgs, I’m not interested in working for you, now or at any time. Goodbye, and when you next go to the office, try not to crash the economy. Again.”

With that, Dan closed the door and locked it.

Ugh, he thought. What a prat. It was a shame that someone’s property had been vandalised, but it wasn’t hard to see how a man like Brad Higgs might’ve made enemies. He didn’t need a private investigator, he needed a security firm, and he had the resources to hire one for himself. He’d turned up on the doorstep because he could, because he enjoyed throwing his weight around. But that wasn’t going to cut much ice with Dan.

Lost cats, Dan thought. If only life were that simple.

Dan went back to the kitchen and cleared his breakfast things away, smiling at the memory of his parting shot. Mr Higgs may not have liked it, but there was someone who would certainly approve.

Like many in the village, Alan had firm views about the selling of houses as second homes. People who spent most of their time elsewhere did little to contribute to village life. They didn’t go to the village shop, and they didn’t send their children to the local schools. They didn’t care whether libraries closed and pubs went out of business.

But maybe he’d wait until later before he told Alan about Mr Higgs. For one thing, this was no time for one of Alan’s lectures; they had a case that deserved their full attention. And for another, he suspected that Alan would laugh when he heard that a brash Londoner had come to call.

I was never quite as bad as all that, Dan told himself. Was I?

But he’d already expended more than enough mental energy on his unwanted morning caller. Dismissing Mr Higgs from his mind, Dan crossed the small alley that separated his house from Alan’s and knocked on the back door. He stepped back, ready to urge Alan into action. But the door was opened by Natalya, clad in a striped bathrobe that almost certainly belonged to Alan, her hair tousled.

Dan had only ever seen Natalya with her hair carefully styled, her clothes immaculate and her makeup perfect. But this morning she was even more striking, her skin beautifully clear and her bright eyes sparkling.

“Ah, good morning,” Dan began. “I, er, is Alan…?”

Natalya tilted her head slightly to one side as if to examine him all the better, her gaze implacable.

“Never mind,” Dan said. “I guess you two have plans. If you wouldn’t mind telling Alan I called, that would be great. Tell him not to worry about it.”

“No,” Natalya replied. “There is no need.”

Dan opened his mouth to speak but closed it again.

“This work Alan does for you,” Natalya swept on. “You do not pay him.”

“No, not as such. To be honest, I’m not making enough to pay him properly. I’ve offered to work something out with Alan, but he’s always refused.”

“This is what I thought.” Natalya lifted her chin, but her eyes remained locked on his.

“Anyway,” Dan said. “I’ll leave you to⁠—”

“No,” Natalya interrupted. “Wait here. Alan will be ready in a minute.”

“There’s really no need.”

“Alan promised to go with you, and he will stick to it. This is important. And anyway…” The suggestion of a smile crept onto her features and she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It is good for him, all this…” She flicked her fingers at Dan while she searched for the right word.

“Investigative work,” Dan suggested.

“Yes. Alan likes it, and if he is happy, I am happy.”

“That’s okay then. I wouldn’t get far without him. He’s saved my bacon a few times, that’s for sure.”

Natalya’s smile vanished, and she raised a finger in warning. “He is a good friend to you, but if you put him in danger, you will have me to answer to. Is that clear?”

Dan nodded.

“Okay. I hear him coming. Make sure he’s back here by twelve o’clock. No wild goose chases, okay?”

“Okay. He’ll be here.”

Natalya’s expression said that he’d better not let her down, but she stepped back from the door, and Alan appeared, straightening his shirt as he looked from Dan to Natalya.

“You could’ve come in,” Alan said to Dan. “I was just getting ready.”

“It’s fine,” Dan replied. “You were only a minute. No problem.”

“Right, well, we should get going.” Alan looked to Natalya, adding, “I’ll see you later.” He cast a self-conscious glance at Dan, and then went to give Natalya a kiss.

Dan stepped back and looked away to give them some space. He did his best not to eavesdrop on their murmured words, but he heard Alan say something in a foreign language, and Natalya laughed before correcting his pronunciation.

So he’s learning Ukrainian now, Dan thought. He doesn’t waste any time. Dan smiled to himself, happy for the pair of them. Even so, this version of Alan was going to take some getting used to.

Finally, Alan was ready to go, and they headed off, striding along Fore Street.

“It’s not far to Emma Parkhurst’s place,” Alan said. “We can walk it in ten minutes.”

“Fine. It’s a nice day for a stroll.”

“Yes.”

They walked in silence for a while, then Alan said, “Natalya came over last night. I wasn’t expecting her, but it was a nice surprise. Anyway, she didn’t feel like driving back to Moretonhampstead, and we have plans for lunch, so she stayed.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Dan replied. “If you want to go back and spend the day with her, go for it. It is a bank holiday.”

“Later will be fine. I’d better help you with Emma Parkhurst.”

“I can manage on my own. Go home, enjoy the day.”

Alan shook his head. “Natalya wants some time to relax. It’s fine, so long as I’m back by lunchtime.”

“Twelve. On the dot. I have been given instructions.”

“Ah,” Alan said. “It’s just her way. Natalya isn’t bossy, but she likes people to play it straight.”

“You were made for each other.”

“Yes,” Alan replied without hesitation. “I think we were.”

Dan revised his earlier opinion. This version of Alan was going to take a lot of getting used to.

Alan took them on a winding march through the village, passing through a series of quiet residential streets, some of which Dan had never seen before.

As they walked, Alan said, “Any more thoughts on the mysterious visitor to the churchyard?”

“Not as yet,” Dan replied. “But it’s early days.”

“This morning, Natalya made an interesting point.”

Dan shot Alan a sideways look. “Oh? You’ve talked about the case.”

“Yes. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No. Three heads are better than two. I was surprised, that’s all. What did she say?”

“When I told her we were looking for a person who might be mistaken for a young man of 23, she said that could be anybody—a teenager, for instance.”

“Well, yes. We knew that already.”

“That wasn’t the important part,” Alan said. “I was getting to it, if you’d give me a chance.”

“Go ahead. I’m all ears.”

There was a pause before Alan replied. “Natalya told me that she rarely sees any teenagers hanging around in the village, and she said there must be somewhere they tend to go.”

“I don’t know about that. They all stay indoors, don’t they, playing games and watching videos? Teenagers do everything online. There’s no need for them to wander the streets in herds. It’s not as if there’s anything for them to do around here.”

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t be so sure they’re all at home. One way or another, teenagers like to get away from their parents and hang out together, especially the older ones. There must be somewhere they can muck around, sharing a few cans of beer and so on.”

Dan weighed this up. “It’s an interesting observation, but it’s not a lot of use. There’s no way for us to follow it up. We can’t go around accosting teenagers.”

“Of course not. That’s not what I meant.”

“What then?”

“Never mind. We’re almost at Mayville Avenue. It’s that turning on the left.”

Alan led the way into a wider road, the street lined with parked cars.

“This is it,” Alan went on. “Mrs Parkhurst’s house is at the end.”

“You never refer to a Mr Parkhurst,” Dan said. “Is he…?”

“He died some time ago, I believe. I never knew him, but I believe he was in finance or banking—something like that.”

“I see,” Dan said, drawing the phrase out.

Alan frowned at him. “There’s no need to sound so suspicious. The poor man was unwell, apparently. I don’t know the details, but I hear he died from natural causes. It does happen, you know. This isn’t Midsomer.”

“I know.” Dan hesitated. “You seem a bit tetchy, Alan. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be back at home with Natalya?”

Alan looked as though he was about to respond, but instead he simply gestured to the detached house at the end of the street, an uncharacteristic flash of impatience in his eyes.

“Okay,” Dan said. “We’re here now, so we may as well get on with it.”

“Quite so,” Alan replied. “Let’s go and tackle the redoubtable Mrs Parkhurst.”

CHAPTER 14

Dan and Alan paused for a moment outside Mrs Parkhurst’s home, both men looking up at the house that stood head and shoulders above its neighbours. The extra storey had been built in the same style as the other houses on the street—the walls rendered and painted white, the roof covered with dark grey slates—but it still managed to look out of place.

“Did she add the extra floor before or after her husband died?” Dan asked.

“After, I think.”

“If she lives on her own, why did she need the extra room?”

“I never said she lives on her own,” Alan replied. “Emma has a daughter. Sophia. A very accomplished young woman. She’s at Oxford.”

“Wow. What’s she reading?”

“I’ve no idea.” Alan indicated the wrought iron garden gate. “Shall we?”

“Go ahead. It would be best if you kick things off, then I’ll take over.”

“Let’s play it by ear.”

Alan opened the gate and they strode up to the front door where Alan rang the bell before stepping back smartly.

While they waited, Dan noted that the front step looked as though it had been scrubbed clean, and that the gleaming windows bore no trace of dust or grime. Dan turned to look back over the small front garden which was impeccably neat. The roses had been pruned back to a few strong stems, and the flower beds had been covered in a thick layer of mulch. It was a place in which no weed would dare to show its face.

Following Dan’s gaze, Alan said, “I believe Mrs Parkhurst likes everything just so.”

“I can imagine.”

“Imagine what?” someone said.

Dan and Alan turned with a start. The door had opened soundlessly, its hinges no doubt oiled to the peak of efficiency.

A middle-aged woman stood in the doorway, regarding them with an unwavering stare. Tall and slim, her height emphasised by the cut of her long dress, she cut an imposing figure. Her dress, tied at the waist with a belt of matching material, sported an abstract pattern of blue and white swirls, and her shoulder-length blonde hair had been brushed to a healthy sheen. She wore no jewellery except a silver cross on a thin chain at her throat; not even, Dan noted, a wedding band.

“Ah, Mrs Parkhurst,” Alan began. “How nice to see you.”

Mrs Parkhurst arched an eyebrow. “Is it?”

Alan appeared to be temporarily stumped. Dan was about to step in when Mrs Parkhurst turned her gaze on him.

“You must be Alan’s friend, Mr Corrigan. I’ve heard about you.”

“Yes, I’m Dan Corrigan. Lovely to meet you.” Dan adopted his most charming smile, but Mrs Parkhurst remained unmoved.

Turning her attention back to Alan, she said, “What was it you wanted? I do hope you haven’t come to complain about Sophia’s work, because I don’t care in which direction the wind is blowing, I’m certain she can’t be heard at your end of the village.”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Alan said hurriedly. “It’s about the Reverend Southgate. We were hoping to talk to you for a minute.”

Mrs Parkhurst’s composure slipped, but only for a split second. Recovering quickly, she said, “The poor man. It’s desperately sad. I called Brenda as soon as I heard, but she didn’t answer. I expect she’ll be at the hospital. I left a voicemail. Naturally, we’ll all rally round. We’ll do everything we can to help, and the Reverend Southgate is in our prayers. We can only hope for a speedy recovery, but that’s up to a greater power now.”

Mrs Parkhurst’s narrative ended with a heartfelt murmur of sadness, then she peered at Alan and Dan in turn. “Forgive me, but what does this have to do with you? Neither of you come to church.”

“It’ll take a minute or two to explain,” Dan replied. “Perhaps we could come in?”

Mrs Parkhurst scrutinised them as if searching for any trace of an ulterior motive, then she stood back and waved them inside.

“I can give you ten minutes,” she said. “We’ll go in the lounge.”

She took them into a room at the front of the house, the tall sash windows looking out over the garden.

The room was sparsely furnished but elegantly so. The two-seater sofa and matching armchair, both upholstered in tan leather, sat at right angles to each other. The floorboards had been stripped and bleached, and a rug with an abstract pattern of pastel colours provided a focal point. A polished coffee table of pale wood stood empty apart from a couple of slate coasters, and a grey vase of dried flowers sat on the floor in front of the cast iron fireplace.

No TV or radio, Dan thought. And no books or magazines or newspapers. Evidently, Mrs Parkhurst’s passion for tidiness extended throughout her kingdom.

“Have a seat,” she said, ushering them toward the sofa.

Dan and Alan took their places as instructed, while Mrs Parkhurst ensconced herself on the armchair, sitting at an angle to face them properly.

As succinctly as he could, Dan explained the situation, emphasising the fact that Greg Southgate had hired him to help, explicitly asking him to find his son.

At that, Mrs Parkhurst’s eyes filled with sadness, and she clasped her hands across her breastbone.

“Oh, my heart goes out to the dear man,” she murmured. “What he must be going through. And what a state he must be in, to have imagined all that, almost as if his son had come back to haunt him. It’s heartbreaking, it really is.”

Dan and Alan exchanged a look.

“We’re by no means certain that Greg imagined it,” Alan said. “We believe that he saw someone at the church on more than one occasion.”

“I doubt that very much. You know, I’ve been worried that something like this might happen. The vicar has been under so much strain lately. Anyone could see his health was failing. I talked to Brenda about it, but…” She shrugged, lifting her eyebrows as if to say, what can I do?

“What was worrying him, do you think?” Dan asked. “Was there anything or anyone in particular?”

Mrs Parkhurst held out her hands as if to indicate the world in general. “Look around you. Does it seem as though this country is in a fit state?”

“I wouldn’t paint so bleak a picture,” Alan replied. “Nowhere is perfect, but we’re very lucky in our little corner of Devon. I’d have thought it’s not a bad place to be a vicar.”

“That’s hardly the point.” Mrs Parkhurst turned her attention to Dan. “What about you? Do you see this place as a countryside retreat, a chocolate-box village?”

“By no means,” Dan said. “People have their problems wherever they live, but I agree with Alan. This is a good place to call home. There’s a good community spirit and⁠—”

“Ha!” Mrs Parkhurst sat bolt upright. “Community spirit? I see no evidence of that in the rows of empty pews every Sunday. Oh, people will turn up to the garden party for tea and scones, but that’s the only time we’ll ever see them. They don’t even come at Christmas, and Easter means nothing but chocolate eggs and a couple of days off work.”

Alan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and Dan knew why.

For his part, Dan had never been interested in the annual garden party organised by the church, but he was pretty sure Alan went every year. It was as if Mrs Parkhurst had aimed her words directly at Alan.

“Mrs Parkhurst,” Dan began, making his tone calm but firm, “we’re straying from the point. Perhaps we could talk more about Joshua and whether⁠—”

He broke off, distracted by the sudden opening of a door. A tall young woman swept into the room, her wide eyes filled with concern. Slender and fresh-faced, she may have been dressed casually in a green T-shirt and red denim dungarees, but her entrance silenced everyone in the room.

The young woman’s posture was very upright, and her imperious manner served to emphasise her resemblance to Mrs Parkhurst. There were the same proud cheekbones and dark blue eyes, the same pale complexion and strawberry blonde hair. But while Mrs Parkhurst’s smart hairstyle was held in place with a mother-of-pearl barrette and a hefty dose of hairspray, the young woman’s hair flowed wild and free to well below her shoulders, untamed and tangled.

“What’s going on?” the young woman demanded. “I heard raised voices.”

“Nothing, darling,” Mrs Parkhurst replied. “This is Dan and his friend Alan. They’re… acquaintances of Vicar Greg. We were having a little chat, and I might’ve jumped on my soapbox for a minute, but it’s fine.”

“Hm. We’ll see about that.” The young woman glared at Dan and Alan as though daring them to disagree.

Dan simply offered a smile. This has to be Sophia, he thought. Interesting. It struck him that this young woman was at odds with her surroundings. Unlike the muted tones and bland furnishings of her home, she seemed to fizz with barely contained energy.

“This is my daughter, Sophia,” Mrs Parkhurst said. “Home for the holidays.” She left a brief pause before adding, “She’s at Oxford.”

Sophia rolled her eyes as though she’d heard that introduction once too often, but then her haughty expression faltered and Dan glimpsed the uncertainty beneath the young woman’s facade.

“How is Greg?” Sophia asked. “Has there been any news?”

Dan shook his head. “I’m sorry, but we haven’t heard anything yet.”

“He’s in the right place,” Alan said gently. “They’ll look after him.”

“I hope so.” Sophia’s eyes drifted to the mantelpiece, but when Dan followed her gaze he saw nothing there. The narrow shelf above the fireplace was completely bare.

“Do you know the vicar well?” Dan asked.

Sophia’s sharp gaze darted back to Dan. “No, not really. But… you know…”

“Vicar Greg is a friend of the family,” Mrs Parkhurst said. “When the children were young, we spent a lot of time together. Sophia was great friends with Ellen, Greg’s daughter. Not so much now.”

There was more than a hint of sadness in Mrs Parkhurst’s tone, but her daughter huffed and said, “We’re not twelve anymore, mother.”

“I know, darling. But since you’re both at Oxford⁠—”

“Ellen goes to a different college. She hangs around with the science geeks. I never see her.”

Seizing his chance, Dan said, “How about Joshua, were you a friend of his?”

Sophia’s eyes flashed as she turned her steely stare on Dan, but she kept her reply to one word: “No.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” Dan asked.

“Again, no.”

Dan waited a moment, sizing Sophia up. There were no outward signs she was hiding something, but why was she being so uncooperative?

Trying for a conciliatory smile, Dan said, “I’m sorry if you find my questions obtrusive, but we’re trying to find Joshua, so any information you can give us would be⁠—”

“I can’t help you,” Sophia interrupted. “We played together when I was little, but that was a very long time ago. I have no idea where he went or why. I only know he upset everyone when he disappeared.”

She broke eye contact, but only for a moment, and this time Dan wasn’t sure what she was looking at.

“Anyway, I was working until I was interrupted,” Sophia swept on, directing her glare at her mother. “It’s my final year project. You do know how important that is. I told you I’d be working today.”

“Yes, darling, but I didn’t know you’d started. I didn’t hear anything.”

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?” Sophia sneered at her mother as though she’d said something spectacularly stupid, then she stormed from the room, calling out as she went, “And keep the noise down.”

In the ensuing silence, Mrs Parkhurst maintained a fixed smile, but the wrinkles in her brow told a different story.

This was not her daughter’s first outburst.

“Perhaps we ought to be going,” Alan suggested. “We wouldn’t want to interrupt a hardworking young scholar.”

“Oh yes, the great work, if you can call it that.” Mrs Parkhurst looked a little abashed, as though the words had slipped out before she could stop them. Masking her embarrassment with a laugh, she added, “I don’t really understand my daughter’s work, you see. It’s a bit avant-garde for my taste.”

“Is she an artist?” Dan asked.

“No, at least not in the way people usually mean. Sophia’s studying music. She’s a very talented musician—she always has been—but the stuff she writes now…” Mrs Parkhurst’s lips moved as she hunted for the right word. “It’s experimental.”

“That sounds fascinating,” Dan said. “I have a lot of respect for people with musical talent. I can’t even hum a tune reliably.”

“But you must try,” Mrs Parkhurst replied. “It’s part of what makes us human. Everyone can make music, even if it’s only singing.”

“Not Dan,” Alan said with feeling. “Trust me.”

“My skills lie elsewhere,” Dan pointed out. “But what does your daughter play? We didn’t hear anything.”

“She plays all kinds of things—I don’t even recognise some of them—but the music room is at the top of the house and I had it soundproofed. So long as she keeps the windows shut, it’s fine. Most of the time I wouldn’t know she was there, but she can hear me if I so much as rattle a teacup. She has very sensitive hearing, not that you’d know it when she starts banging the drums. No amount of insulation can keep that quiet.”

As if to prove the point, a dull, rhythmic thud reverberated through the room, and in an unconscious echo of her daughter, Mrs Parkhurst rolled her eyes.

“Thank you for calling,” she said, rising to her feet and smoothing down her dress. “I’ll see you out.”

Dan and Alan obediently stood and followed her to the front door.

Mrs Parkhurst bade them goodbye, but then her lips tightened as though she had more to say but wasn’t sure whether to proceed.

“Was there something you wanted to tell us?” Dan asked.

“No, no. It’s just that…” A small sigh escaped her lips. “All that matters is that Vicar Greg gets better. As I said before, he’s under constant strain, and all this talk about Josh—it isn’t going to help him.”

“I disagree,” Dan replied. “If we can reassure Greg that his son is alive and well, that can only be a good thing.”

“And if you can’t? If there’s no trace of Josh, and I don’t see how there can be after all this time, what good will that do? Or worse, what if you find Josh in a terrible state somewhere?”

“Then we might be able to help,” Alan said. “We can only hope.”

Mrs Parkhurst shook her head, incredulous.

“We understand that this is a sensitive situation,” Dan said. “But we can only try to resolve it. Whatever we find out, we’ll handle it carefully, but Greg asked us to look for his son. It was his decision to make.”

“I suppose so.” Mrs Parkhurst inhaled, flaring her nostrils. “I only hope you know what you’re doing. Goodbye.”

With that, she closed the door.

Dan and Alan headed for the garden gate. As they made their way back along the street, Alan said, “What did you make of that?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Dan replied. “Sophia’s appearance was interesting though.”

“She’s obviously the dramatic type. That’s not unusual in gifted young people, but she seemed upset when Greg was mentioned.”

“Ah, you noticed that too.”

“You’re not the only one who can be observant,” Alan said. “Mind you, she made it pretty obvious.”

“Indeed, she did. She was only in the room for a few minutes, but she displayed a whole range of emotions. The question is, how many of them were genuine and how many were just for show?”

“You think she was putting on a performance?”

“I think it’s a possibility.”

Alan nodded. “It’s interesting that she was a friend of Joshua’s sister.”

“Yes, but I’m even more interested in the one person she didn’t mention.”

“Joshua?”

“That’s right,” Dan said. “Sophia’s in her final year at university, so she’s only a year or two younger than Joshua. The two families were close, so Sophia and Joshua would’ve grown up together.”

“That cuts both ways. If the subject is painful for her, there’s every reason for her to steer away from it, especially in front of us. As far as Sophia is concerned, we’re strangers.”

“True, but I can’t help wondering if there’s something there. What people refuse to talk about is often more telling than what they do say.”

“We’ll see,” Alan said. “Where to next?”

“How about a visit to Henry, the churchwarden?”

Alan consulted his watch.

“If you have time,” Dan went on.

“It’s fine,” Alan replied. “But Seven Springs Farm is a couple of miles away. We’ll have to drive if we want to make it in time.”

“No problem. We’ll take my car and you can navigate.”

“It’s a deal,” Alan said. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 15

Natalya closed the fridge in Alan’s kitchen, then she cast her gaze around the room. It was a good kitchen. Cheerful. There was everything you could need and no more. The walls were painted a pale yellow that made her think of wildflowers and sunshine. And the light from the window bathed everything in a golden glow.

But the cupboards, she thought. Why are they so…? She frowned, trying to summon the correct English word in case she needed it later. Muddled? Would that be right?

Natalya gave up the search for the right phrase. All she could say for sure is that her mother would’ve taken one look at the contents of Alan’s cupboards and tutted very loudly before heading to the shops.

The memory brought a smile to Natalya’s lips. Her mother had died years ago, and she still missed her every day, but Natalya’s sadness was often softened by fond memories.

It was the little things that called her mum to mind, like hanging out laundry to dry in the breeze or scrubbing a stubborn stain from a sink. And baking. The magical way fat could be rubbed into the flour with the gentle action of the fingertips and could then be persuaded to form into pastry. And the smells when the sweet treats were in the oven. Then there were the cakes, conjured in all kinds of flavours from the simplest ingredients, the batter mixed with a whisk until it was silky smooth.

As a child, Natalya had been allowed to lick the tiny bit of sweet batter clinging to the whisk. And then she’d waited, savouring the smell as the cake slowly rose in the oven. Heaven.

Natalya compiled a mental list of essentials, then she made ready to go out. The only thing she lacked was a shopping bag, but if Alan had one, she had no idea where it might be.

Never mind. Natalya took the key from the back door and let herself out, locking up after her.

She’d been on enough walks with Alan to know the way to the village shop, and she strolled along, enjoying the sunshine and taking in the tranquillity of the quiet street. She could live here quite happily, she decided, but she doubted whether she could afford the rent.

For a while, Natalya daydreamed of living with Alan one day, but she quickly put that thought from her mind. Don’t be silly, she told herself. Alan was a good man, and they got on well together, but there was no sense in getting ahead of herself, fantasising about something that may never happen. She owed it to herself to keep her head instead of getting carried away like a lovestruck teenager. But as she passed a quaint cottage with a lovely front garden, an elderly man looked up from his weeding and smiled, softening Natalya’s heart.

“Morning,” he said. “Beautiful day.”

“Good morning,” Natalya replied. “Yes. Spring at last.”

The man pulled a face in mock horror and put a finger to his lips.

“Shush! Don’t tempt fate. We can still get a frost, and I’ve got plants going in this morning.”

“Okay,” Natalya said, lowering her voice. “I’ll keep it to myself. Good luck with your plants.”

The man winked and went back to his task.

Yes, Natalya thought. I could live here.

But a few minutes in the shop was almost enough to change her mind. It wasn’t that the shelves were bare; quite the opposite. Every shelf looked as though someone had been determined to cram it with as many disparate products as could be found. It made no sense.

She could ask for help. There was a young man behind the counter, but beyond returning her greeting when she’d walked in, he’d shown no interest in anything other than his phone.

Never mind. She was in no rush, and she’d find what she wanted eventually.

Natalya reached the end of the narrow aisle, the wire shopping basket on her arm still empty. She remained hopeful as she turned the corner to renew her search along the next set of shelves, but she stopped short.

She hadn’t realised there was another customer, but a young woman loitered by the chiller cabinet, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she studied the bottles of milk and packets of cheese.

“Hello,” Natalya said brightly, but the woman gave a guilty start and stepped back.

“Sorry,” Natalya went on. “I didn’t mean to give you a shock.”

The woman gave a tiny shrug and looked away.

“Are you all right?” Natalya asked.

Without making eye contact, the woman said, “I’m all right. I was a bit cold.”

“You’re cold? Oh, but it’s a nice day. It’s warm. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I got cold standing by the fridge.” The woman sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. She seemed self-conscious, but her expression hardened as she turned her gaze on Natalya, a half-hearted challenge in her eyes as if to say, ‘What are you looking at?’

Natalya wasn’t about to be fobbed off. She moved closer to the woman, studying the scruffy state of her jeans and hoodie, the dried mud on her tattered trainers. She realised the woman was younger than she’d first thought. She was maybe seventeen or eighteen, but the wrinkles in her brow and the dark shadows beneath her eyes made her look older.

The young woman picked up a small bottle of milk, but then she seemed to change her mind. Glancing at Natalya, she put the milk back on the shelf before edging away.

“What’s the matter?” Natalya asked. “Don’t you have any money?”

“I’ve got money. I told you, I’m all right.”

“Do you need—” Natalya began, but the woman turned and walked away, marching for the door.

Poor thing, Natalya thought, then she picked up two bottles of milk and placed them in her basket.

Abandoning her mental shopping list, Natalya took her basket to the till and paid in cash, her manner making it clear she was in a hurry.

“The young woman who was in here just now, do you know her?” she asked.

The young man treated her to a blank look, his eyelids drooping as though he was having a hard job staying awake.

“The young woman,” Natalya repeated. “She was just here, but she ran out without buying anything.”

“Er, yeah. No, I didn’t really see her, so…”

“Never mind.” As soon as she’d paid, Natalya strode from the shop, but the street was empty. The young woman was nowhere in sight.

You won’t hide from me, Natalya thought, scanning the street in both directions. That way, she decided, and set off toward the main road that ran through the village.

At the T-junction, she paused. Turning right would take her back the way she’d come, past the village hall and the pub before leading to Fore street and Alan’s house. As far as she knew, there was nowhere to hide on that road, but she might be able to enlist an ally.

Natalya walked at a brisk pace and soon reached the house where she’d enjoyed the brief chat with the elderly gentleman. The man was still in his front garden, kneeling on a foam pad, his hands busy in the soil, firming the loose earth around a small plant.

“Hello again,” Natalya called out, and he looked up with a start.

“Bless my soul, it’s you again,” he replied, then his brow wrinkled in concern. “Are you all right, miss? Only, you look a bit…”

“I am fine. But I’m looking for someone—a friend. I think maybe she has come this way. Have you seen her? She is young, about this high.” Natalya gestured to show the young woman’s height. “She has fair hair.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ve seen her. What’s her name?”

“I…” Natalya felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “I’m sorry. She is not really my friend, but I saw her in the shop, and she seemed worried. I think she is in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know, but I know that look. She was upset, and she said she was cold.”

“Well, there’s a thing.” Brushing the soil from his hands, the man stood, grunting as he pushed himself to his feet. He eyed Natalya as if weighing up whether to take her seriously.

“You say she’s a young woman. Are we talking about a child or what?”

“A teenager, about seventeen I think. Maybe older. Have you seen her?”

The man shook his head.

“Okay, thank you,” Natalya said. “She must’ve gone the other way. I’ll go and look, but if you see her, please tell her I’m looking for her. I want to help.”

“All right,” the man said, though the uncertainty was clear in his tone.

Natalya hurriedly said goodbye and retraced her steps. At the T-Junction, she kept walking and soon found herself outside the primary school. It was closed for the Easter holiday, and that might make it attractive as a hiding place.

A sturdy wooden fence separated the school from the pavement, but when Natalya tried the gate, it was secured with a padlock. Still, the fence wasn’t tall. She could climb over it easily.

Natalya checked there was no one to see, then she set the bottles of milk on the ground and placed a foot on the fence’s bottom rail. And that was when the CCTV camera caught her eye.

High up on the school wall, positioned to cover the entrance, the red light above the lens was clear to see. Had her presence been enough to activate the camera, or was it on all the time? Would anyone bother checking the footage while the teachers were on holiday? She doubted it, but it wasn’t a risk she was prepared to take. Whichever way you looked at it, a grown woman climbing into a school was hard to explain.

Natalya stepped back onto the pavement and leaned her arms on the fence as though that had been her intention all along. She was just a passerby, pausing to admire the mosaic illustration on the school’s wall.

The colourful tiles had been laid to show a rural landscape complete with a winding river, and Natalya guessed that the pupils had helped to draw up the design. It was actually quite impressive, but no matter how interesting the artwork, she couldn’t maintain this pretence for long.

Natalya picked up the milk and headed back to the shop. She still had some things to buy. Alan’s fridge needed to be properly restocked. Once she’d bought everything, she’d go back to Alan’s house and wait for him to return.

All thoughts of baking had gone from her mind. All she could think about was that frightened young woman, and the strangely withdrawn look in her eyes. She’d ask Alan about her. After all, he was looking for a mysterious young person who’d been hanging around the church. The only question was, should she admit to almost climbing over the school fence?

Yes, Natalya decided. I’d never keep anything from Alan. At least, that applied to the time since she’d met him. There were things from her old life in Ukraine that she didn’t even want to think about. Those memories were lodged in a dark place in her mind: a room for which only she had the key. There was no reason to inflict them on dear, sweet Alan. There was no need for anyone else to know.

CHAPTER 16

Dan guided his Toyota RAV4 through a gateway, over a cattle grid and onto a track of hard-packed gravel. It led alongside a field of lush grass in which a small flock of llamas wandered, most with their heads down to graze although a few looked up to watch the Toyota crunching over the gravel.

“Fascinating creatures,” Alan said. “I haven’t quite got used to seeing them.”

“Alpacas?” Dan asked.

“No, I think they’re llamas. Alpacas are smaller.”

“I suppose Henry keeps them for the wool.”

“Probably, but then again, Henry is semi-retired, so maybe he keeps them for breeding or for the joy of it.” Alan glanced at Dan. “I don’t expect you to agree, but anyone can see those animals have a good life.”

Dan took a moment to frame his reply. “As farms go, I’m sure this is a good one. Nevertheless, I have my principles.”

“I know.” Alan cleared his throat. “Dan, don’t take this the wrong way, but when we talk to Henry, it might be better if you don’t mention you’re a vegan. He’s been farming his whole life, and he won’t have much sympathy. He might see it as a criticism and take it personally.”

“That goes without saying. You know I never get preachy about these things.”

“Well, I’d say the word never is a bit of a stretch, but we’ll leave it at that, shall we?”

“Fine with me. Is it okay to park in the yard, do you think?”

“I don’t see why not. I’ll open the gate.”

Dan stopped the car while Alan hopped out and unfastened the metal-barred gate. When Alan swung the gate open and waved him through, Dan drove onto the wide concrete yard and parked in front of a barn, taking care not to obstruct the entrance.

From somewhere nearby, a barrage of barking erupted, but Dan could see no dog. He waited for a second, but no slavering canine appeared to confront him, so he stepped out onto the yard, pleased to see that the concrete was clean and dry. He’d seen some farmyards where wellies or sturdy boots were the only safe option, but this one was clearly well looked after.

The yard was surrounded by a variety of barns and outbuildings, and they were all spick and span. A couple of them might’ve been quite new, their metal-clad walls painted in a shade of dark green that helped them blend into the background. From within one of these buildings, a man’s voice rang out, reverberating across the empty yard. Dan couldn’t make out what was said, but it must’ve been a command because the dog fell silent.

“Noisy dog,” Alan said as he joined Dan. “I’ve shut the gate properly. Shall we go straight up to the house?”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t been here for a good few years. They had a sort of open day to raise money for a charity in Africa. They showed us around and sold tea and scones. If I remember rightly, we get to the house through that little gate.”

Alan indicated a small wooden gate, and they set off, but they’d only taken a few steps when an older gentleman appeared from the largest barn. Dressed in a dark green boiler suit and wellington boots bearing the Hunter logo, the man looked every inch the farmer, complete with ruddy complexion and a waxed cotton cap. The man’s hair was short and silver, his features lined with wrinkles, but he had the stature of a younger man, his shoulders broad and his posture upright.

“Meat box?” he called out.

“Sorry, what?” Dan said before he’d had time to think, the image of the llamas still fresh in his mind.

“Hang on a minute,” the man said, and though the cadence of his speech was distinctly Devonian, Dan detected the hint of an upper-class accent.

Walking toward them, the man lowered his voice to say, “Have you come to buy one of my meat boxes? Because if so, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I sold the last one yesterday, and—” He broke off, seeming to see Alan for the first time. “Alan. Haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”

“I’m fine thanks, Henry,” Alan replied. “And yourself?”

“Not too bad. Can’t complain.”

They shook hands, then Alan said, “Business must be good if you’ve sold out of beef.”

“It’s ticking over, but I don’t raise so many cattle these days. They’re a lot of work, but when I have it in stock, my beef sells like hot cakes. People know it’s good quality, and they like to know where their food comes from.”

“Very true,” Alan replied. “But I haven’t introduced my friend. Henry, this is my neighbour, Dan Corrigan. You might have heard of him.”

Henry scrutinised Dan with an appraising eye. “Dan. Nice to meet you. Can’t say I’ve heard of you, but any friend of Alan’s…” He extended his hand, and when Dan shook it, he felt the calluses of a man who’d known years of hard physical labour.

“So, if you haven’t come looking for beef, what brings you here?” Henry asked, his tone genial but his gaze razor sharp.

“It’s about Greg Southgate,” Alan began. “You’ve probably heard what happened.”

Henry nodded sadly. “Terrible business. Thank goodness somebody found him in time.”

“Actually, that was us,” Dan replied. “And yes, it was very fortunate that we got to him in time.”

Henry’s eyebrows rose. “Well, I didn’t know that. I thought it was Mr Bellamy who found him, but I only heard third hand, and you know what it’s like. Chinese whispers.”

“That’s interesting. Who gave you the news?” Dan asked.

“Why?”

“This is going to take some explaining,” Alan said. “Maybe we could go inside and sit down for a minute.”

Henry pursed his lips, but after a moment’s consideration he seemed to relent.

“Come on then. We’ll pop inside and grab a cup of coffee. It’s this way.”

Dan and Alan followed Henry through the wooden gate and along a path that took them through a well-tended cottage garden. The plants were coming into leaf, the spring foliage a fresh and vivid shade of green. Dan knew very little about gardening, but he imagined this would be a peaceful place to stroll through in summer. And looking to his left he saw that the garden enjoyed a view over the rolling hills of the Teign Valley. On the horizon, the white tower of the Haldon Belvedere caught the light.

“It’s a beautiful spot you’ve got here,” Dan said.

“It’s not bad,” Henry replied without looking back.

In a jovial tone, Alan said, “Henry has a gift for understatement. This must be the most picturesque farm in Devon.”

“I don’t know about that,” Henry replied, but he sounded quietly pleased.

The farmhouse was large, its walls painted white and its roof thatched. Henry showed them into the kitchen, and Dan immediately felt as though he’d stepped into the past. The farmhouse kitchen might’ve been plucked from another era. The windows were small and set deep in the thick walls, but though the room was dimly lit, the effect was restful rather than gloomy. The floor was laid with quarry tiles worn to a subtle sheen by the boots of generations.

A cast iron range dominated one wall, and next to it sat a butcher’s block, its thick wooden surface slightly curved at its centre from years of scrubbing and scraping. The rest of the furniture comprised an eclectic collection of cupboards and cabinets, most of it made from dark wood, and all of it looking as though it had been there for decades.

At the centre of the room a farmhouse table took pride of place. Big enough to sit ten in comfort, or twelve at a pinch, the table had been scratched and scored over the years, but it carried its battle scars with pride.

Henry indicated the table with a sweep of his arm. “Have a seat, gents. Coffee all right?”

“Perfect,” Dan said as he and Alan sat at the table, taking two chairs next to each other.

“Right enough. It’s only instant, mind. None of that fancy stuff.” He shot Dan a look as though suspecting him of some secret desire for a complicated brew.

“Pity, I could murder an oat milk macchiato,” Dan replied.

“Instant is fine,” Alan intoned. “That’s right, isn’t it, Dan?”

“Of course. Don’t mind me, Henry. I was just having a little joke.” Dan offered a conciliatory smile. “I take my coffee black, please. No sugar.”

“No sugar for me either,” Alan said. “But I will have a drop of milk, please. I’ll take it as it comes.”

“Right.” Henry’s uncertain gaze flitted between the two men, then he shook his head and turned his back on them, busying himself with the kettle and mugs.

Alan took the opportunity to wag a finger at Dan, and in return, Dan made his expression sombre.

I shouldn’t have been so flippant, Dan told himself. I don’t know what got into me. They were here on serious business, but there was something about Henry’s gruff manner that had brought out Dan’s awkward streak.

Perhaps Henry reminded him of the stern schoolmasters he’d endured as a teenager. Or maybe there was something off about Henry. Was he really a down-to-earth son of the soil, or was he more of a gentleman farmer, keeping llamas and raising a small herd of beef cattle as a hobby?

The vestiges of Henry’s posh accent belied his upbringing, and from what Dan had seen of the local farms, Henry’s establishment stood out as an example of cleanliness and tidiness. The place was too perfect, more like a picture postcard than a working farm.

Alan had said Henry was semi-retired, so perhaps he could afford to take it easy. If so, how did he make a living? Was he independently wealthy? If not, he was maintaining a house and some land which, taken together, would be worth a fortune.

Dan looked around the room and noticed there were no signs of the dog they’d heard earlier: no bowls for food or water on the floor, and no dog bed or blanket.

In an effort to make conversation, Dan said, “Is your dog not around? We heard it when we arrived.”

“Oh, Jess makes a good burglar alarm,” Henry replied as he delivered their drinks. “But she’s a working dog, not a pet. She has a kennel in the barn. She likes it out there, but we can’t have her running about the yard. That’s how accidents happen.”

Henry sat facing them, his own mug cradled between his hands.

“Right then,” he began, “what’s so important you came over here on a bank holiday?”

“There was a good reason for us being in the church when we found Greg,” Dan replied. “We were looking around because Greg had seen someone loitering in the churchyard, and he hired us to look into it.”

Henry didn’t reply; he didn’t need to. His expression showed that he didn’t believe Dan’s explanation for a second.

“There’s a bit more to it than that,” Alan said. “Greg’s first thought was that his son might’ve come back to the village. He hoped Joshua might be trying to make contact with him at the church. Later on, he wasn’t so sure, but he asked us to⁠—”

“What a load of nonsense,” Henry interrupted. “We won’t see Joshua Southgate again, not around here.”

“Why’s that?” Dan asked.

“Never you mind, but that young man has gone away, and he’s not coming back.”

Dan looked into Henry’s eyes and saw cast-iron certainty. Henry believed every word he’d said. But there was something else too: a telltale gleam that spoke of bitterness and regret, perhaps tinged with anger.

“I’m afraid we can’t leave it at that,” Dan said. “Greg wants us to find out what’s going on, and that’s exactly what we’ll do. He also asked me to look for his son, and I intend to find him.”

Henry’s expression hardened. “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll leave this well alone.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Dan replied. “I⁠—”

Henry thumped his fist against the table. “You listen to me. Joshua Southgate has gone, and we’re all better off without him, even the vicar. He was a fool to himself, pandering to that boy’s bad behaviour, and it didn’t do a bit of good. Vicar Greg never had a moment’s peace when that lad was around, and people might not say it, but we were all glad when he went. Especially… never mind.” Henry clamped his lips tight shut as though biting back his words.

“Hold on a minute, Henry,” Alan said. “Let’s take a step back. I can tell that you’re angry, and maybe you have your reasons, but your words will carry a lot more weight if you explain. Tell us the problem and we’ll listen.”

Henry shook his head. “I’ve already said too much. As a rule, I never speak badly about anyone who isn’t here to defend themselves, and I don’t spread idle gossip.”

“An admirable stance,” Dan replied. “But it’s not gossip if it’s the truth.”

“I won’t bandy words with you. Listen to me. I can understand why the vicar wants to see his son—what father wouldn’t? But he’s always had a blind spot as far as that boy is concerned. Joshua was a bright lad, and he could’ve done anything, but he squandered it all and came to nothing. He was a bad influence on the youngsters around here. That might’ve gone unnoticed in a town, but not in the village. We all knew what he was up to, and sooner or later, somebody would’ve done something about it. It was just as well Joshua left when he did. If he’d stayed, he would’ve got a good hiding and well deserved.”

“Deserved for what?” Dan asked. “What exactly is Joshua supposed to have done? Because so far, you’ve said nothing that doesn’t sound like any number of teenagers.”

Henry’s gaze grew cold as he stared at Dan, and the set of his jaw was resolute.

“Come on, Henry,” Alan said gently. “There’s no need to be like this. We have the vicar’s interests at heart just as much as you do, and we came here in good faith. All we want is a little help.”

“Is that so?” Henry replied. “If you really want to help the vicar, you’ll leave him to get better, then you’ll tell him to forget about this whole business. Let the man move on.”

“What about the person he saw at the church?” Dan asked. “As a churchwarden, you’d like to know who that is, wouldn’t you?”

“No. It’ll be a youngster. Some daft kid with nothing better to do. They’ll get bored soon enough and go somewhere else.”

“We’ll see,” Dan said. “I’ll find the truth, it’s only a matter of time. It would be quicker with your help, but⁠—”

“I’ve made myself plain,” Henry snapped. “Now, I’ve got to get back to the barn. Some of us have real work to do.”

“Fine,” Dan said, getting to his feet.

Alan stood, the downturn of his mouth showing that Henry’s dismissal had stung, but he kept his tone neutral as he said, “Thank you for the coffee, Henry. We can see ourselves out.”

They made for the door, but Henry remained in his seat, staring into space. He did not say goodbye.

Outside, Dan and Alan strode straight to the car.

“A nice old boy,” Dan said. “That was how you described him, wasn’t it? You said he’d talk to anyone.”

“Yes, and ordinarily he would. He’s usually very friendly, believe it or not. I’ve never seen him like that.”

“We touched a nerve.”

“It seems like it.”

Dan paused to look back at the house, half expecting Henry to be glowering from a window to make sure they were off the premises. There was no sign of Henry, but Dan caught a glimpse of movement at one of the upstairs windows. Had someone been watching?

Following his gaze, Alan said, “It’s a beautiful old house, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I forgot to ask—is Henry married?”

“Yes. Jean. A nice lady.”

“Children?”

Alan thought for a moment before replying. “I’ve heard mention of a son, but I’ve never met him. He may well have moved away. Not everyone wants to stay and run a family farm. It’s a hard way of life.”

“True.” Dan took one last look at the house but saw no one at any of the windows. The farmhouse no longer looked like part of a bucolic idyll. The old walls might be strong, but they did more than keep the rain at bay; they held something captive within. For reasons unknown, Henry was holding tight to a lingering anger and he wasn’t about to let it go.

But they’d been thrown out, and there was nothing Dan could do about it.

“We may as well head home,” Dan said. “You don’t want to keep Natalya waiting.”

“I’ll get the gate.” Alan marched across the yard, and Dan climbed into the Toyota and started the engine.

As he turned the car around, he realised a man was watching from the doorway of the large barn. This was the same building that Henry had emerged from earlier, but rather than marching out to meet them, this man seemed content to lean against the wall, his arms folded and his chin tilted down so that his baseball cap cast a shadow over his eyes. Perhaps in his late thirties, the man was stocky with a pronounced paunch that showed despite his scruffy overalls.

Dan raised a hand in a friendly wave, but the man didn’t react.

He doesn’t look like he could be Henry’s son, Dan decided. A hired hand? It could be worth having a word with the man, but his body language was far from welcoming. There was something confrontational in the set of the man’s shoulders and the way he stood immobile, continuing to stare at Dan from beneath the brim of his cap.

In his rearview mirror, Dan saw that Alan was still waiting by the open gate and trying to attract his attention, waving his arm and then gesturing toward a couple of llamas that were strolling toward the fence as if anxious to make his acquaintance.

Oh dear, Dan thought, smiling as Alan tried to shoo the curious creatures away. It was time to go before Alan and the llamas upset each other.

Dan drove through the gateway and waited while Alan securely fastened the gate and hurried to climb into the car.

“All right?” Dan asked.

“Yes. Fine.”

Alan straightened his clothes and ran a hand over his hair. He was looking uncharacteristically flustered, but Dan didn’t remark on it.

Instead, he said, “Did you see that man watching us from the barn?”

“No.” Alan swivelled in his seat. “Where?”

Dan looked back, but the stocky man had disappeared.

“He must’ve gone back inside,” Dan said. “He was in his thirties, scruffy, dressed as though he works here, a bit overweight.”

Alan settled back into his seat. “You’ve just described half the farmworkers in the county. I don’t know whether Henry has any hired help, but there are contractors who go from farm to farm.”

“Doing what?”

“All kinds of things. Sheep shearers, for instance, fencing contractors, people who dig drainage ditches and the like. There’s seasonal work too, like forage harvesting, fruit picking, baling. And then there are specialists like tree surgeons or farriers, and drivers for combine harvesters. The list goes on.”

“Quite a network. I had no idea.”

Alan sent him a knowing look. “You know, Dan, for someone who’s lived in the countryside for a few years, you know surprisingly little about the rural economy.”

“Maybe, but I know llamas are harmless.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Alan muttered darkly. “You didn’t see the look in their eyes, and they’re big when you see them up close. They could’ve jumped over that fence if they felt like it.”

“Okay, Alan. I’ll take your word for it.”

Dan started driving along the track, the Toyota gently bumping over the uneven surface.

The llamas wandered away, and Alan gazed balefully out of the side window. “Silly creatures. You know, I wasn’t frightened of them or anything, but they knew that gate was open, and I didn’t want to get in their way if they made a bid for freedom.”

“Fair enough. Letting out the livestock would not have gone down well with Henry. He’s already taken a dislike to us, or to me, anyway. Aiding and abetting a mass escape would’ve been the final straw.”

“Yes. I’m sorry our meeting didn’t go as planned. It seems as though Joshua upset the apple cart before he left.”

“According to Henry,” Dan pointed out. “And I’m inclined not to put much weight on that. People can be very judgemental.”

They drove on in silence for a while, then Alan said, “I wonder…”

“What?”

“I don’t know if it’s significant, but if Joshua was a teenage tearaway, it’s a bit odd that this is the first we’ve heard of it.”

“It’s early days. The case has barely begun.”

“Yes but I’ve lived in the village for years, and I hadn’t heard any rumours or gossip about Joshua. And Sam knows we’re looking for the vicar’s son, but she hasn’t mentioned anything.”

Dan nodded. “That is a good point. It suggests that Henry’s ill feeling is very personal. He dressed it up, making it sound as though plenty of people were glad when Joshua left, but we have nothing to back that up. And that could be significant.”

“You think Henry might have his own reasons for disliking Joshua?”

Dan nodded. “Got it in one.”

CHAPTER 17

Sophia Parkhurst waited until her mother retired to bed with one of her ‘migraines’, then she crept downstairs. In the kitchen, the telltale bottle of red wine was almost empty, and the glass beside it bore the traces of that awful lipstick her mother insisted on wearing. Sophia washed up the glass and set it on the rack to drain. It was lead crystal and couldn’t go in the dishwasher. Nothing but the best for her mother.

Sophia picked up the bottle and pictured herself pouring it down the sink, but what would be the point? There were three more in the kitchen cupboard alongside the stack of canned goods, and there were even more bottles pushed to the back as though that somehow made them less available, less tempting. Whatever her mother’s rationale, it clearly didn’t work.

Sophia forced the cork back into the bottle’s neck and stowed it in the cupboard with the others. She grabbed her old hoodie and put it on, pulling the hood over her hair, then she checked her phone. She tapped out a quick text: On my way. The message sent, Sophia slipped out of the back door, closing it silently.

The street was even quieter than usual. Sometimes she’d bump into a dog walker or a friend of her mother’s, and she’d be forced to exchange a nod and a smile. But not today. Today it was deserted.

Sophia tramped along the road, head down. If she looked up, the endless rows of semi-detached houses would loom over her, net curtains twitching as nosy neighbours peered out to see who dared to be out walking for no apparent reason.

God, how she hated this place. She yearned to be back at college, to see her friends and talk about things that really mattered: music, politics, the climate crisis. Anything other than who had said what to whom, or the next date for the bins to be collected, or the potholes in the lane, or the state of next door’s caravan, or the vicar and his heart attack or whatever.

Sophia pressed a hand to the side of her head as she walked, fingertips pushing hard against her temple as though she could squeeze out the dark thoughts swirling through her mind.

One day, she thought. One day I’ll be free from all this, free from this place, this life.

It wouldn’t be long now. Once her final project was complete and handed in, there would be nothing between her and independence except for a few exams, and she’d breeze through those. She was ready. There was nothing anybody could throw at her that she couldn’t cope with. Nothing.

Except this, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind. Anything but this.

CHAPTER 18

Dan had a quiet lunch on his own, sitting at his kitchen table and staring at the window. He’d made himself a salad bowl, adding chopped pear, grapes and segments of orange to the mixed leaves and slices of tomato. He’d topped it with pumpkin seeds and drizzled it with olive oil and balsamic vinegar before adding a few falafels from the fridge. But still, he tasted nothing as he chewed.

Thoughts of Greg Southgate played on his mind. When they’d found him in the church, Greg had said, “I saw them.” He hadn’t used the pronouns him or her, so he clearly hadn’t been able to see very much, but he’d said that he hadn’t been attacked.

Dan tried to picture the scene, imagining a shadowy figure fleeing the gloomy churchyard. But Greg had been inside when he’d collapsed. Might he have seen someone in the church? There was no way to know.

Dan pushed his bowl away and stood up. He needed action, but with Greg in hospital and Alan otherwise occupied, there seemed little he could do.

Dan grabbed his phone. He’d head over to see Sam and ask if she could suggest a few locals he could talk to. Somebody must know more about the person haunting the churchyard. The nighttime visitor must be somebody’s son or daughter, somebody’s brother or sister, somebody’s partner or friend.

And what about the separate matter of finding Joshua Southgate? If Dan could find out why he had left, he’d be one step closer to finding out where he’d run to.

There was a clue, perhaps, in Henry Doubleday’s reaction to the mention of Joshua’s name.

But when Dan checked his phone, he found a message that stopped him short. The text was from Greg Southgate, or at least, it had come from his number. It was short and to the point:

Please come to Torbay Hospital. Will meet you at main entrance. Text when you arrive. Thanks, Brenda.

Dan rattled off a quick reply to say he was setting off, then he got ready and hurried out to the car.

It took Dan less than half an hour to reach the hospital, but he wasn’t quite ready for the bewildering layout he found once he turned from the road and entered the hospital’s grounds. Each roadside sign contained a long list of buildings, zones, facilities and parking areas. No doubt the names would be helpful to those already in the know, but to the casual visitor they were all but meaningless.

Dan drove slowly, trusting that the road would bring him to the main car park sooner or later, and so it proved. The car park was busy, but he found a space and paid for a couple of hours of parking. He knew some people complained about these charges, and if you were a regular visitor, the cost would quickly mount up, but he really didn’t mind. The NHS needed every penny it could get.

He sent a text to Greg’s phone, letting Brenda know he’d arrived, then he followed the path to the main entrance.

Outside the hospital, a man and a woman were waiting by the entrance. Their expressions were fretful, their features drawn, but they looked like a couple and they took no notice of him.

Members of hospital staff in their various uniforms came and went, hurrying past on urgent errands, a sense of purpose in their every step, and Dan had to admire their energy. Here were people with proper jobs, playing their daily part in the fight against illness and disability. The battle between life and death was part of their every working day. It must, at times, feel like a fight they could never truly win, but they soldiered on just the same.

In comparison, his own chosen profession felt frivolous to say the least. But Dan didn’t have it in him to work with the sick, and it was no use pretending otherwise. No, he’d found his niche and he’d stick to it.

Dan picked a spot by the wall where he’d be out of the way, and he settled in for a wait. But only a handful of minutes had passed when a woman emerged from the entrance and bustled toward him. Wearing grey trousers and a purple knitted cardigan over a pastel-blue blouse, the woman was well turned out, her silvering hair held back with a simple black hairband. A tan handbag hung from her shoulder, and the pale-brown leather matched the colour of her shoes. But although she had an upright bearing and walked quickly, the woman was unmistakably tired. Her eyes were dull, her gaze distant, and there was a tightness in her expression born of worry.

Halting in front of Dan, she said, “Mr Corrigan?”

“Yes. You must be Mrs Southgate.”

“Yes, but please, call me Brenda.”

“Hello, Brenda. How are you doing?”

Brenda seemed taken aback at the question. “Me? I’m fine. But Greg is…” She took a breath and looked away as though she’d momentarily forgotten Dan was there.

“Are you okay?” Dan asked.

“Yes, but I thought my daughter might be out here. Ellen. She went for a walk.”

“I can’t help, I’m afraid. I haven’t met Ellen.”

Brenda nodded vaguely, all the while looking past Dan to scan the hospital grounds, then she let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh, there she is, wandering about, head in the clouds.”

Dan followed her gaze and spotted a tall young woman with long straight hair. She walked with her hands in the pocket of her heavy overcoat, her head down as though lost in thought.

“I don’t know why she wears that ugly old coat,” Brenda went on. “Well, I do. It was Josh’s. Still, it’s far too big for her. But she won’t listen to me, of course. I’m only her mother.”

Brenda was overwrought, the strain evident in her voice.

“Shall we go inside?” Dan asked. “There must be a canteen or something, and I could do with a cup of tea.”

“Yes, me too.” Brenda’s eyes were a little brighter when she looked at him, and she tried to summon a smile. “There’s a restaurant. It’s not too bad. And now that I think of it, I realise I’ve missed lunch.”

“We can’t have that. Do you know the way?”

“Oh yes. This isn’t my first visit. I just hope…” Brenda shook her head. “Never mind. Let’s get that tea.”

Brenda strode back to the door, and Dan walked at her side, looking around as they made their way through one echoing corridor after another. The place really was a hive of activity, the worker bees denoted by their uniforms or the ID badges they wore on lanyards around their necks.

The restaurant was quiet, and Brenda wasted no time in buying tea for them both and a sandwich for herself. Despite Dan’s protests, she insisted on paying the bill and carrying the tray.

“Do you mind where we sit?” she asked. “I usually go by the window.”

“That’s fine. Whatever you prefer.”

Brenda selected a table by the window and sat down, placing her handbag on the chair at her side, then she let out a long breath as she gazed at the outside world.

“I like the light here,” she said. “After being cooped up in that ward, it’s a relief just to sit and look out and think of absolutely nothing.”

“It’s a difficult time. How is Greg?”

Brenda pursed her lips, then she turned her attention to the teapot. “I need this,” she said, pouring tea into her cup and adding milk. Offering the small jug of milk to Dan, she added, “Do you want some?”

“No thanks. I’ll have it black.”

“Then you’d better pour it quick or it’ll be stewed.”

Dan poured himself a cup of tea and sat back, waiting while Brenda sipped her drink.

She gestured to her sandwich. “Do you mind? I’m famished.”

“Please, go ahead. You’ve got to keep your strength up.”

Brenda smiled sadly. “That’s my line. I’m always telling Greg to eat something. He forgets. He’s always so wrapped up in his work, it’s a wonder he doesn’t…” Brenda’s voice quavered, and she sniffed, dabbing at the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. “Oh dear. I was going to say it’s a wonder he doesn’t faint. How stupid of me.”

“Not at all,” Dan said gently. “At times like this, there are no wrong things to say. If you want to talk, I’m happy to listen, but if you’d rather sit quietly and eat your sandwich, that’s fine too.”

Brenda seemed to look at Dan with fresh eyes. “I can see what he meant. My husband said you have an instinct for people, the gift of knowing what’s going on in their minds.”

It was Dan’s turn to be taken aback. “Did he? Well, that’s very flattering, but I haven’t got any special gift. I’m persistent, that’s all.”

“There’s no need for false modesty. Greg liked you, I could tell from the way he spoke about you. But that’s his gift. He sees the best in everyone. He finds something to like, and it brings out the best in people. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, I’ve often said the same about my neighbour, Alan.”

“I know Alan. He’s a nice man. We could do with a few more like him in the congregation. I don’t suppose…”

“You’d have to take that up with Alan,” Dan said.

“How about you?”

Dan hesitated. “I’m afraid I’m a nonbeliever. A hopeless case.”

“Ah, no one is hopeless, Dan. We’re all alike in the eyes of God. And you believe in something, don’t you? I suspect you’re a man of principle. After all, you’re here. Not everyone would’ve answered my summons so quickly.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“You see, I was right, and so was Greg. When it comes to people, he’s rarely wrong.”

“But he is sometimes?” Dan suggested.

“Sometimes, yes.” Brenda nodded sadly then added, “We’re none of us infallible.” She took a bite of her sandwich, her gaze returning to the window as she chewed.

Dan drank his tea and waited. She was about to say something but changed her mind, Dan decided. Who did her husband misjudge? Was it his son or someone else, someone connected to the case? A string of questions fought for first place in his mind, but this wasn’t the time. Brenda needed a respite from her troubles, and he wouldn’t deny her that.

As if by a tacit agreement, neither of them spoke, and Brenda took the opportunity to finish her sandwich, washing it down with a mouthful of tea.

“That’s better,” she said, summoning a tired smile. “Thank you for being so patient.”

“That’s okay,” Dan replied. “There’s no rush, but if you’re ready to talk, I’m keen to know how Greg is doing.”

Brenda’s shoulders had slumped while she’d been eating, but she straightened her posture as though gathering her reserves of courage.

“He’s comfortable, but before I go on, I must thank you. And please pass my thanks on to Alan. If you hadn’t found him when you did, Greg wouldn’t be here now, and I wouldn’t have this time with him. That means a great deal. The thought of him dying alone on that cold floor—it’s too horrible to contemplate. You saved him from that, and we’re both incredibly grateful. I can hardly express it.”

“That’s all right. We did what we could. I’m glad he’s feeling better.”

Brenda’s eyebrows lowered and her gaze locked with his.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but the outlook isn’t good. It seems that Greg has been suffering from heart failure for quite a while now, and it’s been left untreated for far too long. Greg has always been obstinate when it comes to asking for help, and now the damage is done. His poor heart is worn out, and at his age, the options are limited.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” It was a poor response, but they were the only words that came to Dan’s mind.

“Thank you, but Greg is being very stoical and so must I. We’ve had a wonderful life together, and whatever happens, we’ll meet again in a better place. But while he’s still with us, I’ll be there for him, and we’ll talk and laugh and pray and make the most of the time we have.”

“Yes, of course. Do you need to go back to him now, because⁠—”

“Greg’s resting,” Brenda said. “If I’m there all the time, it tires him out. He worries about me, you see, and I can spare him that. And there’s another reason I wanted to speak with you in person.”

She paused, checking her teacup. Finding it empty, she topped it up from the pot and added milk. She took a mouthful, then studied Dan as if deciding whether to say more.

“It’s about Josh,” she went on. “Greg told me what he said to you, and he told me what he saw, although I don’t know what to make of that.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much to report. I haven’t got very far, but if it’s all right with you and Greg, I’d like to keep looking.”

“There’s the persistence you mentioned.” Brenda nodded as though coming to a decision. “All right, Dan. Let’s talk about Josh. We don’t know why he left, but I know there was something. He was always a good boy. He had an odd bunch of friends, and they pushed the boundaries, like most teenagers do, but we didn’t have any cause for concern. He might’ve come home smelling of cigarettes and cider a few times, but there was nothing major. It’s not like he was running with a gang or anything.”

“Greg told me that Josh might’ve been experimenting with drugs.”

“Maybe. A bit of cannabis, perhaps. I don’t think he’d have taken pills or anything harder. He was too clever for that. He knew the risks.”

“Was there any hint of trouble before Josh left?” Dan asked.

“No, not really. Well, you know, there were a few who grumbled about him. Embervale is lovely, but it’s a small village, and there are a few… characters.”

“Henry Doubleday, for instance?”

Brenda raised an eyebrow. “You’ve met Henry?”

“Alan and I talked to him. We thought he might be able to help, but when we mentioned Joshua, he asked us to leave.”

“No surprise there. Henry does a lot for the church, and he’s been very helpful to Greg, but he’s what they call old school. He’s a friend, but he has some attitudes I really don’t agree with. I’m grateful for all he does, and I’ve never argued with him, but I don’t have to like everything he says.”

“That’s fair, but what sort of attitudes are we talking about here?”

“You can probably imagine,” Brenda replied. “When I said we’re all equal in God’s eyes, I meant it. That’s not just a phrase I trot out now and then, it’s a guiding principle. Greg feels the same. We might call it equality or inclusion these days, but Jesus taught us all we need to know about accepting others. It’s all there in the Bible for those who care to look for it.”

“But Henry takes a more traditional view,” Dan suggested, choosing his words with care. “A more patriarchal view, perhaps.”

“You could say that. He was particularly vociferous on the subject of same-sex marriage, so he had trouble coping when he found out his son was gay.”

Dan nodded thoughtfully. “Were his son and Joshua friends by any chance?”

“Yes. Liam and Josh were the same age, and they went to the same school. They played together as children, and that never really changed. The toy cars were replaced by football boots, and then it was bows and arrows, and then electric guitars, and after that it was something else. They’d have stayed friends for life, I’m sure, but first Josh disappeared, and then Liam left home as soon as he’d finished his exams. He went to university and never came back.”

“Which university?”

“Plymouth. It’s not very far, but he may as well be on the moon. I don’t know if he keeps in touch with his parents, but somehow I doubt it. When Henry makes his mind up about something, he won’t change it.”

“I can imagine,” Dan said. “Henry didn’t talk about his son, but he obviously didn’t like Joshua. I have to ask—is Joshua gay?”

“No,” Brenda stated. “Definitely not.”

“You sound very certain.”

Brenda’s eyebrows flicked briefly upwards. “It’s a cliche, but a mother knows. Josh was always a good looking boy, and popular with the girls. He was handsome and polite and you could take him home to meet your mother. He was never short of a girlfriend, and that was fine with him.” She smiled as if at a fond memory, but it didn’t last long and her expression clouded.

“Greg didn’t mention any of this when he came to see me,” Dan said.

“No, but he wouldn’t. Greg doesn’t see things in that way. He’s a gentle soul, bless him, but he was never one for romance. When we met, I more or less had to tell him to invite me for a drink. Later on, it was me who proposed to him. We’ve had a very happy marriage, but some things go over Greg’s head. He didn’t notice that his little boy had grown into a handsome young man with a string of girlfriends, and it wasn’t for me to shatter his illusions.”

“So Joshua was very different to his father,” Dan said. “Did they get on?”

“Famously. We were a happy, contented family. Josh knew we were there for him, and if he came home a bit worse for wear on a Friday night…” Brenda shrugged as if to say, ‘so what?’

“Was there a particular girlfriend before Josh left?”

“Not as far as I know. The girls came and went, but he didn’t bring them home. I think we embarrassed him.”

Dan offered a smile. “That’s par for the course. Most teenagers go through that phase, don’t they? I remember my Dad trying to tell jokes whenever my friends came around; for me, it was excruciating.”

“I expect you’re right. The only friend we ever saw was Liam. Whatever happened, they stayed friends. It was those two against the world, and I don’t know for sure, but I think Josh might’ve encouraged Liam to come out.”

“That would explain a lot,” Dan said. “I suspect Henry might’ve preferred not to know.”

“Wilful ignorance is a terrible thing. I believe in tackling things head-on, so I’d have been more than happy to give Henry a piece of my mind. But Greg says it’s better to lead by example and gently bring the stray lambs back into the fold.”

Dan mulled this over. The more he heard about Greg Southgate, the more he warmed to the man. Dan had never shown much interest in Christianity or any other religion, but that might prove to be his loss.

I could’ve been more open-minded, Dan decided. I might’ve met Greg much sooner. But he’d missed that opportunity, and he couldn’t turn back the clock. He could only do his best for Greg in the time he had left.

Placing his elbows on the table and leaning closer to Brenda, he said, “If I can find Josh while there’s still time, do you think Greg would be strong enough to meet him?”

“I don’t know what the doctors would say, but it would mean the world to Greg, and to me too. Even if we could only share a few minutes together, it would be worth it.”

“That’s why you asked me here, isn’t it?”

Brenda nodded. “I want you to find Josh, but it’s not for Greg or for me. It’s for Josh. He needs to see his father, or he’ll regret it.”

“Of course. I’ll do my best.”

“That’s settled then. Naturally I’ll try to help if I can, and I have something for you.” Brenda rummaged in her handbag and produced a slip of paper, sliding it over the table to Dan. “This is the last address I have for Liam.”

Dan picked up the paper and read: 52 Kingsley Road. He didn’t know Plymouth well enough to recognise the address, but it wouldn’t be hard to find; Brenda had even included the postcode.

“Where did you get this?”

“Liam sent us a Christmas card a couple of years ago, and he’d put a sticker on the back with his address. He didn’t mention Josh, so presumably he didn’t know Josh was still missing. I wrote back and asked Liam if he knew where Josh might be, but I never received a reply.”

“Did you try going to see Liam yourself?”

“No, I wasn’t brave enough. I couldn’t face the disappointment. If Liam had known anything, he would’ve said.”

“Perhaps,” Dan replied. “But people aren’t always as predictable as we like to think. Does Greg know you have this?”

Brenda shook her head firmly. “It didn’t mean anything, not really, so I didn’t see the point in upsetting my husband. I knew he’d get excited and drive over there, and I couldn’t bear for him to go haring off to Plymouth on a fool’s errand. The disappointment would’ve crushed him. Perhaps I was wrong, but I wanted to spare him from that.”

“Leave it with me. I’ll go this afternoon.”

“Good. Not to put too fine a point on it, I’m not sure how long Greg has left.”

“I understand.”

“Yes, I rather think you do. Let me give you my number.”

Brenda sent Dan a text from her own phone so that he’d have her number, and once they’d checked the message had come through, Brenda reached across the table and clasped Dan’s hand.

“Thank you, Dan. You’ll be in my prayers,” Brenda said, and with the suggestion of a twinkle in her eye, she added, “whether you like it or not.”

CHAPTER 19

Sophia didn’t hesitate, didn’t look back or check if anyone was watching. She simply clambered over the low wooden fence and kept walking.

There was an official entrance into the old quarry, but she never used it. Ever since she’d first explored the old quarry with a bunch of teenage friends, she’d chosen this way in, picking her way between brambles, nettles and the sharp branches of spiky gorse that snagged at her clothes.

Years ago, someone had tried to turn part of the old quarry into a nature reserve. There were paths, benches and information boards, but the gravel paths were shot through with weeds, the benches sagged and the information boards were faded and flaking.

No one came here now except for a few walkers and, judging by the mess they left behind, their dogs.

Sophia steered away from the gravel trail; she had a path of her own. It led to a sad little copse, the trees straggly and crooked, and Sophia’s steps faltered. In the years since she’d been here, thorny bushes had sprung up, barring her way. But that wasn’t the only reason she’d stopped walking. If she went on, there would be consequences. After this meeting, whatever the outcome, she’d be committed.

“Do it,” she whispered, and she marched onward, forcing her way between the unforgiving branches. Something caught on her leg and punctured her jeans, causing a pinprick of pain, but she moved on, hardly noticing.

Her blood was up, anger quivering in her chest, and she would not be stopped.

Sophia emerged from the copse and faced a cleft in the rocks: a narrow passage, its walls still scarred with parallel grooves where drills had done their work. Sophia slowed her pace, trying to make as little noise as possible. The passage widened and then came to an abrupt halt. Where the stone had been quarried, the rock face had been cut into the shape of a horseshoe. But now this was a hidden place, neglected and forgotten. And there, sitting on a boulder, was the person Sophia had come to see.

“Hi,” Sophia said. “I’m here.”

CHAPTER 20

The cafe at Ullacombe Farm was beyond busy. It was close to Haytor, a popular spot for tourists and locals alike, and the spring weather had made the place all the more inviting. Every table in the barn-like cafe was fully occupied, and the queue to the counter stretched all the way to the door.

“Oh dear,” Alan said to Natalya. “This is going to take a while.”

“It’s okay,” Natalya replied, linking her arm with his and giving it a squeeze. “We can go for a walk and look around. We can eat later.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Alan was hungry, and the smell of food was making his stomach rumble, but he didn’t mind one bit.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Do you want to look at the vintage rally or whatever it is?”

“Yes. Very much.”

They’d arrived to find some sort of event going on in a field adjacent to the car park. Dozens of gleaming classic cars were parked in several orderly rows, and small groups of people were milling around, admiring the cars and taking photos.

Alan and Natalya strolled into the field and Natalya pointed to an MG convertible in British racing green. “That one,” she said. “We must first look at that one.”

“Fine,” Alan replied. “Whatever you want.”

They spent a few minutes in front of the car, Alan smiling dutifully while Natalya pointed out the car’s finest features, ranging from the leather upholstery to the gleaming air filter under the bonnet.

“I had no idea you were so interested in cars,” Alan said.

“Cars like this,” Natalya replied. “Old cars are so…” She made a motion with her hand to echo the car’s clean lines.

“You should get one just like this, Alan,” she stated. “It would be perfect for you.”

“Do you think so? It’s nice, but it’s not exactly practical in the lanes. One pothole and something would break.”

“No, these cars were built to last. They’re solid. British engineering.”

Alan couldn’t help but be swayed by Natalya’s enthusiasm. Was this how she saw him, the owner of a natty little sports car, roaring along the lanes with the top down?

Why not? he asked himself. Why not live a little, take a few risks?

“There will be no problem with the roads in a car like this,” Natalya went on. “I’ve seen an MG in the village. It’s red, an older model I think. It has wire wheels. It’s even better than this one.”

“It was probably a tourist or someone passing through.”

Natalya shook her head. “I’ve seen it many times, always with the same man. He has grey hair. Sam knows him.” Natalya thought for a moment. “His name is Henry.”

“Henry Doubleday?”

“I don’t know. I was talking to Sam and we heard the car. She said, ‘There goes Henry.’ She said you can tell when it’s a sunny day because Henry will drive past the pub in his sports car.”

“Well, I didn’t know he was a classic car enthusiast. I saw him this morning. I went to his farm with Dan.”

“A small world.”

“It is.”

Alan tried to imagine the rather austere figure of Henry Doubleday behind the wheel of a red sports car. It was hard to believe, but Sam wouldn’t have made a mistake, and Alan only knew one man called Henry in the village. If he can have an MG, why can’t I? Alan asked himself.

Aloud, he said, “I wonder how much it would cost?”

“Not much. It depends on the bodywork, the engine.”

“And the brakes, the suspension, the chassis,” Alan said. “A car like this can be a money pit.”

“But some things are worth more than money, aren’t they?”

“Of course, you’re right. A thing of beauty is a joy forever, and this is definitely a beautiful car. I’ll think about it. In the meantime, shall we head back inside and see if the queue has gone down?”

Natalya wrinkled her nose. “It was hot and stuffy in there and crowded. It’s such a lovely day, it’s a shame to be inside.”

“I’m with you there, but what about lunch? I ought to have brought a picnic, but I didn’t think of it.”

“We can go back to your house, have a picnic there.”

Alan nodded. “If that’s what you’d like to do, I have plenty of food in the fridge. You’ve seen to that.”

“Yes,” Natalya said. “I have.”

It didn’t take Alan long to drive back to Embervale, and once in the kitchen, Natalya went into action. The table was soon covered with an assortment of fruit and vegetables as she began whipping up a salad that seemed to contain a bit of everything.

“Can I help?” Alan asked.

“Can you make a dressing?”

Alan puffed up his chest. “Yes, a damned good one, actually.”

“Good. You do that while I chop.”

They worked industriously for a few minutes, but when the dressing was done, Alan was surprised to see Natalya packing the salad and various accompaniments into an assortment of plastic containers.

“Is that necessary?” Alan said. “I thought we were only taking it into the garden?”

“No. First, we go for a walk.”

“Right. Okay.” Alan thought he’d kept the disappointment out of his voice, but judging by Natalya’s indulgent smile, he hadn’t succeeded.

“Don’t worry,” Natalya said. “We’re not going far. We’ll have our picnic in the nature reserve. It’s only a short walk.”

Alan frowned. “In Embervale? You don’t mean the old quarry, do you?”

“Yes. Sam told me about it.”

“But it was abandoned. It’s not very nice.”

“It’s okay. I want to see it.”

There was something in Natalya’s tone that made Alan search her expression. She wasn’t being totally open with him, and for her, that was very unusual.

“Why?” Alan asked.

“No reason,” Natalya replied without looking up from her task.

Alan folded his arms, waiting, and when Natalya finally met his gaze, her smile vanished.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “You look like my old teacher.”

“I can’t help it, I am an old teacher. Well, I’m an ex-teacher anyway, and this is my stern, you-may-as-well-own-up expression. It took years of practice, and it never fails. So tell me, Natalya, what’s going on? Why the sudden urge to go to a dingy old quarry?”

Natalya stayed silent for a second, but then she gave in. “Okay, I should’ve told you before, but you know, it’s sort of your fault. You and Dan, you didn’t listen to me. You ignored my idea.”

“I’ve never ignored you,” Alan protested. “What do you mean?”

Natalya raised a finger. “One, I told you about that young woman I saw this morning, but you said it was nothing. You said it was probably just a coincidence.”

“Yes, but that’s because I didn’t want anything to spoil our day. I was going to tell Dan later.”

Undeterred, Natalya raised another finger. “Two. I told you there must be a place where teenagers go, but you and Dan did nothing about it. I asked Sam, and she told me she used to go to the old quarry when she was young. I think we should go and look.”

“I see. I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I should’ve taken you seriously. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re right. The young woman you saw was upset, so she might have been going to the churchyard at night. And she might also have been hanging around at the old quarry. It’s worth going over there for a look, but we don’t have to do it now. I can go another time with Dan.”

“No, I want to do this. I want to help.”

Natalya jutted her jaw and Alan raised his hands in surrender.

“Okay,” Alan said. “We can go as soon as we’re ready, but there’s one thing I’d like to know. When did you talk to Sam about this?”

“I phoned her this morning, before you came home.”

The casual way Natalya imparted this information prompted Alan to ask, “Do you call Sam often?”

Natalya shrugged. “Sometimes. I like Sam. We are friends.”

“That’s nice,” Alan said slowly, sensing he was on thin ice. In his experience, it was best not to inquire too closely about what was said between female friends. If Natalya wanted to tell him, that was her prerogative, but he mustn’t ask.

As if sensing his discomfort, Natalya smiled and flicked her eyebrows upward. “We share many secrets.”

“Do you?”

“No. Of course not.” Natalya laughed. “Sometimes you are silly, Alan. I can tell you do not have a sister.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that,” Alan said quietly. “Now, if you’ve finished having fun at my expense, maybe we can go and have lunch.”

“Oh, Alan, you’re upset.” Natalya moved closer, resting her hands on his waist. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to make you sad. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologise. It’s just that, growing up, I would’ve liked a sister or a brother. I wasn’t lonely or anything, but there were times when I felt like I was missing out on something. But you weren’t to know.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have said it. There are a lot of things we don’t know about each other, but that will come, yes?”

“Yes. That will come.”

Natalya brightened instantly. “Good. Now, let’s find a bag and go for our picnic.”

“I have a cool bag that ought to do the job. I’ll go and get it.”

Alan made for the hallway, surprised to find Natalya hard on his heels.

“Go on,” she prompted. “I want to see where you hide things.”

“It’s not hidden.” Alan opened the door to the cupboard under the stairs and bent down to step inside. Natalya peered in while he retrieved the cool bag.

“It’s a tad disorganised in there,” Alan admitted. “Things sort of get dumped out of the way.”

Natalya didn’t comment, but her raised eyebrows spoke volumes.

Alan showed her the cool bag. “Okay?”

Natalya took the bag and inspected it before nodding and heading back to the kitchen.

Trailing in her wake, Alan pictured his house through Natalya’s eyes. He liked things tidy, on the whole, but he’d lived alone for a number of years, and he’d accumulated a few things that weren’t worth keeping. If Natalya was going to come around more often, it was about time he made the place more presentable.

But Natalya was already in the kitchen, singing quietly as she packed the picnic, and once again, all was right with the world.

The walk to the old quarry didn’t take long, but as soon as they were through the gate, Alan insisted on spreading the picnic rug on the nearest available flat patch of grass. Natalya issued him with a plateful of salad, and he was delighted to find that she’d brought along a few baked goods.

He tucked into a Cornish pasty along with his salad, washing it down with a can of lemonade.

“Finished?” Natalya asked.

“Yes, thank you. It was delicious. But do I spy some sausage rolls in that bag?”

Natalya passed him the brown paper bag. “Here. You can eat it while I pack everything else away.”

“Thank you.” Alan munched happily while Natalya repacked the cool bag. He was tempted to offer his help, but he’d learned that there were times when it was better if he did what he was told.

Once the picnic was cleared away, they rolled up the rug. Alan slung the cool bag’s strap over his shoulder and they set off along the path, the almost empty bag bumping gently on Alan’s back.

“You know, on a sunny day like this, it’s not too bad in here,” Alan said. “The brambles need cutting back, but it’s peaceful, and I bet there’ll be plenty of wildflowers in summer.”

“We’re not here to look for flowers,” Natalya replied. “We need to work out where teenagers would go.”

“They might sit on a bench if they could find one that isn’t broken.”

“Maybe, but the seats are too close to the path. Teenagers like to hide away out of sight.”

They stopped and Alan turned on the spot, scanning his surroundings. Spotting a copse of straggly trees, he pointed. “What about over there?”

“Yes. That’s more like it.”

They picked their way over a stretch of sparse grass and brambles, Natalya muttering a few words of Ukrainian when a thorn scratched her leg. Alan knew better than to make a fuss, and they continued at the same pace.

The copse offered a little shade, but not much else. There was no clearing or inviting spot where teenagers might’ve gathered, so Alan and Natalya pushed on through to the other side. And then they stopped.

Here was a cleft in the rock that was invisible from the main path, and signs of human activity were everywhere. Daubs of red paint showed where someone had used a spray can to write graffiti on the rock face, although the words were illegible now. Part of the stone had been blackened by streaks of soot, and there were the remains of a campfire. And then there were the empty cans and broken bottles and lumps of soggy cardboard. It was hard to know when, but someone had definitely been there.

“Bingo,” Alan said. “Let’s see what we can turn up. If we can find something with a name or an address, it could be useful. I know it’s unlikely, but you never know. We’ll have a good look around but be careful. Mind the broken glass.”

Natalya nodded, and they began their search. Alan picked up a stick and used it to prod and poke among the empty cans in case there was anything lurking beneath. He found a scrap of lined paper that might’ve been torn from an exercise book, and he picked it up carefully, smoothing the wrinkles from the damp paper. But if there’d been any writing it had been washed away by the rain some time ago. Nevertheless, he kept the paper in his hand as he moved on.

Natalya moved off to the side, heading toward the rock face and studying the ground in rapt attention. But it was the remains of the campfire that caught Alan’s attention, and he went to investigate.

Whoever laid the fire had at least done a half decent job. They’d gathered large stones and arranged them in a circle to contain the flames. Most of the ash had gone, blown by the wind or dispersed by rain. Only the crumbling remains of half-burnt branches remained. Alan pushed a few pieces of wood aside and saw a blackened blob of what looked like molten plastic. Someone had thrown a plastic bottle on the embers, perhaps. It wasn’t worth picking it up.

Next to the fire he found an empty cigarette box and picked it up. He sniffed the packet cautiously but detected only the sharp tang of mildew.

“Alan, over here,” Natalya called out from her position by the rock face. “I’ve found something.”

Alan dropped the cigarette pack and hurried to Natalya’s side. She was peering into a crack in the rock face, and Alan craned his neck to see. A smooth white piece of plastic had been pushed into the crevice, but Alan could make out no details.

“What is it?” he asked.

Natalya gave him a sideways look. “Alan, it’s a pregnancy test.”

“Oh. Yes, right. I see.” He frowned. “Dear God, what an awful place to come for that. Couldn’t they have used a bathroom somewhere?”

“Not everyone has a bathroom, Alan. The woman I saw, she might’ve been homeless.”

“Yes, I should’ve thought of that. It was the shock of seeing something unexpected. But there is another possibility.”

“Maybe she didn’t do it here,” Natalya said. “She brought it here afterwards to show it to her boyfriend.”

“My thoughts exactly. Do you think we should⁠—”

Before Alan could finish his sentence, Natalya had slid her fingers into the crevice and retrieved the pregnancy test. Holding it carefully, she turned the window around to show Alan. There were two distinct lines.

“Is that positive?” Alan asked.

“Yes, and I think it belongs to the young woman I saw.”

“What makes you say that?”

Natalya hesitated. “I can’t say for sure, but there was something about her, about the way she looked. Not ill, exactly, but unwell. If she was pregnant, that would explain everything. It’s hers.”

“Women’s intuition?”

“Don’t make fun of me, Alan. Not you.”

Alan saw the flash in Natalya’s eyes and spread his hands wide. “I wasn’t. Honestly, I wouldn’t do that. It was a genuine question.”

“Really? You believe me?”

Alan nodded. “Absolutely. We pick up on all kinds of tiny cues all the time without ever being aware of it. Intuition is the name we give to our accumulated experience. That’s what Dan says.”

“Oh well, if Dan says so, it must be right. But what do I know? I’m only a silly woman.”

Alan wasn’t sure how to respond, but Natalya saved him the trouble.

“I didn’t mean that,” she went on. “Dan is your friend, but he can be…”

“I know. But let’s not argue. If you think that young woman looked pregnant, that’s good enough for me. The question is, what do we do about it?”

“I want to find her,” Natalya stated. “I’m sure she has no money and no food. I want to make sure she’s okay. I think she needs someone to help her.”

“Yes, I expect you’re right,” Alan said, letting his gaze wander around the bleak and neglected place where some young woman had felt obliged to hide away. Whoever she is, she needs help, Alan thought. There was no doubt in his mind.

CHAPTER 21

Dan squeezed the Toyota into a parking space on Kingsley Road. He didn’t know this part of Plymouth, but he’d found the street easily. By car, it was only a few minutes away from the city centre, and the road was wide, each pavement boasting a row of mature trees.

He stepped out from the car and stretched his back, all the while scanning the red-brick terraced houses that lined the street. Some were in better condition than others. The smarter houses seemed to be family homes with bright curtains at the windows and houseplants or vases of dried flowers given pride of place. Others looked more like student accommodation, and the only things on display were racks of drying laundry or collections of empty beer bottles.

Dan found the house he was looking for and decided it was somewhere in-between. There were Venetian blinds at the window, but the only other ornament was a coloured glass sun catcher.

He marched up to the front door and rang the bell. The door was answered by a man in his twenties. About Dan’s height, the man’s long brown hair fell to his shoulders and he had the full beard beloved of hipsters everywhere. Dressed in a baggy T-shirt and jogging bottoms, he was barefoot, and his eyes were sleepy. He squinted at Dan as if in some confusion.

“Hello,” Dan said. “My name is Dan Corrigan, and I’m⁠—”

“We don’t want it,” the man interrupted. “Whatever it is, we don’t need it. Sorry.”

He began closing the door, so Dan blurted, “Is Liam in?”

The door opened a little wider, and this time the man’s gaze was brighter, a glint of suspicion in his eyes.

“Who wants to know?”

“As I said, I’m Dan Corrigan, and I’m a private investigator. I’d like a quick chat with Liam, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“It’s a private matter, but it’s nothing for him to worry about. He’s not in any trouble. Is he in?”

The man pursed his lips. “Have you got a card or something?”

“Yes. Sorry, I should’ve had one ready.” Dan took the slim metal case from his pocket and slid out a card, offering it with a smile.

“Thanks.” The man frowned as he read the card, then he shot him a look. “You’re from Embervale.”

It was almost an accusation.

“Yes. Well, I’m from London, but I’ve lived in Devon for a while now.”

“Why?”

The man’s tone was so incredulous, Dan wasn’t sure how to reply.

“Seriously, I want to know,” the man went on. “Why would you move to that crappy little place when you had so much on your doorstep?”

“That might take a while to explain,” Dan said. “I’m happy to answer your question, but would you mind telling me your name first?”

Doubt clouded the man’s expression, but he said, “Mark.”

“Nice to meet you, Mark. Are you a friend of Liam’s?”

Mark looked Dan up and down before replying: “Partner.”

“And is Liam at home at the moment?”

“He’s working.”

Dan silently rejoiced. Now they were getting somewhere. A place of work meant an employer, colleagues, an address. “Where does Liam work? Is it in Plymouth?”

Mark pointed upward, and Dan found himself glancing up at the sky as though the young man might appear in mid-air.

“He’s upstairs,” Mark explained. “He works from home, which is why he didn’t answer the door.”

There was a hint of irritation in the way Mark finished his sentence, and it was as though the floodgates were now well and truly open.

“I was on a late shift last night,” Mark went on. “I work at the hospital, but that doesn’t mean anything to him. Oh no, not when he’s working. He’ll do anything for his precious workmates, but even though he’s here all day, can he wash up or put the laundry on? No, he cannot.”

“What does Liam do?”

Mark screwed up his features. “Something to do with digital marketing. Data analysis, he calls it, but it doesn’t mean much to me.”

Dan bowed his head, impressed. “A growing field. Excellent prospects.”

“Are there? All I know is, he puts in a lot of hours and doesn’t get much in return.”

“Maybe I can help. I have contacts in the business, mainly in London, but⁠—”

“Stay there,” Mark interrupted, turning away. Over his shoulder, he called out, “He’ll be right down.”

Dan allowed himself a small grin as he imagined the conversation taking place inside. Liam will be here in thirty seconds, Dan thought, but he revised his estimate when the unmistakable sound of someone hurrying heavily down the stairs thundered from within.

The door swung open and a slightly harried young man appeared, his pale cheeks flushed pink. His dark hair was neatly styled and brushed back, and from the waist up he was dressed in a smart cotton shirt that might’ve been freshly ironed. But from the waist down it was a different picture, the jeans faded and ripped at the knee.

The outfit of the remote worker, Dan thought. At least he’s wearing trousers.

Aloud, Dan said, “Liam Doubleday?”

“Yeah.” Liam was holding Dan’s card and he glanced at it now. “What can I do for you, Mr Corrigan? Mark was a bit…” Liam stopped himself short. “He said something about a job.”

“I said I might be able to help. I know a few companies who are always on the lookout for people with your skills. There are plenty of opportunities if you’re prepared to put in the work.”

“Right. But how come you’re turning up on the doorstep?” Liam looked at the card again and his brow wrinkled. “This says you’re a private investigator.”

“Yes, and that’s why I’m here. I’m looking for Joshua Southgate. I understand from his mum that you’re a friend.”

Liam’s expression instantly closed.

“Josh’s father is seriously ill,” Dan went on, speaking quickly. “It would be good for Josh if he could visit his father in hospital. If he doesn’t get a chance to say goodbye properly, he might regret it.”

“Oh man.” Liam’s gaze dropped to the ground and he shook his head. “That’s… That’s just…”

“I’m sorry to have brought bad news, Liam, but I’m sure you can understand why I have to find Joshua. Time is pressing, and I don’t know how long⁠—”

“I can’t help,” Liam interrupted, looking up with sadness in his eyes. “Josh left home before I did. I haven’t seen him for years.”

“Have you had any contact at all? You were best friends. I would’ve thought he’d find a way to get in touch with you.”

Liam hesitated. “Once. He found me online. This was a couple of years ago. He needed a place to stay, so we put him up for a while. As soon as he was back on his feet, he left.”

“Did he give a forwarding address?”

Liam shook his head firmly. “I have no idea where he went. No phone number, nothing.”

“That seems strange. Did something happen, something that made him leave so suddenly?”

“If you must know, we had a row. I wanted him to ring his mum, but Josh was dead set against it. We argued about it, and that was that. Josh went the next day.”

“It’s interesting you should mention his mum,” Dan said. “You sent Mrs Southgate a card.”

Liam’s mouth tightened. “That was a mistake. Mark made cards one year, and he took all the addresses from my contacts. He sent them without telling me, and he put stickers with our address on the back. He printed them off himself. It was something he did for a while—making cards. Another hobby, another box full of junk nobody uses anymore.”

“Josh’s mum wrote back to you, but you didn’t reply.”

“Yeah. I know it looks bad, but I didn’t know what to do. Josh had moved on, and I didn’t know where he’d gone, so what could I tell her?”

“You could’ve given her some assurance that he was alive and well,” Dan said. “Josh’s parents miss him terribly. Even a word or two would’ve helped.”

Liam hung his head, unable or unwilling to frame a reply.

Making his tone gentle, Dan said, “I get it. You were being loyal to your friend. He’d severed ties with his parents, and you didn’t want to go against his wishes. There’s nothing wrong with that, nothing at all.”

Liam nodded, though he looked far from pleased with himself.

“Do you know why Josh left Embervale in the first place?” Dan asked.

“No. He wouldn’t say.”

“That surprises me. If there was anybody Joshua could’ve confided in, I think it would’ve been you.”

“Well, he didn’t,” Liam said. “Yeah, we’re mates, but he didn’t tell me why he left home. And when he turned up here, I didn’t push him. I let him stay, no questions asked. That’s what mates do.”

“Even so, you must’ve had some idea why he left home. Was there anything he said that might⁠—”

“No,” Liam interrupted. “All I know is, he wanted out of that village, and who can blame him? Too many small minds, too many bigots. It’s awful about his dad, but even if you find Josh, he won’t go back to that place. Neither will I.”

Liam’s voice had grown cold, the years of bitterness laid bare. Dan’s heart went out to the young man. He had no wish to reopen old wounds, but there were questions he still had to ask.

“Liam, how would you characterise Josh’s relationship with his parents?”

“He got on with them okay. Whatever made him leave, it wasn’t them.”

“That’s good to hear,” Dan replied. “But if he got on with his parents, why has he never been in touch with them?”

“He must’ve had his reasons, but he didn’t want to talk about it, so I never asked him. People have boundaries. I respect that.”

“That’s very commendable. Perhaps that’s because you know what it’s like to have a difficult time at home.”

“What? Who said anything about that?”

“You did,” Dan replied. “You didn’t feel at home in Embervale. Too many small minds, you said. Too many bigots.” Dan looked Liam in the eye. “But it wasn’t everyone in the village who caused you problems, was it? You see, I’ve met your father.”

Liam drew a sharp breath. “What’s he got to do with it? I thought you were looking for Josh.”

“I am, but there’s a complication. Someone was seen near the church, and at first, Mr Southgate thought it might’ve been Josh. We no longer believe that, but I’ve been asking around, and your father is a churchwarden.”

“So here you are. Two runaways for the price of one.”

“I don’t work for your father,” Dan said. “I have no connection with him whatsoever, and your relationship with him is none of my business.”

“Is that right?”

“It is. To be honest, your father didn’t like me at all. And that’s before he found out I’m an atheist.”

Liam stared at Dan in disbelief.

“Look,” Dan went on, “all I want is the opportunity to talk to Josh and tell him about his dad. What he does with that information is up to him. If he wants to go home, I can help. If he’d rather send a message, I can take care of that. But if he’d rather stay away completely, he’ll get no argument from me.”

Liam took a moment to consider, his gaze on Dan all the while. Finally, he said, “All right. Say I believe you. It doesn’t make much difference. I’ve already told you everything I can. I really have no idea where Josh went. He was okay the last time I saw him, but that’s all I know.”

“You must have a phone number for him.”

“Not anymore. He gave me a number when he was here, but I tried afterwards and it was out of service. Maybe he couldn’t afford to top it up, or he might’ve lost it or thrown it away. All I can tell you is that it doesn’t work.”

“Could I have the number anyway?” Dan asked.

“All right. It won’t do you much good, but I’ll go and get my phone.”

Liam retreated along the hallway leaving the door ajar, and while Dan waited he heard more footsteps on the stairs. When the door opened, it was Mark who appeared.

“Listen,” Mark began, his voice low, “are you going to help Liam out? Are you going to talk to your contacts about him?”

“It would be best if we do it the other way around,” Dan replied. “I can send some names to Liam, then it’s up to him what he does with them.”

“Okay. If you help him, maybe I can help you.”

“You know where Josh is?”

“Not exactly, but he texted me a while back, and I never delete anything. It’ll be on my phone.”

“Okay, but Liam’s already tried Josh’s number and⁠—”

“This is from a different phone,” Mark interrupted, conflicting emotions playing out on his features. “Liam doesn’t know about this. It’s complicated. He and Josh are close. They’re like brothers, and when Josh came here…”

“Liam told me about their argument,” Dan said.

“Argument is putting it mildly. Things were said, and they couldn’t find their way through it. It was like they were too close to get out of their own way, do you know what I mean?”

“I do. And in those times, you were caught in the middle. You were someone they both trusted.”

“I guess so. Anyway, I’m pretty sure Josh didn’t go far. He said something about Exeter. But listen, if I help you out, if I give you this number, you’ve got to come through for Liam, okay? He works hard, and he’s good at what he does, but he really needs a break.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t make any promises. I hope that’s understood.”

Mark hesitated, but then he took a phone from his pocket and began scrolling through his messages.

Dan readied his phone, creating a new contact and waiting with his thumbs poised over the screen. When Mark read out a number, Dan typed it straight in.

“Got it,” Dan said.

“Got what?” Liam had reappeared, and his gaze went from Dan to Mark.

“I was just giving him my number,” Mark replied. “You know, just in case.”

Liam narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t argue. He gave Dan the last number he had for Josh, and Dan added it to his phone. As Mark had said, the two numbers were different.

“Thanks,” Dan said. “When I find Josh, is there anything you want me to pass on to him, any message?”

Liam nodded. “Yeah, that would be good. If you find him, please ask him to give me a call. I’d like to know he’s safe.”

“I’ll do that,” Dan replied.

“Same goes for me,” Mark said. “And any time he wants to come over, we’d love to see him.” With a sardonic smile, he added, “His old room is free.”

Liam and Mark exchanged a look, and Dan sensed an unspoken tension between them. Was there something that made the empty room worthy of a mention? The house was large and it was near the city centre. The rent or mortgage payments wouldn’t be cheap. Not easy for two young people to afford on their own.

“Do you normally share the house with someone else?” Dan asked.

“Yes, we do,” Mark intoned. “Usually anyway.”

Still, there was something unsaid.

“But no tenant at the moment,” Dan prompted.

“No, the last bloke just cleared out,” Liam replied with a shake of his head. “Not a word of notice. One day he was there, the next he was gone.”

“Owing you money,” Dan suggested.

“And the rest,” Liam said. “Damian stole all kinds of stuff. He took whatever he fancied: cash, clothes, my rucksack, Mark’s tent and sleeping bag. He just helped himself.”

Mark let out a hollow laugh. “Maybe you can track him down for us and get our stuff back. There’s a bloke over the road who’d gladly pay for five minutes alone with Damian.”

“Why is that?” Dan asked.

“He reckons Damian nicked his bike,” Liam replied. “The guy came over here, shouting the odds. It was a good bike, apparently, worth a lot. But I told him, there’s nothing I can do about it. Damian’s gone, and with a bit of luck we’ll never see him again.”

“I’m sorry that’s happened,” Dan said. “Sounds like you’re better off without him.”

Liam and Mark nodded firmly, both looking as though they’d talked enough and would rather be doing something else.

Time to go, Dan decided. He renewed his promise to help Liam with a few contacts, then he asked for an email address so he could send over a list of names. Grudgingly, as if he still didn’t quite trust Dan, Liam obliged.

“I’ll be in touch,” Dan said. “Thanks for your help.”

He said goodbye and strode back to his car. As soon as he regained the driving seat, Dan took out his phone and retrieved the number Mark had given him.

It rang for a second or two, and then it was answered. Dan’s heart skipped a beat.

“Hello,” Dan said. “Joshua Southgate?”

There was the sound of someone breathing, and some muffled noises as though the phone was being handed to someone else.

A man muttered something Dan couldn’t catch, and in reply, a woman murmured “Okay,” adding a word in a foreign language that Dan didn’t recognise.

But then the woman’s voice came through loud and clear. “Sorry,” she said. “You have the wrong number.”

The call was ended. Dan called it again, but received only a recorded message to say the phone was out of service. There wasn’t even an option for voicemail.

Dan composed a text message, explaining as briefly as he could that Joshua’s father was very ill in hospital and urgently wanted to see his son. He tapped out the message as quickly as he could, but almost immediately after he pressed send, an error message appeared. His text could not be sent.

He’s turned his phone off, Dan decided. He could try again from the landline at home, and he could ask Alan to try as well, but he doubted whether any of them would be able to get through.

If this was Joshua’s number, he clearly didn’t want to receive phone calls from strangers. It wouldn’t take him long to adjust the privacy settings on his phone, blocking any unknown numbers, and he’d almost certainly block masked numbers too. The usefulness of Joshua’s phone number was dwindling rapidly.

Dan sat quietly for a moment, trying to recall the murmured word the woman had said. Her accent had suggested she was from Eastern Europe, but Dan hadn’t recognised the word at all.

“Kohanyo?” he whispered. “Kohanyer?” The second one sounded better, but he still had no idea what it meant. Perhaps Natalya would know.

I’m on the right trail, Dan told himself. He had a few more pieces of the puzzle. He didn’t know where any of them fitted yet, or even if they belonged to the same picture, but it was better than having no pieces at all.

CHAPTER 22

Sophia arrived home to find her mother in the kitchen, stirring one saucepan while another held boiling water. Both pans were issuing clouds of steam, the scent of herbs and simmering tomatoes filling the air. Sophia stood silently in the kitchen doorway for a while, watching.

On the surface, everything looked fine. The kitchen was tidy, the table was laid, the radio was playing in the background. But the wine bottle she’d put away now stood by the kitchen sink, empty. Sophia closed her eyes, but only for a moment. This evening had to be endured; she’d just have to grin and bear it.

“Hi,” Sophia said.

Her mother gave a start and let out a high-pitched squeak, but she smiled when she saw Sophia.

“Darling, you made me jump. Everything all right?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Her mother rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, I don’t know. Sorry for being concerned about you.” She looked back to her cooking and prodded at one of the pans uncertainly with a fork. “I think the spaghetti is almost done. I’m making spag bog. Your favourite.”

“It’s not my favourite, Mum. I said that when I was, like, ten or something. I don’t have a favourite, but if I did, it wouldn’t be spaghetti Bolognese. And that’s what it’s called, by the way. No one says, ‘spag bog’ anymore.”

“Don’t they? I do. My kitchen, my rules.” She laughed as though she’d said something hilarious. “Anyway, it’ll be on the table in five minutes. So if you need to wash your hands⁠—”

“Mum, for God’s sake,” Sophia blurted. “You can’t keep fussing over everything. I’m not a child.”

“I know that, darling, believe me. Sometimes, I think you never were.”

Sophia flinched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her mother flicked her hands in the air. “Nothing. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say anything.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I was just…”

“Just what? Come on, Mum. If you’ve got something to say, go ahead and say it.”

They stared at each other, the silence between them like a brick wall.

Sophia steeled herself. Here it comes, she thought. She’s finally going to say something.

Every muscle in Sophia’s body tensed. She was ready. Ready to be hurt. Anything was better than the way things were. They were drowning in a sea of fake sincerity, clinging to some idea of family life that had never been real, dragging each other down. They couldn’t go on like this. Somebody had to let go.

Go on, Sophia silently urged. Push me away.

But her mother dropped her gaze. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she said. “If you want it.”

“It smells nice,” Sophia replied, but when she saw her mother’s smile, she added, “But I’m not hungry. I’m going up to my room.”

“Okay. I’ll, er, I’ll save you some. When you’re ready, you can⁠—”

“I know.”

Sophia strode from the room and stomped up the stairs, but the thumping beat of her footsteps could not drown out the maddening rhythm of seventies pop music coming from the kitchen. Her mother had turned up the radio, and she was singing, for God’s sake.

Give me strength, Sophia thought. I can’t stand much more of this.

She paused outside her bedroom door, but on an impulse headed for her studio. It would be quiet there.

Once safely inside, she shut the studio door and leaned her back against it. Silence. She let out a slow breath, then she took out her phone and stared at the screen while she gathered her courage.

I have to do this, she told herself. It’s the only way.

She made the call, and it was answered straight away.

“Hi,” she said. “We have to talk. It’s happening again. It’s not like before. It’s worse, and we have to do something. We have to.”

The only reply was a low moan.

“I wouldn’t ask if there was another way,” Sophia went on. “We have to stop him, properly this time, and it has to be tonight. Come to the same place as before. Eight o’clock. Please, don’t let me down.”

A pause. Sophia closed her eyes and fought against the tightness constricting her throat, her chest, her stomach. It was like being squeezed by heavy hands, strong arms crushing the breath from her body.

But then she heard a reply: “I’ll be there.”

CHAPTER 23

In the evening, Dan and Alan reconvened in The Wild Boar.

“Hello, you two,” Sam said. “Lovely evening.”

“Yes it is, and all the better for seeing you,” Dan replied. “Something tells me you’ve had a good day.”

“I have.” Sam tilted her head toward the end of the bar where a young woman Dan didn’t recognise was concentrating on pulling a pint of ale. The job done, she lifted the glass for inspection, peering intently as the head formed.

“That looks perfect, Kayleigh,” Sam called out. “Take the gentleman’s money, then pop over here and meet a couple of our regular customers.”

While the young woman dealt with the customer’s payment, Sam turned back to Dan and Alan.

“That girl is a star,” she said. “This is her first shift, and she’s taken to it like a charm. Honestly, it’s like she’s been doing it all her life. She’s wonderful.”

“That is good news,” Dan replied. “You’ve been saying you’re short-staffed for ages.”

“Not anymore.”

Kayleigh strolled to Sam’s side, a self-conscious smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Here she is,” Sam went on, “the latest addition to The Wild Boar team.”

Kayleigh’s smile blossomed, her lips parting to reveal perfect white teeth.

Dan found himself smiling back. Perhaps no more than eighteen, Kayleigh had the kind of fresh-faced beauty that any aspiring Hollywood actor would gladly kill for. Her blonde hair was styled in a short, loose bob, and the thin straps of her turquoise cotton top showed off her lightly tanned shoulders and toned arms. Her faded jeans suited her slim figure, and a thin gold chain at her throat completed her outfit.

“Evening,” Kayleigh said. “Can I get anybody a drink?”

“In a minute,” Sam replied. “Kayleigh, meet Dan and Alan, two of our finest customers. Be sure to look after them, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Kayleigh replied. “How about a pint on the house?”

Sam blinked in surprise, but she recovered quickly, rewarding Kayleigh with a nod and a smile. “Go on then. But don’t make a habit of it.”

“You’ll go far, Kayleigh,” Dan said. “I’ll have a pint of Jail Ale, please.”

“I’ll have the same, please,” Alan added. “Welcome to The Wild Boar, Kayleigh. Do you live locally?”

“I’m Embervale born and bred,” Kayleigh replied, already placing a pint glass under the spout and working the handle.

“Kayleigh is Dave Robbins’ daughter,” Sam explained. “You know Dave Robbins, don’t you, Alan?”

“Dave the plumber?” Alan asked.

Kayleigh rolled her eyes in mock weariness. “That’s right, but don’t go on at me about your leaky taps or whatever. I have no say over what my dad does and when, and I definitely can’t tear him away from watching the football of an evening, so don’t ask.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Alan said. “Especially on a bank holiday.”

“It’s like Woody Allen said,” Kayleigh began, placing two perfectly poured pints on the bar, “not only is there no God, but try finding a plumber on Sunday.”

“Careful, Kayleigh,” Sam warned. “Some of our best customers go to church every week, so we don’t want that kind of talk.”

“It was only a joke, and we weren’t offended in the least,” Dan said. “I assume you’re not a churchgoer yourself, Kayleigh.”

“Me? No fear. My mum used to be into all that. Every Sunday she’d put on her best frock and flounce out of the house with her handbag.”

“She didn’t take you with her?” Dan asked.

Kayleigh pulled a face. “No way. The rest of us stayed at home and put the dinner on. I could roast a joint of beef before I could ride a bike.”

“All right, we’ve had enough chat for now,” Sam said. “A little goes a long way, Kayleigh. And in future, steer away from religion and politics, all right?”

“Yes, mum,” Kayleigh intoned.

Dan had been sipping his beer and almost choked in his haste to swallow it down. A host of foolish questions came to mind, but Sam spared him the bother, giggling as she playfully tapped Kayleigh on the arm.

“Less of that,” Sam said. “I’m not old enough to be your mum and you know it. Besides, you’re giving poor Dan a fright.”

Kayleigh’s gaze darted from Dan to Sam, then her lips formed an O.

“Yes, Dan’s my boyfriend,” Sam went on. “And he doesn’t miss a thing, so you’d better watch your step when he’s around.”

“Is that so?” Kayleigh said with just the suggestion of a pout. “I’ll have to remember that.” She glanced at the pint in Dan’s hand. “How’s your Jail Ale? Pulled it all right, did I? I didn’t give you a short measure or anything?”

“It’s fine, thank you,” Dan replied. “Almost as good as when Sam pours it.”

Kayleigh seemed slightly put out by this, but she brushed her hands together and said, “Right, I’ll go and collect some empties. All right, Sam?”

“That’d be good, Kayleigh. Thanks.”

Kayleigh let herself out from behind the bar and disappeared into the back room.

“Kayleigh seems nice,” Alan said. “She’s very outgoing, and that must be a plus in this job.”

“Yeah,” Sam replied. “She needs to settle down a bit, but she’ll be all right.”

Dan detected an edge of uncertainty in Sam’s tone, as though she might be rethinking her opinion of Kayleigh, but he decided not to comment. Running the pub was Sam’s department, and she neither needed nor welcomed any help from him.

Instead, he thanked Sam for the drink, then he and Alan made for the table by the fire. As they settled in, Dan said, “This is starting to feel like my place of work. If we call this a meeting, can we claim the next round against tax?”

“Nice idea, but it won’t work,” Alan replied. “You can only claim for food and drink if you’re away from home. A pint at the local pub isn’t what they call subsistence; strictly speaking, you don’t need it.”

“I beg to differ.” Dan swallowed a few mouthfuls of beer and set his glass down. “See? I feel better already. I can almost hear the synapses firing up.”

“Hardly scientific, but I won’t argue. Cheers.” Alan sampled his pint and then set it aside, leaning his elbows on the table as if ready for business.

Dan followed his example, then he told Alan the highlights of his visit to Plymouth, ending with the call to Josh’s number and the woman he spoke to, including the strange word in an unfamiliar language.

“Kohanyer,” Alan said. “Did you try looking it up online?”

“Yes, but the nearest I found was Kohana. That’s a name that might be Japanese or Native American, but it doesn’t sound quite right. Her accent was Eastern European, and I wondered if Natalya might be able to shed some light on it.”

“I’ll ask her, but there are quite a few languages spoken across the continent.”

“I know, but Natalya’s good with languages, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Very.” Alan paused for a sip of beer then said, “You’re not the only one with something to report. It’s my turn.”

Alan explained about his trip to the nature reserve with Natalya, relating what they’d found, along with Natalya’s description of the young woman she’d seen in the shop.

“Interesting,” Dan said. “So Natalya might have met the person Greg saw at the church. He wasn’t sure whether they were male or female, but it’s worth pursuing the idea that it was a young woman. And if she is pregnant and having trouble keeping body and soul together, it might explain a lot.”

Alan cleared his throat. “Actually, there’s something else I want to say. Natalya tried to help us earlier. She said we ought to find out where the local teenagers go, and she was right. But when I told you her idea, you dismissed it out of hand, and I was no better.”

“Ah. I’ll say something when I see her. I’ll apologise.”

“I think that would be a good idea.”

An awkward silence arrived, and both men chose that moment to sip their beer and gaze at the smouldering embers in the fireplace.

Alan spoke first: “We’ve always been a team of two, but things are changing, aren’t they?”

“Yes. Yes, they are.”

“Even so…”

Dan nodded. “Even so.”

“Good. Well, I’m glad that’s settled.” Alan raised his pint, and they clinked glasses before taking a drink.

“Let’s put the pieces together and see if they fit,” Dan said. “We have an unknown person haunting the churchyard, and a young woman who might be penniless but shies away from help. We also have a pregnancy test that may or may not have belonged to her. What else have we got?”

“Lots of questions,” Alan replied. “First of all, where is she from? Is she a local or someone who’s drifted in from elsewhere?”

“My hunch is that she’s from the village or a house nearby. She was able to get away from Natalya pretty quickly, so she knows her way around.”

Alan looked doubtful. “Anyone can hide if they put their mind to it.”

“Yes, but let’s run with the idea and see where it takes us. Assuming she was in the churchyard, what was she doing there? Of all the hiding places she could’ve chosen, why did she pick the church, and why did she allow Greg to see her?”

“She might be religious. She didn’t ask for material help, but she might’ve been looking for some kind of spiritual comfort.”

“Or she might just happen to know the church and recognise the vicar. To her, he was a familiar face, a trusted figure, and she had nowhere else to go.”

“Any port in a storm?” Alan said. “That’s too random. I prefer my idea—she was seeking solace or redemption, even sanctuary.”

“That’s because it’s a more poetic explanation, more literary—the waif and stray haunting the village church.”

“No, it’s because my version might actually give us some leads. If this young woman went to the church regularly at some point, we have a chance of finding out who she is.”

Dan shook his head firmly. “Greg would’ve recognised her.”

“Not if she’d only been to church when she was younger. You heard what Kayleigh said. Plenty of families take their youngsters to a Sunday service, but teenagers tend to rebel against these things.”

“You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.”

“I am,” Alan stated. “My parents still go to church, as it happens. They took me when I was a kid, but they never complained when I didn’t want to go anymore. They said it was up to me.”

“Right. I didn’t know that. You never said.”

“I don’t have to tell you everything.”

“Of course not,” Dan said. “It seems odd that you never mentioned it, that’s all.”

“Let’s get back to the case, shall we? There must be someone connected to the church that we can talk to. Greg is out of action, and Brenda won’t want to be disturbed. Simon Bellamy hasn’t been here long, so he won’t be much help, and we’ve burned our bridges with Henry.” Alan paused, raising a finger and cocking his ear. “Speak of the devil. Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“A car just went past, and unless I’m much mistaken, it was a sports car.”

“Okay,” Dan said slowly. “Is this some new skill you’ve been practising? Can you tell me the make and model as well?”

“An MG. An old one. A classic car with wire wheels. Red.”

“I was only kidding, but I suspect you’re trying to tell me something. Can we skip to the part where you explain?”

“Patience is its own reward.” Alan waited as if making a point, then he added, “We were talking about Henry, and I think he just drove past. Natalya told me he has an old MG, and he goes whizzing through the village whenever there’s a fine evening. Apparently, Sam hears him go past all the time.”

“I didn’t know that, but I’m not sure if it’s relevant, unless you’re suggesting that Henry lures young women into his sports car and⁠—”

“I wasn’t saying anything of the sort,” Alan interrupted. “I thought it was interesting, that’s all. You can’t have too much background information; you never know what might prove to be useful.”

Dan nodded. “Henry’s car is duly noted. But where do we go from here?”

“What about Emma Parkhurst? We could try talking to her again.”

“We’d get a frosty reception there,” Dan replied. “But I’ve had another idea. Look who’s just walked in—the repository of local rumours.”

CHAPTER 24

Dan and Alan watched Jay Markham stroll up to the bar. But before ordering a drink, Jay turned suddenly as if sensing he was being observed. He gave them a nod then pointed to them in turn and waggled his hand to suggest a drink.

“That’s my cue,” Dan said, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. “I won’t be a sec.”

Jay eyed Dan narrowly as he approached. “You must be thirsty,” Jay said, his gaze flitting past Dan to where the drinks still sat on the table. “Looks to me like you’ve already got the best part of a pint waiting. Still, an offer is an offer. What’ll you have?”

“Actually, I’ve come to buy you a drink,” Dan replied. “Lager?”

“I won’t say no.”

Behind the bar, Kayleigh strolled toward them. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“That’s all right,” Dan replied. “A pint of lager for my friend here, please.”

“And have one for yourself.” Jay hooked his thumb toward Dan. “He’s paying.”

“Why not?” Dan said. “We’ve got to keep the staff happy.”

“Thanks,” Kayleigh replied. “I’ll have a half later, after my shift.”

“Go on, have a gin on his lordship’s account,” Jay said, “and make it a large one.”

“A half’s fine for me thank you very much, Mr Markham. And don’t argue or I’ll make it a coke, and Sam gives us that for free.”

Jay’s face was a mask of mock horror. “I don’t know what’s wrong with the youth of today. Anyway, you have what you like, Kayleigh. How are your mum and dad these days?”

“Both fine, thank you. Always busy.”

“And Julie?”

Kayleigh’s smile dimpled her cheeks. “She’s doing really well. Got herself a little job. Just a bit of cleaning and that, but she likes it.”

“Good for her.” Jay looked on as Kayleigh poured the lager, watching the rapidly filling glass with a thirsty gaze, but he tore his attention away and turned to Dan. “So, what’s all this sudden generosity in aid of? What are you after?”

“Nothing,” Dan replied. “At least, nothing much.”

“I thought so. Let’s hear it.”

“I’m looking for background information, that’s all.”

Jay’s eyebrows shot up, and he placed one hand on his chest. “From me? What do you take me for, the village gossip?”

“Not at all,” Dan blustered, but Jay was already grinning.

“Relax, lad. I’m only messing with you. I keep my ear to the ground, and if that’s worth a pint or three, I’m more than happy to oblige.”

Kayleigh delivered Jay’s lager, and she’d clearly been listening to their exchange.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Folk reckon it’s women who like to gossip, but if you ask me, men are worse by a long way. It’s my first shift, and all I’ve heard so far is men nattering away about who said what to who.”

“That’s life in a small village,” Dan replied. “How much do I owe you?”

Kayleigh named the price and seeing Dan’s proffered debit card, she pointed him to the card reader.

“Is that new?” Dan asked.

“Yeah. The other one was ancient.”

Jay puffed out his cheeks. “It’s only been there for a few years.”

“Like I said, ancient. Sam says we have to move with the times, and I reckon she’s right.”

“I don’t know,” Jay grumbled. “This place used to be cash only. They’ll be getting rid of the dartboard next.”

“No fear. Sam says the darts team keep this place going. But I’ll leave you gents to your gossip. Sorry, I mean your banter.” Kayleigh favoured them with a disarming smile and moved along the bar to serve another customer.

Jay took a sip from his glass then regarded Dan with a professional eye. “Right, what’s this information you’re after?”

“Let’s move away from the bar,” Dan replied. “Come and join Alan and me, and we’ll talk.”

“You’re the one paying, so lead on.”

Dan briefly wondered how many pints of lager he’d bought for Jay over the years, but he wasn’t going to complain. There were times when it was useful to have Jay on your side.

The two men returned to the table where Alan was waiting expectantly, and they huddled together, leaning on the table and speaking in lowered voices.

“Did you know Joshua Southgate?” Dan asked.

“The vicar’s lad? The one who ran away?”

Dan nodded.

“That was a good few years back, but I vaguely remember him. I know Greg. He’s a good sort. He used to come in here now and then. Not so much these days, though.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Dan replied. “Greg’s health isn’t good, I’m afraid. He’s in Torbay Hospital. He has a heart condition.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Poor bloke. He was always friendly to me.”

“I like him too,” Dan said. “We only met recently, but he asked me to look for his son.”

“I’d help if I could, but if that’s what you’re after, you’re talking to the wrong man.” Jay frowned. “You know, I can’t even think where to start. I didn’t know the lad, and I only heard third hand that he’d run away.”

“Who told you?” Alan asked.

Jay shrugged. “No idea. It would’ve been someone in here, I expect, but it must’ve been at least five years ago.”

“Six,” Dan said. “Have you really no memory of Joshua at all?”

“I can’t help you. Sorry. Maybe someone in the church could help. What about Henry? He’s a churchwarden, I think.”

“We’ve talked to him,” Alan said. “He wasn’t much help. Apparently, he didn’t approve of Joshua at all.”

Jay nodded. “He’s set in his ways, is Henry. What about the other churchwarden? Penny?” Jay scrunched up his features. “Sorry, forget that. She doesn’t do it anymore.”

“Who are we talking about?” Dan asked.

“Penny Robbins—Kayleigh’s mum—she was a churchwarden for years, but I heard she gave it up a while back.”

Dan glanced at the bar where Kayleigh was chatting happily with a customer as she dispensed packets of crisps. Kayleigh had mentioned her mother going to church, but she’d said those days had gone. What had happened to make her mother so disaffected with the church?

To Jay, he said, “Would Penny have been a churchwarden around the time Josh disappeared?”

“Aye, I reckon so, but I might be wrong. Best if you can ask her yourself.” He turned in his seat to peer around the room. “She’s not in tonight, but you’ll catch her sooner or later. You must know Penny.”

“Actually, no,” Dan admitted.

“Me neither,” Alan said. “I know the name, but I can’t remember her.”

Jay laughed. “Come on. No need to be coy with me. You know her.”

“I really don’t,” Dan replied. “As far as I know, I’ve never met her.”

Jay stared at them, aghast. “What? Everyone knows Penny. Whenever there’s anything going on around here, Penny’s there, handing out the tea, selling cakes, doling out the scones. The summer fayre, apple day, harvest supper, the school fete.” Jay circled his hand in the air to show the list went on. “You remember that Christmas panto a few years back. Snow White and the Seven something-or-others.”

“Dwarves?” Alan suggested.

“No, they changed it to quarrymen or something, but it doesn’t matter. The point is, Penny was Snow White. She stole the show.”

“I didn’t see it,” Alan said. “If it was a few years ago and before Christmas, we might’ve been in Newquay.”

“Cornwall. Why?” Jay shook his head to forestall any replies. “Don’t tell me, it would’ve been some daftness or other. I swear, you two go running around all over the place, but don’t know what’s happening on your own doorstep.” He gave them a baleful look. “How can you not know Penny? I’ll tell you the reason why—you’ve got your heads in the clouds. You don’t see us mere mortals.”

“I resent that,” Dan said. “I take a lot of interest in what’s going on and why. Watching people is what I do. How do you think I’ve solved all those cases?”

“That’s different. I’m talking about ordinary folk doing ordinary things. You don’t make time for it.”

“I might not go to every flower show or whatever, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care about this village,” Dan stated. “And I’m supporting at least one local cause.”

“Oh aye, what’s that?”

Dan gestured to Jay’s pint. “I bought you a drink, didn’t I?”

Jay’s face fell, but then a suppressed burst of laughter shook his shoulders. “Touché. Well played, lad. The Jay Markham Rehydration Scheme—a worthy cause, all donations gratefully accepted.” He raised his glass in salute and took a slurp of lager.

When Jay put down his glass, Dan said, “You still haven’t told us much about Penny. Apart from being involved in the community, what’s she like?”

Jay shifted in his seat. “She’s a character, is Penny. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a grand lass, and she looks after those girls, treats them like princesses. But some people turn their noses up at her, make remarks. It’s not right, what with everything she’s been through, but you know what folk can be like when they turn their backs on someone.”

“Why would they do that to her?” Dan said. “There must be some reason.”

Jay pursed his lips, his demeanour growing grave. Finally, he shook his head. “Not for me to say. The point is, Penny’s all right. She does a lot for this village, and some people might cast aspersions, but you’ll not hear anything like that from me.”

“What do they say?” Dan asked. Jay looked as though he was about to refuse an answer, so Dan added, “You can tell me in general terms, can’t you? I don’t need to know the specifics.”

Jay weighed this up. “All right. In general terms, all you need to know is this—Kayleigh gets her good looks from her mum. Penny might not go in for fancy clothes and dolling herself up, but she’s a head turner. It’s enough to make some folk jealous. You can work out the rest.”

“So, she attracts male interest,” Dan said carefully.

Jay nodded. “It’s nowt to do with her, but there’s a certain type of bloke who doesn’t look too closely for a wedding ring, if you know what I mean.”

“I can’t imagine her husband takes too kindly to that,” Alan said.

“You might be right, but I’ll not be the one to say it.” Jay turned his gaze on Dan. “Have you met Dave?”

“No, I can’t say I have. You’re not going to tell me I ought to know him by now, are you? Because we’ve been down that road already.”

Jay shrugged. “You’ll change your tune when you’ve got water coming through the ceiling. Dave’s the best plumber in the village. There are a few more, but they charge an arm and a leg. Dave’s not like that. He does a good job, and he charges a fair rate.”

“I’m not so much interested in his abilities as a plumber,” Dan said. “What is he like as a man?”

“Well, I dare say he’s a bit rough around the edges compared to the likes of you, but he’s a decent bloke. He looks after his family, puts food on the table. He doesn’t really come in here. He stays at home, puts his feet up. He’s mad on footy, and you know what it’s like now. Pay for the right channels and you can watch the beautiful game all day every day.”

That’s reason enough for Penny to go out as often as possible, Dan thought. A football widow. But he wasn’t going to say that to Jay. A keen football fan, Jay was apt to take offence at any criticism of the sport he loved.

Steering the conversation away to firmer ground, Dan said, “Have you any idea why Penny stopped being a churchwarden?”

Jay wrinkled his features. “Why? What’s that got to do with the Southgate lad? You don’t think she spirited him away, do you?”

“No, but we don’t have much to go on,” Alan replied. “We need leads, and that means talking to anyone who might’ve known Joshua.”

“Especially if they happened to be involved with the church,” Dan said. “My instinct says there’s a link there.”

Jay’s expression darkened. “What kind of link are we talking about?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Dan replied. “But if you can think of anything that might help us, we’d be grateful.”

“All right.” Jay took a drink of beer, then he glanced over his shoulder as though he feared being overheard. “Happen there was something. I wasn’t there, so take it with a pinch of salt, but I heard there was a bit of a barney between Dave Robbins and Henry. You say you’ve met Henry, right?”

Dan and Alan nodded in unison.

“He can be an awkward old bugger when he wants to be, and they say Henry fell out with Penny. The rumour was, he accused her of carrying on behind Dave’s back, and he more or less told her she wasn’t fit to be a churchwarden.”

“That must’ve been awful for her,” Alan said. “Was she okay?”

Jay shook his head. “I don’t think so. She didn’t talk about it, not in my hearing, but I reckon it came as a blow. She still helps out at all the village events, but they say she never sets foot in the church, not even at Christmas.”

“I wonder if Greg knows about this,” Dan said. “Where did they argue?”

“I don’t know, but they say Dave wasn’t too happy about it. He wasn’t going to stand by and have someone slander his wife, so he went over to Seven Springs and gave Henry something to think about, namely a black eye.”

Dan found himself smiling, picturing the scene, Henry getting his comeuppance.

Alan seemed to read his expression and said, “I couldn’t agree more. I never realised Henry could be so cantankerous, but I’m seeing him in a whole new light.”

“Like all bullies, he chooses his targets,” Dan replied. “His teenage son, a woman, and who else? Joshua Southgate, perhaps?”

“There’s always someone who’ll throw their weight around,” Jay said. “But all this chat is making me thirsty.” He picked up his glass and drained the remainder of his lager in one go. “I’ll have another before I head home. Anything for you two?”

“No thanks,” Dan replied. “It was good talking to you, Jay. It was all very⁠—”

Dan broke off, his eyes on the man who’d just walked in through the front door.

“Ah, there’s the bloke you want to talk to,” Jay said. “Bellamy. He’s the curate or something.”

“The deacon,” Alan corrected him. “And yes, we do want to talk to him, but I don’t think he’ll be pleased to see us.”

“Like that, is it? Daniel Corrigan strikes again.” Jay grinned and pushed his chair back. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Behave yourselves, lads, and play nicely with the natives. You never know when you might need a neighbour.”

Before Dan could come up with a pithy reply, Jay stood and marched away, exchanging a nod with Simon Bellamy as he took his place at the bar.

Dan had only seen Simon Bellamy in semi-darkness, and the man had been wearing running gear at the time, but this was a perfect opportunity to study him without the risk of another confrontation.

Bellamy looked as though he’d aimed for smart casual but not quite hit the mark. His denim shirt had been ironed and it clashed with his dark blue jeans. He’d draped a red jumper over his shoulders and looped one sleeve loosely over the other.

Bellamy’s black hair had been tamed and brushed back, and it glistened as though still damp. The style emphasised his high forehead and the arch of his strong eyebrows. Bellamy’s beard had been trimmed since Dan had last seen him, and there was no doubt in Dan’s mind: Simon Bellamy had spruced himself up for a night out.

Only Bellamy’s footwear let him down. The stout walking boots were scuffed and they still bore streaks of dry mud. But it was only when Bellamy glanced in his direction that Dan’s curiosity went into overdrive.

Bellamy looked away quickly, lowering his chin. He leaned on the bar and ordered a drink, his shoulders hunched.

Keep your head down all you like, Dan thought. But it’s too late for that. Dan had clearly seen the parallel marks on Bellamy’s forehead: scratches that hadn’t had time to heal.

“Someone’s been in the wars,” Alan remarked. “And he’s not too happy to see us. I told you, there’s something fishy about that man.”

Dan made a noncommittal sound, keeping his gaze on Bellamy.

Receiving a glass of what looked like whisky, Bellamy paid for his drink and made straight for the back room.

“Shall we go and have a word?” Alan asked.

“Not right now,” Dan replied. “He’s not going to give us the time of day. But we could try in a few minutes. Give him time to have his drink and relax a little, then I’ll pretend I’m going to the loo, and I’ll stop by and say hello. If that fails, one of us can accidentally bump into him when he goes back to the bar.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They sat quietly, drinking their beer, but Alan suddenly turned to the window and said, “Did you see that?”

“What?” Dan followed his gaze but saw nothing. “What was it?”

“Somebody marched past the window, and I think it was Simon Bellamy. He must’ve slipped out the back way.”

Dan jumped to his feet and strode through to the back room. He earned a few wary glances from the handful of drinkers, but that was nothing new. All Dan cared about was the fact that Simon Bellamy was not there. On a table by the door that led to the garden sat a single empty tumbler.

I shouldn’t have waited, Dan told himself. Bellamy looked guilty from the moment he walked in. Dan made his way back to the front room where Alan was waiting, perched on the edge of his seat.

“Has he gone?” Alan asked.

“Yes, but there’s nothing we can do about it. We can’t chase after him—not this time.”

Dan retook his seat and sipped his beer. “You know, I’m beginning to think you’re right about Simon Bellamy,” he said. “That man has something to hide.”

TUESDAY

CHAPTER 25

Marjorie stood on her front doorstep and looked past her garden to the lane. It was early and all was quiet. There was not so much as a distant murmur of traffic, although the air was still, and on such days she could sometimes hear the cars on the distant main road.

She took a breath and tried to savour the peace and quiet. But something nagged at her: a stray thought that wouldn’t let her be. Something wasn’t right.

You’re an old fool, she told herself. No sense in dreaming up troubles for the sake of it.

Marjorie had intended to see to the chickens before breakfast but changed her mind, returning to the kitchen and putting the kettle on. A cup of tea would see her right, and she’d plenty of bread that needed eating.

She made her breakfast in no time at all. While the tea brewed in the pot, she slathered a thick slice of home baked bread with butter and hedgerow jam. It was good but left her vaguely unsatisfied. She poured the tea and took her mug over to the window, gazing out as she drank, barely tasting it.

There was nothing much to see. Nothing different, nothing new.

What did you expect? she asked herself. A marching band?

Marjorie tutted and turned away from the window, busying herself by tidying the breakfast things. But as she made to return the loaf to the bread bin, she paused. She’d baked the bread a few days ago, and it had turned out well. The crust was perfect, and the texture just right. There was nothing unusual in that. She baked every week, and she ought to be good at it by now. Lord knows, she’d had enough practice.

But today it seemed a shame not to share it.

Archie always swore by my bread, she thought. Said it stayed his hunger all morning.

Hugh would like some fresh bread for his breakfast, and maybe a pot of jam. She had plenty, and she could easily spare a small jar.

The decision made, Marjorie set to, loading a basket and covering it with a clean tea towel.

A few minutes later, she was striding across the field to the quiet corner where Hugh had pitched his tent.

She half expected him to be up already, squatting beside his campfire to cook breakfast. But there was no sign of him, nor any noise coming from the tent.

“Hello,” Marjorie called out. “You in there, Hugh?”

There was no reply.

“It’s Marjorie,” she said, feeling foolish. Who else would it be?

“I brought you some bread,” she added. “And a bit of butter and jam.”

Marjorie cocked her ear, but no one stirred within the tent. Had he popped out on some errand or other? She spied his bike leaning against the hedge behind the tent. He wouldn’t have gone far without that. She turned to scan the field. The dew still sparkled on the grass, and there was only the trail left by her own footprints. He must still be inside the tent.

“Are you all right?” she called. “Are you…?”

Marjorie left her sentence unfinished as something caught her eye. A few yards from the tent, a dark shape lay crumpled on the ground: a bunched up piece of cloth or an article of clothing. She went to investigate and stood over it, nudging the fabric with her foot to straighten it out.

It was one of those hooded tops that all the youngsters wore. It was black, she thought, but it was hard to be sure. The thick cotton fabric was soaked through and spattered with mud, so it might look darker than it really was. It had been left out overnight, most likely, and that was odd. Hugh had few belongings, and he struck her as someone who would look after his things.

But where was he?

Marjorie grunted in disapproval. She’d had enough of this.

“Hugh,” she called out, marching back to the tent. “Stop playing silly buggers. I’m not standing out here for the good of my health. Shake a leg.”

Marjorie bent down to set her basket on the ground, and her gaze alighted on the tent’s zip fastener. She hesitated for a second, then grabbed hold of it.

“Hugh, if you don’t answer, I’m going to open this tent and look inside.”

Still, there was no answer. Marjorie took a breath then slid the zipper upward. The rasping sound of the zip’s teeth set her nerves on edge, but she slid it all the way to the top and peered inside.

The tent’s inner compartment was open, and a sleeping bag lay inside, the fabric smooth, flat and empty.

Marjorie straightened her back and checked the field once more, though she knew it served no purpose.

She didn’t like this, not one bit, but what could she do about it? Hugh didn’t owe her a thing. He was a grown man and he could come and go as he pleased. But still, every fibre of her body told her something had happened to him.

Wait and see, she told herself. He might turn up any minute.

It was a faint hope, but it would have to be enough, for the time being at any rate. She’d give him a few hours, and if Hugh didn’t reappear, she’d decide what to do. In the meantime, she may as well get home. She was doing nobody any good by standing around in the field.

Marjorie zipped up the tent, then she picked up her basket and headed back to the house, retracing her footsteps through the damp grass.

Things were simpler before he turned up at my gate, Marjorie thought. It might’ve been better if I’d turned him away. But she tutted at herself for being so uncharitable. She’d be keeping a watchful eye on the lane all morning, and she wouldn’t feel settled in her mind until Hugh came back.

CHAPTER 26

Dan checked his phone as he got ready to leave the house. There was a missed call and a voicemail from an unknown number. He listened to the message, but when he recognised the imperious tone of Brad Higgs and heard his demand for a meeting, Dan deleted the message without listening to the rest. He grinned as he blocked the man’s number, but then he discovered a couple of emails from the same source. Dan scanned the text and saw that Mr Higgs was still sorely vexed about graffiti appearing on his property. Someone, it seemed, had been defacing an outbuilding.

“Just call the police,” Dan murmured as he deleted the emails, marking the second one as spam. “Get over yourself, Brad.”

As Dan pocketed his phone and checked he had his wallet and keys, he saw Alan dashing past the kitchen window.

“It’s open,” Dan called out, and Alan hurried inside, his eyes bright. Before Dan could speak, Alan said, “Did you see what’s going on?”

“No, I’ve been⁠—”

“Police cars,” Alan interrupted. “At least three of them, and a van as well, all of them tearing through the village, blue lights flashing. Something’s happened, but I’ve no idea what.”

“There’s one way to find out. Let’s go and take a look.”

“Is that wise? They might’ve gone straight through the village and out the other side for all we know, but if they are still here, they won’t want bystanders poking their noses in. I thought we could search online, check the news.”

“The police won’t make anything public for hours, but something major must be happening right now, and it’s on our doorstep. We have to go and see for ourselves. If we can’t find the police, we might see someone who knows something.”

“All right,” Alan said. “We can go, but let’s not go charging in with both feet.”

“As if I would.”

Alan’s gaze flicked upward, but he didn’t argue, and they set off along Fore street. But they hadn’t gone far before another car came barrelling along the road behind them. The black Volvo saloon was unmarked, but blue lights strobed from behind its radiator grille.

The car breezed past them, then cruised to a halt, the driver’s window whirring open. An arm was extended from within, the hand sweeping forward in an impatient gesture.

“We’re being summoned,” Alan stated. “You don’t think…?”

“We’ll soon see,” Dan replied, and he made for the car, Alan at his side.

Dan leaned down to look into the car, meeting the shrewd gaze of a familiar figure.

“DI Spiller,” Dan said. “What brings you here?”

Spiller’s expression remained stony. “Please tell me, Mr Corrigan, that this is a complete coincidence. Tell me there’s no real reason for you two being the first people I see when I arrive.”

“I’m sure it is.” Dan looked past Spiller to where DS Collins sat in the passenger seat. Collins said nothing, his stare every bit as flinty as Spiller’s.

“What’s happened?” Dan asked. “Has someone been⁠—”

“Mr Corrigan, I have to ask,” Spiller interrupted, “do you know a man by the name of Henry Doubleday?”

“Yes. Well, I’ve met him once. We spoke to him just yesterday.”

“In connection with what?”

“A case I’m working on,” Dan replied. “I’m looking for a missing person: Joshua Southgate. He went missing six years ago, and Henry knew him. Joshua’s father is the local vicar, and Henry is a churchwarden, so we went to see him at his farm.”

Spiller and Collins exchanged a look.

“They’ll need to come in,” Collins said. “We’ll need fingerprints, DNA.”

“I’m aware of that, but first things first.” Spiller turned back to Dan and Alan. “Where are you two off to?”

“We just wanted to know what was going on,” Alan replied. “I saw the police cars from my window.”

Spiller delivered an admonishing stare. “I’d be grateful if you’d return home. I have work to do, but I’ll need to speak to you presently—both of you. I’d like you to come to the station later today.”

“Why?” Dan asked. “What’s happened? And why do you need our fingerprints and DNA?”

“For the process of elimination,” Spiller replied. “Now, are you going to wait at home?”

“I’d rather not,” Dan said. “The young man I’m looking for—his father is seriously ill. I’d like to reunite him with his son while there’s still time. I need to keep searching, unless…”

Spiller narrowed his eyes. “Mr Corrigan, why do I have the feeling you’re about to say something unfortunate about you scratching my back and me scratching yours?”

“I wasn’t going to put it like that,” Dan replied. “But it amounts to the same thing. If you help me with my case, I’ll have time to help with yours.”

“That’s not how this works. I’m conducting a very serious inquiry, Mr Corrigan. We’re looking into a suspicious death, and at this moment, we’re treating it as murder. Does that make things clearer for you?”

Spiller’s words struck home and Dan nodded slowly, a sense of dread pushing all other thoughts from his mind.

“Oh no,” Alan murmured. “Henry hasn’t… he hasn’t hurt someone, has he?”

Spiller sent him a sharp look. “Do you think that’s likely?”

“No, not really,” Alan said. “In the past, he’s always been nice to me, but yesterday, I saw another side to him.”

“He showed us the door,” Dan explained. “But somehow, I don’t think Henry is a suspect.” He locked eyes with Spiller. “He’s the victim, isn’t he?”

Spiller pursed his lips and broke eye contact, and that was all Dan needed to see. He’d hit the nail on the head, but the policeman didn’t want to admit it.

“Where was Henry found?” Dan went on. “He can’t have been at his farm. You’re heading the wrong way.”

“Go home,” Spiller said. “Someone will come and see you soon. I’d appreciate it if you’re there when we call.”

“All right,” Dan replied, but Spiller was already driving away.

“Shall we go back to my house?” Dan asked. “We can talk over the case while we wait.”

“We may as well. You have the best coffee and—” Alan stopped himself short then said, “Damn! I almost forgot. In all the excitement, it went clean out of my head.”

“What did?”

“That word you heard on the phone. You said it sounded like kohanyer.”

“That’s right,” Dan replied.

“Natalya got it straight away. She pronounced it a little differently, but she’s certain it’s Polish. It’s a term of endearment like darling. Would that fit?”

“Totally. The woman said it while she was taking the phone from whoever answered. She sounded concerned, so I think Joshua answered and he was upset when he heard an unfamiliar voice. His friend or partner swiftly took over and fobbed me off. My guess is that not many people have that number, or perhaps Joshua answered without thinking, but he doesn’t want anyone calling him out of the blue. I’ve tried to get through several times, from my landline too, but it rings once and then disconnects. Did you try it?”

“Yes, but the same happened to me. There wasn’t even an automated message or voicemail. So what now?”

“We’re at an impasse,” Dan said. “I don’t think there’s much we can do until we’ve talked to the police.”

“We could do some background research. I can nip home and fetch my laptop. Something will turn up, so long as we keep digging.”

Dan nodded, and ten minutes later they settled themselves in Dan’s kitchen, facing each other across the pine table, mugs of fresh coffee close to hand.

Alan set up his laptop and tapped at the keys while Dan scribbled notes on a pad of paper.

It wasn’t long before Alan looked up and said, “I’ve found something that might be useful.”

Dan put down his pen and leaned forward, thankful for the interruption. His notes so far consisted of questions with little hope of any answers.

“Go on,” he said. “Is it something on Henry? Did he have a dark past?”

Alan looked put out. “No, I’ve been concentrating on the matter in hand. Time is against us, and whatever else has happened, whether it involved Henry or not, DI Spiller won’t want us anywhere near it.”

“I know, but I can’t help thinking about it. We have a young woman hanging around the church, then the vicar collapses under mysterious circumstances. Before we can get to grips with that, there’s a suspicious death and the victim might be the churchwarden. You can’t tell me those are all coincidental.”

“I can and I will. Honestly, Dan, you’re always talking about logic and reason, but you’ve just made a leap in the dark. We don’t even know who’s died. For all we know, it might not be Henry at all. That was guesswork on your part. Meanwhile, we’ve got a missing person to find, and an unknown young woman in need of help. The last thing we need is another case to distract us, especially if it turns out to be a murder.”

They looked at each other in silence, the moment drawing on until it became a kind of amicable stand-off.

“Let the police handle it,” Alan went on.

Reluctantly, Dan nodded. “I will.”

“We have enough on our plate. One thing at a time.”

“Of course. You’re right.”

Alan seemed to be waiting for something. “I sense the word ‘but’ is about to be uttered.”

“Nope. We’re on the same page.”

“Good, then I’ll tell you what I’ve found.” Alan sent him a searching look as if to make sure he had Dan’s full attention, then he carried on. “You told me that Liam’s partner thought Joshua might be in Exeter. And when you called Joshua’s phone, you heard a woman speaking Polish. I know there’s a fair-sized Polish community in Exeter, so I ran a quick search for Polish shops.”

“Not a bad idea—everyone likes a taste of home.”

“Yes. I found five possible groceries or supermarkets in Exeter. Of those, some seem to be more general—they stock food from across Europe—but some are specifically Polish.”

“We could go and ask around. I wonder… do you think Natalya would help? It might sound better coming from her.”

“I’d already thought of that, and I’m sure she would. While we’re there, we could ask if they’d put a card in the window. Natalya could write something in Polish, and if we put Josh’s name at the top, his friend would be bound to notice it.”

Dan nodded. “It’s worth a try, and it sounds as though we’ll be going to Exeter anyway. Fingerprints and DNA—that can only mean one thing. They want to know who’s been in Henry’s house.”

“Then we’ll be doing our bit by helping the police,” Alan said. “If we go this afternoon, you could leave me in Exeter. There’s no need for all three of us to trail around the shops, so you can come back here, and I’ll meet Natalya after work. If we’re quick, we can visit all four shops before they close.”

“And still have time to go out for dinner,” Dan suggested.

“The thought had crossed my mind. Natalya has her car, so she can bring me back here. That’s if you don’t need me for anything.”

“No, you go ahead. Enjoy yourselves. And while you’re there, maybe you could pick up a few polish treats.” Dan rubbed his hands together. “I haven’t had good vegan pierogi for ages.”

CHAPTER 27

DI Spiller stood in the lane and looked along it in both directions. Beside him, DS Collins did the same.

A few yards away, the cordon of police tape fluttered in the breeze. Within its meagre barrier, a figure lay face down at the side of the road, the shape all too recognisable as a man.

A discarded wallet at the side of the road held no money, but it still contained a driving licence, and Nicola Haig, the Crime Scene Manager, had confirmed that the photo was a good match for the victim: Henry Doubleday.

This much Spiller already knew, but precious little else had been passed on. And yet Corrigan had somehow guessed at the victim’s identity.

That man will be the death of me, Spiller thought. He’s like a bad sixpence. But in a case like this, local knowledge could be valuable. And whatever else you might say about Corrigan and Hargreaves, they had a knack for poking around and asking questions. No doubt they’d accumulated a certain insight into the workings of the local community.

He’d call in on them later. In the meantime, an initial examination of the body was underway, the photographer’s flashgun bright even in the daylight. Nearby, Nicola stood watch over her small team of Scene of Crime Officers. Clad in the white suits of their trade, the SOCOs moved quietly, occasionally stooping or hunkering down to examine the ground. The grim choreography of detection.

On the other side of the road, a red convertible MG, its number plate identifying it as belonging to Henry Doubleday, had been neatly parked. The car’s black hood prevented Spiller from seeing inside, but one door was open and a SOCO was leaning in to inspect the car’s interior.

For the time being, there was little for Spiller and Collins to do, but it was good to be there, taking in the scene, absorbing the sights, sounds and smells of the place where Henry Doubleday had been unceremoniously laid to rest.

Spiller turned to Collins. “First impressions?”

“Not a lot,” Collins replied. “Not yet.”

“Have a go anyway. You’ve got ideas running through your mind. Best to say them aloud, get them out in the open.”

Collins puffed out his cheeks. “Okay. He arranged to meet someone here, parked up and⁠—”

“Let me stop you there,” Spiller interrupted. “This is a single-track road, and the car is in a passing place, not a lay-by. Mr Doubleday is a local, so he’d know the difference. He wouldn’t park in a passing place.”

“He might if he wasn’t going to be long.”

“If the keys were still in the ignition, I might agree with you, but they aren’t there; they’re missing.”

Collins frowned. “It’s odd, isn’t it? Why take the keys?”

“We’ll get to that but try again. Give me an alternative version of events.”

“Someone flagged him down. Henry got out of the car and was attacked. Someone took his money, dropped the wallet and ran for it.”

“But they didn’t think to take the car,” Spiller said. “It’s sitting there, an ideal getaway car, but they take the keys and disappear on foot. Doesn’t that strike you as unlikely?”

“They had another vehicle. They pretended it had broken down. It’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“Not quite the oldest, but as a theory, it’s not bad. Even so…”

Spiller let the silence hang in the air until Collins gave in.

“Go on then,” Collins said. “Tell me where I’m going wrong, Guv. You’re dying to set me straight.”

“You know me too well, Collins. Okay, here it is. You’re making an assumption from the outset. We don’t know whether Mr Doubleday was killed here or somewhere else.”

“If they did it somewhere else, they’d have disposed of the body somewhere a bit quieter, wouldn’t they? Plenty of woodland around, and if they’d taken him a few miles up onto Dartmoor, it might’ve been ages before anybody found him. But here, anybody can see the poor bloke lying there, even if they’re just driving past.”

“Not many passersby up here, but I take your point. I suspect the whole thing was rushed. It wasn’t planned, it was hasty, impulsive, clumsy. And that gives me hope. Careless people leave clues. But let’s see what we’ve got so far.”

Spiller waved to attract Nicola Haig’s attention, and she headed toward him, picking her way carefully across the scene.

After a brief greeting, Nicola said, “Okay. Mr Doubleday was struck on the side of his head. Blunt force trauma. It might be the cause of death, but as you know…”

“Too early to tell,” Spiller replied. “You think he was only hit once?”

Nicola nodded. “We’ve only seen one wound so far, but it’s quite high on the skull and that makes an accident unlikely. As a rule of thumb, we’re suspicious of any injury above the line where the brim of a hat would be.”

“That makes sense. People wielding a weapon tend to strike downwards.”

“Exactly,” Nicola replied. “And if someone has fallen, I’d typically see an injury lower down on the head. It goes without saying there are always exceptions, but this looks like an attack to me.”

“Any ideas about a possible weapon?”

“Something narrow and solid. When he was hit on the head, the skin was broken, and I can see what looks like a flake of bone, so we could be looking at a fractured skull. There may be other injuries, but if that blow killed him, there must’ve been a lot of force concentrated on a small area. It’s similar to wounds I’ve seen from a metal bar, but the post-mortem examination will tell us a lot more.”

“I don’t suppose…”

“No, we haven’t found a weapon,” Nicola replied. “There’s a jack and some tools in the car’s boot, so we might get lucky. At first sight they look clean, but we’ll take them back for testing. It all takes time.”

“It was ever thus.” Spiller nodded toward Henry Doubleday’s body. “Was he killed here, do you think?”

“Our initial findings suggest he was attacked elsewhere. There’s hardly any blood on the ground, so it’s likely he was brought here sometime after the attack. One thing struck me as strange—he was left on the road, but it looks as though he was laid out neatly, his arms at his sides.”

“Have you found a phone?” Collins asked.

“Unfortunately not. We’ve looked, but if he had a phone, it either wasn’t with him or it’s been taken.”

“Fair enough,” Collins said. “He might’ve gone out without it, but if not, we’ll see if we can trace it. Anything else in the car? Anything to show whether it was used to move the body?”

“Not as yet. It’s remarkably clean, and there’s a faint smell of a chemical, possibly a disinfectant or a detergent. Somebody’s done a clean-up job, but if there are fibres or traces of body fluids, we’ll find them.”

Spiller shifted his attention to the car. “Only two seats and a tiny boot. Not an ideal way to transport a body.”

“Agreed. There is a small space behind the seats, but it wouldn’t have been much use. More likely they would’ve propped the body up in the passenger seat, and from that you can draw your own conclusions.”

“He wasn’t taken far,” Spiller said. “All the more reason to get over to the farm. I’ll want you to send a team over there as soon as possible. Chances are, that’s where he was killed, so it’s going to be a high priority.”

“Got it,” Nicola said. “I’ll make it happen.” Nicola’s gaze returned to her team. “I’d better get back to it. What’s next for you?”

“We’ll go over to Mr Doubleday’s farm. Anisha’s over there now as FLO, looking after his widow, but I’d like to talk to Mrs Doubleday myself and look around. When do you think she’ll be able to ID the body?”

“Give us a couple of hours,” Nicola said. “It shouldn’t be too much of a traumatic experience for the poor woman. Apart from that one wound, there are no visible marks.”

“Thanks, Nicola,” Spiller said. “We’ll catch up later.”

Nicola went back to her team, and Spiller inclined his head to the Volvo.

“Come on, Collins,” he said. “Lots to do.”

Collins nodded, and Spiller glimpsed a newfound enthusiasm in the younger man’s eyes. I must be getting old, Spiller decided. All I can think is, here we go again.

But by the time Spiller was back behind the wheel and bowling along the lane, his investigative spirit had stirred from its slumber. A new case, a new set of challenges and a heck of a lot of work, but he was ready.

CHAPTER 28

The drive to Seven Springs Farm didn’t take long, but Spiller put the time to good use, making use of his hands-free phone to issue a series of instructions. By the time they arrived at the farm and the Volvo rattled over the cattle grid, Spiller was satisfied that the machinery of a murder inquiry was rolling smoothly into operation. An incident room was being set up in Middlemoor HQ, staff were being drafted in and assigned to various roles, and a small team of uniformed officers were on their way to Embervale, ready to carry out a door-to-door inquiry.

His calls complete, Spiller drove along the farm track. He cast his eye over the flock of llamas grazing peacefully alongside the track, but they showed no interest in him and the feeling was mutual.

Spiller parked in front of the farm gate and turned to Collins expectantly.

“Aren’t we forgetting something?” Spiller asked.

Collins wrinkled his brow. “Media? We’ll need to organise a press release, put out a request for information. We can use social media too.”

“All that can wait. I was thinking of a more immediate obstacle.” He looked pointedly through the windscreen.

“Erm…”

Spiller tutted. “Jump out and open the gate, lad.”

“Aren’t we going to leave the car here? If it’s a crime scene⁠—”

“We can afford to get a bit closer,” Spiller interrupted. “Hop out and then we can get started.”

Collins obliged and Spiller drove through the gateway and onto a wide farmyard. A black Vauxhall saloon was parked just inside the gate, and Spiller pulled in behind it. The Vauxhall was from the CID carpool. It almost certainly meant that DS Anisha Kulkarni was still at the house, and Spiller was pleased to see she hadn’t driven across the farmyard.

Somewhere, a dog began to bark, but it sounded distant as though it might be shut inside. The noise only lasted for a few seconds, and then it stopped abruptly.

While Spiller used his rearview mirror to watch Collins fastening the gate, he took a moment to centre himself. Meeting relatives of the recently deceased was always hard, but he’d long since decided it was good to feel that way. The day he stopped feeling sympathy for the bereaved was the day he’d retire. He’d known colleagues who’d hardened their hearts to shield themselves from the grief of others, but you could only bottle up your feelings for so long. Hard-bitten coppers were okay on TV; in real life, people broke.

It’s time, Spiller told himself. He stepped from the car and Collins joined him.

“Neatest farm I’ve ever seen,” Collins said. “No equipment left out, no mess or clutter.”

Spiller nodded. “All very modern. And look at that concrete. You could eat your dinner off it.”

Collins glanced doubtfully at the yard. “Rather you than me.” He pointed to where a black Jeep Grand Cherokee was parked beside a small wooden gate. “I expect the house is through there.”

“It looks promising. Let’s go.”

Collins’ instinct proved right, and they were soon confronted by the majestic farmhouse. But before they could take it in properly, the door was opened by a familiar figure.

“Anisha,” Spiller said. “How are you getting on?”

“Fine.” DS Kulkarni lowered her voice before she went on, “Jean Doubleday is something of a stoic. You’ll find her very calm and self-contained. She wants to help, but she’s obviously hurting inside. They’d been married a long time.”

“We’ll make this as easy as we can,” Spiller replied. “Was there anything troubling Henry? Did he have money worries or problems with neighbours?”

Anisha shook her head firmly. “He lived quietly, worked hard, went to church on Sunday. He seems to have been a pillar of the community. He was a churchwarden and that was important to him.”

“Were they both churchgoers?”

“Yes, every week.”

Spiller paused, thinking of his brief conversation with Corrigan. He’d said he was looking for the son of the local vicar. Could there be a connection? Storing the question away for later, he said, “Any recent changes in Henry’s behaviour?”

“Jean hadn’t noticed anything. Yesterday was an ordinary day. He pottered around the farm, tinkered with his car. The Jeep in the yard is their regular runaround, but Henry had a classic car—a red MG. It’s missing from the workshop, so Jean thinks he took it out last night.”

“We found the MG not far from his body,” Collins put in. “The keys were missing, and it’s been thoroughly cleaned.”

Kulkarni nodded. “Was it used to move the body?”

“Possibly,” Spiller replied. “It’s a working hypothesis.”

“Jean says that Henry was working on the car when she went out,” Kulkarni said. “She took the Jeep to Newton Abbot to do the weekly shop. Sainsbury’s. There’s an in-store cafe, so she had something to eat before she did her shopping. When she came back, she saw the car was out, so she assumed Henry had taken it for a test run. That’s what he liked to do—drive through the lanes in the evening when the roads tend to be quiet.”

“So she didn’t worry when he wasn’t home,” Collins suggested. “What time did she get back from the shops?”

“Sadly, Jean doesn’t remember. She was busy unpacking her groceries and putting them away. After that, she spent the evening on her own, watching TV. She said that Henry would sometimes drive out to a country pub, so it wasn’t unusual for him to be gone for a few hours. When he hadn’t turned up by bedtime, Jean tried his mobile and got no answer. She called him a few times, but he never picked up, and that was out of character, so she contacted us. That was just after half past ten.”

“That’s good work, Anisha,” Spiller said. “I’d like to know what time Mrs Doubleday came home. If it comes back to her, let me know.”

“Right away. It would be good to have that timeframe. I’ll work on it.”

Spiller nodded in acknowledgement. The role of a Family Liaison Officer was a sensitive one—a nuanced form of detection and evidence gathering—but Anisha had taken to it like a duck to water.

“Any other impressions?” Spiller asked.

“I think they were happily married,” Kulkarni replied. “There’s no suggestion he was having an affair or anything like that. It sounds as though Henry could be a bit brusque, but he was a decent man and well liked.”

“Good to know,” Spiller said. “Anything else?”

“There’s a son, Liam, estranged from his father and living in Plymouth. He’s gay and Henry didn’t approve. Henry was quite old-school by the sounds of it. Stubborn was the word Jean used. By the way, the farm belongs to Jean—it’s been in her family for generations—so there’s no question of any inheritance.”

Spiller glanced up at the house. “It’s a big place for two. Nobody else lives here? No holiday lets, B&B, anything like that?”

Kulkarni shook her head. “Just the two of them, and their dog, Jess. You probably heard her a minute ago. She’s normally out in one of the barns. There’s a kennel and a big pen, but the poor creature was upset, so Jean brought her in. They’ve been keeping each other company.”

“Maybe the dog saw what happened,” Spiller said. “If only she could talk.”

“I had the same thought.”

“Anybody else we need to know about?” Spiller asked. “Any farmhands or whatever?”

“One. A man by the name of Roy Searle. He comes in on weekday mornings to help out. Jean says he turned up this morning, as usual, at quarter to seven and checked on the llamas. She went out to the yard and asked him if he’d seen her husband, but he was no help at all. He said he hadn’t seen Henry since before the weekend, but he asked whether the MG was in the workshop. He suggested Henry might’ve broken down somewhere.”

“That’s not entirely unreasonable,” Spiller said. “For all he knew, Henry had popped out this morning and got stranded. Plenty of places around here with no phone signal.”

“Jean set him straight,” Kulkarni replied. “She told him the car had been gone all night, and Searle left soon after that, clocking off early. According to Jean, he said there wasn’t much point hanging around without Henry being there to tell him what to do.”

“He’s not big on initiative, then,” Spiller suggested.

“It doesn’t sound like it. Thick as a plank, was the phrase Jean used.”

“It’s interesting he mentioned the MG though,” Collins said. “We need to talk to Roy Searle ASAP.”

Kulkarni nodded. “It’s certainly worth following up. In the meantime, you’ll want to talk to Jean. Do you know when she’ll be able to identify the body? She’s been asking.”

“Two hours, give or take. Does she have any family or friends, anyone who can give her some support?”

“Her son—he’s on his way. He lives in Plymouth, so he should be here soon. There’s a sister, apparently, but Jean doesn’t want too many people making a fuss. She just wants to see her son.”

“That’s understandable.” Spiller inclined his head toward the hallway. “Shall we?”

“Of course. We’re in the kitchen.”

Kulkarni led them to a large kitchen, and Spiller looked around as he stepped inside. This was his idea of a farmhouse kitchen, large and homely with a massive table centre stage, but he quickly focused on the room’s only other occupant.

Jean Doubleday sat at the long table, her back very straight. The fingers of both her hands were wrapped around a large mug of steaming tea, and she seemed to be gripping it tight, as though it were anchoring her to reality.

Jean was dressed conservatively in a blouse and cardigan, and though she looked tired and drawn, her hair, short, silvered and worn in tight curls, was immaculate. As far as Spiller could tell, she wore no make-up, but she had the clear skin and suntan of someone who’d lived a healthy life, much of it in the fresh air.

Sitting on the floor beside her, pressing itself close to her legs, a border collie kept a watchful eye on the new arrivals, its gaze sharp and its ears erect. It let out a piercing bark, but Jean stroked its head, and the dog seemed to grow calmer, laying its head on her lap and adding a soft whine of unhappiness.

“Don’t mind Jess,” Jean said. “She doesn’t take to strangers, but she’ll be all right so long as I’m here. But where are my manners?”

Jean made to stand, but Spiller made a downward gesture with his hands.

“Please, don’t get up,” he said gently, and once Jean had relaxed back into her seat, he introduced himself and asked if he might sit down.

“Yes, of course,” Jean replied. “Would you like some tea or anything?”

“No thank you, we’re fine.”

Spiller took a seat facing Jean, and Collins sat beside him, but Kulkarni pulled out a chair close to Jean, diplomatically choosing the side opposite to Jess. Jean sent her a grateful glance.

“Remember, we talked about this, Jean,” Kulkarni said. “DI Spiller will be in charge of finding out what happened, so he’ll have a few questions, but any time you want a break, just give me a nod, okay?”

“I understand. You’re all just doing your jobs.” Jean’s lips tightened as though she were holding something back, then in a rush, she said, “When can I see my husband? Because we won’t know for certain that it’s him, will we? Not until I’ve seen him.”

“It won’t be long now,” Spiller replied. “We need a couple of hours, then Anisha will take you over for the formal identification. I know it’s hard to sit and wait, but it’s unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

“Will there have to be a post-mortem?”

“Yes, that’s the rule in an unexplained death,” Spiller said. “But Henry will be treated with the utmost respect.”

Jean had winced at the mention of her husband’s name, but she recovered quickly. “You’re already sure it’s him, aren’t you?”

Reluctantly, Spiller nodded. “There’s very little room for doubt. Your husband was carrying his driving licence.”

“I see. Well, it’s better to know.” Jean pushed her mug of tea away and placed her hands in her lap. “So, what do you want to know?”

“I’ll only ask a few questions at this point,” Spiller replied. “I’m so sorry to intrude at a moment like this, so we’ll keep it brief. Can you think of any reason why someone might want to harm Henry?”

“None at all. He was a good man. The only person he ever fell out with was Liam, and that’s only because they were too alike. They butted heads once too often and Liam left, but he’s a good boy. He calls me all the time on my mobile. Henry pretended he didn’t know about it, but he couldn’t fool me. He knew, and he knew I’d tell him if Liam was in trouble.”

“And was he ever in trouble?” Spiller asked.

Jean shook her head. “Never. It was a turn of phrase. You know what I mean. If our son had really needed our help, Henry would’ve been there in no time.”

Sadness veiled Jean’s expression, and it wasn’t hard for Spiller to see why. Father and son would never be reconciled; it was too late.

“Jean, there’s just a few more things I’d like to know,” Spiller said. “Did you see or hear anything unusual yesterday?”

“No. The car was out, but I already told Anisha about that. I’m sorry, but I didn’t look at the clock. Well, you don’t, do you? Not unless there’s some particular reason.”

“That’s okay,” Spiller replied. “The other thing is, did Henry have a mobile phone?”

Jean blinked. “Of course. Everyone does these days, don’t they? Henry had a good one, quite new. It cost an arm and a leg.” She hesitated. “Didn’t he have it with him? He always took it when he went out, especially in that car. He never knew when it might break down and leave him stranded.”

“We haven’t come across his phone as yet,” Spiller said carefully. “Our technical team will try to trace it.”

Jean’s expression sagged as the implications of this resolved in her mind. Her voice was faint when she said, “Somebody took it? The person who…?”

“At the moment, we’re considering every possibility,” Spiller replied. “It’s possible that Henry simply lost his phone or left it somewhere.”

“I suppose so. But he was always careful, my Henry. Always.” Jean drew a sharp breath, and her eyes grew brighter as she locked her gaze on Spiller. “If somebody’s taken my Henry before his time, please find them. I don’t want revenge—that’s not for me to dispense—but I’d like justice for Henry. He deserves that.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” Spiller said. “To that end, is it all right if we take a look around the farm?”

“Please do, but take care. Some of the equipment can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“We’ll watch our step. There’ll be a team coming over soon, so don’t be alarmed if you see a van and people in white overalls. That’s just so they don’t leave any evidence while they look around.”

Jean nodded slowly, looking bewildered, her gaze losing focus. Perhaps she was one of the few people who didn’t watch the crime shows that always seemed to be on TV. He guessed Jean would prefer a more wholesome form of entertainment.

Spiller nodded to Collins and they stood at the same time.

“We’ll get on,” Spiller said. “If you think of anything that might be helpful, please let Anisha know as soon as possible. She’ll be staying with you for a while.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Jean looked to Kulkarni and perked up a little. “You’ve been very kind, looking after me like this.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Kulkarni replied. “I’ll see these two out. You might like to take a minute, sit quietly.”

Jean nodded and Kulkarni rose to her feet.

The three made their way to the front door. Before Spiller and Collins left the house, Spiller said, “We’ll see you later, Anisha. Let me know if anything comes up.”

“I’ll keep in touch.” Kulkarni gazed wistfully past Spiller and Collins. “I’d like to come out and help, but…”

“You’re doing a very important job,” Spiller replied. “It’s amazing what can come back to someone’s memory once they’ve had time to process what’s going on. But if you get a chance, have a quick look for Henry’s phone. He might have left it at home.”

“Will do.”

“Excellent. Come on, Collins. We have work to do.”

Spiller marched back to the farmyard, then he made for the largest barn.

“Let’s start with that one,” he said. “But before we get stuck in, you know what I’m going to say.”

“I’ll get them.” Collins held out his hand. “I’ll need the keys.”

“It’s not locked. You know where they are.”

“Yes, Guv.” Collins headed back to the car and a minute later returned bearing two disposable white overalls, some gloves and two pairs of overshoes.

Spiller cleared his mind. It was time to begin.

CHAPTER 29

Marjorie loaded her basket with jars of honey and set off for the village shop. Some time ago she’d persuaded Gary, the shop’s owner, to stock her honey, and though he hadn’t called to say they’d run out, it was about time she checked.

It’s just an excuse, she told herself as she strode along the lane. You’re looking for Hugh and you know it. But Marjorie squashed that thought immediately. She was running an errand, that was all. If she happened to ask in the shop whether anyone had seen Hugh, there was no harm in it. And if she popped into the pub and did the same, well, that was just her way of being thoughtful. There was nothing wrong with showing an interest in the lad. The next generation of farmers had to come from somewhere, and a bit of encouragement went a long way.

But Marjorie didn’t have to go all the way to the shop before she came across someone she could ask. On the other side of the road, old Charlie Marshall was out in his front garden, kneeling down and fussing over his plants, a trowel in his hand. No surprise there. That man was forever mucking about with his flower beds.

The folks at the garden centre must be glad whenever he turns up, Marjorie thought. Not a month went by without a new set of plants appearing in Charlie’s garden, and his front lawn didn’t have so much as a daisy to break up the perfectly flat stretch of manicured grass.

Charlie looked up as she approached. “Hello, Marge. How are you?”

“I’m perfectly all right, thank you.”

“Are you sure? When you crossed the road, I thought you had a bit of a limp.”

Marjorie stiffened her posture. “I beg your pardon. I’ve never limped a day in my life.”

“Don’t take on. I didn’t mean anything by it. We’re all getting older, Marge, but that doesn’t mean we have to put up with aches and pains. Look at me.”

Charlie put down his trowel and stood, rising nimbly to his feet. “I’ve had both knees done, and I’ll tell anybody who asks, it was the best thing I ever did.”

“That’s all very well, but I didn’t ask,” Marjorie pointed out. “And I don’t need any doctors poking at my knees, thank you very much. There’s nothing wrong with them.”

“All right, have it your way. But joints wear out, you know, and it’s best to have them fixed before they get⁠—”

“Are you a doctor now, Charlie Marshall? I reckon not, so we’ll get past all this nonsense and talk about something proper. I want to ask you a question.”

Charlie said nothing for a second, and Marjorie saw the hurt in his eyes. She hadn’t meant to bite his head off, but he could be a fusspot and she had no time for it.

Still, he was a decent sort, and he hadn’t meant any harm, so Marjorie softened her voice as she added, “I’m a bit worried about someone, and I thought, with you being out and about all the time, you might’ve seen him.”

“Well, I don’t know. Seems like that’s all anybody ever asks me about, but I’m not out here to keep an eye on the comings and goings, you know. When I’m in my garden, I’m working.”

“And a grand job you make of it. It must be the best-kept garden in the village.”

“Don’t talk daft.”

“I mean it,” Marjorie insisted. “It looks a picture, and we both know that takes a lot of work. So while you were out here, you didn’t happen to see a young man, did you? He’s not local. He’s tall, and he has dark hair.”

“I might have. What do you want him for?”

“He’s been helping me out with a few jobs, but he didn’t turn up today, and I want to know what’s going on.”

Charlie rubbed his chin. “Sounds like Hugh.”

“Oh, you know him?”

“He came by yesterday, asked if I had any jobs needed doing.”

“And did you?” Marjorie asked.

“A couple. He mowed the back lawn, trimmed the hedge. I could’ve done it myself, but he seemed like a nice lad, so I thought, why not?”

“Yesterday, you say. What time was this?”

“I don’t know. Late afternoon. I gave him a bit of tea. Just sandwiches and that. He appreciated it. He said he might go to the pub after, so I expect that’s what he did. I don’t go myself very much. I leave all that to the young’uns.” He smiled as if privately amused.

“What are you grinning at?” Marjorie asked.

“Nothing. I thought I saw him going past later—Hugh, I mean. I was looking out of the window, and I saw him walking along with a woman on his arm.”

So that’s it, Marjorie thought. He’s off chasing some woman or other. Aloud, she said, “You didn’t happen to see who he was with, did you?”

“No, and that’s his business.”

“I know, but I’m not asking for the sake of it. I’ve got work that needs doing outdoors, so I want to find him before we lose the weather.”

Charlie glanced at the sky. “It’s not meant to rain, not for a few days, so I shouldn’t worry about it. He’ll turn up sooner or later.”

“That’s no good to me. I’ve got jobs half-finished, so I need a word with him. I’m not going to cause him any trouble, so you may well tell me. Who was this woman he was with?”

Charlie’s expression clouded as if he were deep in thought.

“It wasn’t Sam Ashford, was it?” Marjorie prompted.

“The girl who used to work in the shop? Where did she go to?”

“You’re out of touch, Charlie. Sam’s all grownup. She runs the pub now. She’s been there for a few years.”

“I don’t know where the time goes. But I remember Sam, and this wasn’t her. It was…” He shook his head in frustration. “What’s she called? Fair hair. Nice smile.” He sighed. “Sorry, it’s gone. It’ll come back to me later.”

“Never mind.” Marjorie looked along the street, imagining Hugh and some woman strolling along together, arm in arm. She wasn’t sure why, but it irked her. It wasn’t so much that Hugh might’ve found a girlfriend—that was only natural and no business of hers. No, it was the fact that he’d taken himself off without a word. He ought to have shown her a little consideration. She’d given him a place to stay and that meant something, didn’t it?

Charlie had started talking again, blathering on about nothing, but a word caught her attention.

“What was that?” she said. “Police cars? Why?”

“I don’t rightly know. Something must’ve happened.”

Marjorie nodded slowly. Not Hugh, she thought. Don’t let it be him.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Charlie went on. “It’ll be online. It’s amazing what you can find out these days. I used to wait until teatime to watch the news, but now I can see it whenever I want. I get it all on my phone. It’s marvellous.”

Charlie had pulled a phone from his back pocket, brandishing it as he extolled its virtues. Marjorie frowned at the contraption. More fool you, she thought. The more time people spent staring at their phones, the less they saw of what was right in front of their noses.

But all she said was, “Right, well, I must be going. I’ve got to get this honey up to the shop.”

Charlie’s expression brightened. “How much is it?”

Marjorie rattled off the price. “That’s what I charge at the gate,” she added. “It’ll be more if you buy it from the shop. Gary always marks up the price so he can make something for himself.”

“I’ll take one.” Charlie fumbled in his pocket and produced a black leather wallet, but when he opened it, his face fell.

“Oh, that’s odd,” he said. “I had more than that. Unless…” His eyebrows knitted as if the act of recall cost him some effort. “I paid Hugh for the work,” he mumbled, “but I haven’t been anywhere since then, so what’ve I done with it?”

“Happen you’ve put it down somewhere,” Marjorie suggested.

“I expect you’re right. I’m forever losing things.” Charlie summoned a smile. “Anyway, I’ve a few pound coins. That ought to do it.” He opened a small compartment in the wallet and produced just enough to cover the price.

Marjorie handed over a jar of honey and pressed one of the pound coins back into Charlie’s hand.

“I’ve just remembered,” she said. “There’s a special price for people such as yourself.”

“What, locals?”

“No. Old folks.”

Charlie blinked at her in astonishment, and after a moment, he laughed.

“You’re welcome,” Marjorie said, then she went on her way, the remaining jars of honey gently clinking in her basket.

CHAPTER 30

Spiller and Collins stood on the threshold of the large barn and gazed around the cavernous space. Ranged along each side were trailers and items of agricultural equipment that Spiller could only vaguely identify.

“This isn’t going to be easy on our own,” Collins said. “Wouldn’t we be better off looking around some of the smaller buildings first? We could leave this one until we’ve got a few more people to help.”

Spiller dismissed the suggestion with a disapproving grunt, but Collins wasn’t wrong. There was no logical reason to start in the largest barn, but the place had called to him somehow. Perhaps it was the fact that the wide doors had stood open. This barn was in regular use, whereas the other outbuildings were closed, their doors secured by padlocks.

“Let’s go around the perimeter and work our way in,” Spiller said. “We’ll start over…” Spiller left his sentence unfinished. He sniffed the air. “Can you smell that, Collins?”

Collins sniffed, turning his head from side to side. “Yeah. Some kind of chemical. It could be that.” He hooked his thumb toward a crop sprayer, its large plastic tank mounted on two wheels, the twin spraying arms pointing upwards to make storage easier.

Spiller moved closer to the sprayers, trying to detect whether the scent was growing stronger.

“Careful,” Collins said. “Could be toxic.”

“I know, but I don’t think that’s it.” Spiller stopped and looked down at his feet, then he scanned the barn’s concrete floor. Like the yard outside, it was clean, but the area in front of the doorway was spotless.

He moved to the edge of the pristine area and sniffed again.

“It’s strongest here,” Spiller went on. “Someone’s been busy.”

“Like in the car.” Collins tucked his tablet under his arm and produced his phone. “Shall I call Nicola, get a team over here right away?”

Spiller nodded. “You do that, but don’t go anywhere. I’m going to have a quick look around.”

While Collins made the call, Spiller strolled to the side of the barn. If Henry had been killed here, the location might be random, influenced only by chance and impulse. On the other hand, there could have been something about the place that had sparked an act of violence.

He stopped in front of a tall, freestanding metal cabinet. The cabinet’s dark green paintwork was scuffed and chipped, the colour faded, and something about its sturdy proportions spoke of a bygone age. The cabinet had enjoyed a long life and been well used.

The double doors had a lock but there was no key, and when Spiller pulled on the handles the doors opened, the hinges emitting a high-pitched groan. Inside, he found six metal drawers in the same dark green as the exterior, although the colour was noticeably less faded. A series of grubby labels announced the contents of the top three drawers: spanners, socket sets, screwdrivers. The other three drawers had dark patches of dried glue to show where the labels had been.

An odd place to keep tools, Spiller thought. According to Jean, Henry had kept his car in a workshop. If he had a proper workshop, why would he store tools in the barn? Then again, Spiller was surrounded by farm machinery that would need repairs and regular maintenance so perhaps they took priority.

Each drawer had a pair of metal handles, part painted and part worn down to the bare metal through repeated use. Spiller reached out a gloved hand and pulled the top drawer open. The drawer was divided by upright strips of galvanised metal, and each compartment contained a muddled assortment of small tools. Pliers were mixed with files and an assortment of spanners and Allen keys.

Spiller frowned. Henry was a classic car enthusiast, a man who tinkered with an engine for fun, but this was not the toolbox of a keen mechanic.

He shut the drawer and pulled out the second, but it was much the same. Spiller counted seven screwdrivers of various sizes, all with different handles, none belonging to a set.

Spiller tutted under his breath. Why not keep the screwdrivers in the next drawer down? At least the contents would match the label. But when he tried the third drawer, his eyes narrowed.

Among the clutter of craft knives and drill bits, there was a claw hammer with a stainless steel shaft and a rubberised grip. It was the newest tool he’d found by far, and Spiller’s gaze lingered on it. There was no obvious sign of it being used as a weapon, but Nicola’s team would soon be able to tell.

He sensed Collins standing behind him and looked up to judge his reaction.

“Interesting,” Collins said. “If it is the weapon, we’re off to a good start. I don’t know why someone would leave it here, but…”

Spiller nodded. He didn’t need Collins to finish his sentence. If there was one thing they both agreed on, it was the fact that criminals did stupid things.

Collins stowed his phone and used the tablet’s camera to snap a few pictures of the drawer, zooming in on the hammer. When he’d finished, Spiller worked through the remaining drawers. There was nothing particularly interesting in the next two, but then he reached the last drawer.

“Well, well,” Spiller breathed. “Maybe someone isn’t so stupid after all.”

The bottom drawer was deeper than the others and comprised a single compartment. It was completely empty, but more than that, it had been wiped clean. There were no traces of the dust and detritus that he’d seen in the other five drawers—not so much as an oil stain.

Spiller squatted on his haunches and sniffed. “There it is again,” he said. “Some sort of cleaning agent—degreaser maybe.”

Collins bent down to photograph the empty drawer, then the two of them stood. Collins was already noting the time and making notes on his tablet. Spiller let him get on with it. He stepped outside and drew a long, steady breath. There was still a faint smell in the yard, but the air was a good deal fresher than in the barn.

“All done,” Collins said as he joined him, once again swapping his tablet for his phone.

“I’ll call in if that’s okay, Guv,” he went on. “We’ll need to get a uniform out here, safeguard the scene.”

“Go ahead.”

“Right.” Collins hesitated. “Someone will have to stay here until they turn up. I suppose we can ask Anisha to do it. I mean, I can stay if need be, but it seems a bit over the top, two of us hanging around.”

Spiller sent his colleague a sideways look. Collins’ words had made perfect sense, but his tone hadn’t rung true. As a rule, there was nothing Collins hated more than waiting around, but he’d sounded almost as if he wanted to be left behind. Perhaps it was the prospect of being thrown together with Anisha that appealed to him. They were both single, as far as Spiller knew, and although they’d worked together for some time, they’d never been the same rank—until now.

Dream on, lad, Spiller thought. Anisha has other ideas. It wouldn’t be long before Anisha made a move for promotion. Some people raced through the ranks, and Anisha had that kind of single-minded drive and ambition. She had her eyes on the prize, and she wouldn’t risk an entanglement with a colleague, especially one based in the same nick.

“No, we can head off,” Spiller said. “I need you with me. I’ll ask Anisha to hold the fort. She can leave Mrs Doubleday on her own for a while.”

He checked for the suggestion of disappointment on Collins’ face and found it in the downturn of his mouth.

“You stay put while I go and break the news,” Spiller went on. “I’ll be right back.”

Spiller made for the farmhouse. Anisha would prefer to stay with Henry’s widow at this critical stage in the inquiry, coaxing as much information as possible out of her, but she’d stand in the farmyard to protect the scene if that’s what was required. These things were part of the job, and it wouldn’t be long before a uniformed constable turned up to guard the scene.

Meanwhile, he had plenty to do, and Collins would come in handy for the admin and legwork. They’d begin with a brief visit to Corrigan and Hargreaves.

CHAPTER 31

Dead, Sophia thought. How can he be dead?

Up in her studio, she sat slumped on a beanbag and stared at the white-painted wall.

It wasn’t our fault, she told herself. It had nothing to do with us.

But according to her mum, a body had been found by the old quarry, and that couldn’t be a coincidence. The police hadn’t said who’d been killed, but it had to be him. It had to be.

All we did was scare him, Sophia told herself. We never meant to hurt anyone. They’d stood up to a bully, shifted the balance of power, but violence—real violence—had never been part of it.

Unless one of the others…

Sophia closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. She pressed her fists hard against her forehead and felt her mouth open in a silent scream.

What had they done? What the hell had they done?

But no matter how many times the question raced through her mind, she had no answers.

On the floor at her side was a large cushion, and she grabbed it with both hands, pressing it against her face. And this time she let rip with a scream, her body shaking with effort. Again and again she yelled into the cushion until the fabric was wet with spit. Then she sat very still, her breath coming back to her, but her heart still racing.

Eventually Sophia’s anguish ebbed away, and she slung the pillow aside. She wiped her face with her hands and pushed back her hair, then she took a long, slow breath and exhaled.

There. She was back to herself: calm, focused, logical. A sense of purpose grew firmer in her core, warmed her from within. Sophia straightened her back, sitting tall, just as she did at the piano.

“You can handle this,” she whispered, then again, louder: “You can handle this.”

Sophia stood and strode to the door. It was time to put things right, but she couldn’t risk using her phone or her computer. This had to be done in person. And it had to be done now.

CHAPTER 32

Collins had been morose as they’d driven away from Henry’s farm, but when Spiller had wondered aloud about the nature of the weapon that might’ve been used to kill Henry, the younger man had brightened up no end.

As Spiller knew only too well, Collins had been reading up on the peculiarities of blunt force trauma, and he seized the chance to share.

Throw the lad a few crumbs, Spiller thought, making appreciative noises as he drove along the lane. He was hearing nothing new, but the scant praise did its job, and by the time they parked outside Corrigan’s house, Collins was firing on all cylinders.

Spiller rang the doorbell, sensing the energy coming from his colleague. A tablet computer tucked under his arm, Collins was bouncing on the balls of feet, one short step away from hammering on the door with his fist and shouting, “Open up in the name of the law!”

Spiller smiled to himself. He’d been like that once, but that had been a long time ago, back when the job had been simpler. But not necessarily better, he thought. Accountability was the watchword these days, but not without reason. There’d been too many shortcuts in years gone by, and he’d made his fair share of mistakes. In modern policing, there was no room for snap judgements and not much room for error either.

He was about to say something of the sort to Collins, but before he could open his mouth, the door was answered by Daniel Corrigan.

He’s on edge already, Spiller decided, but then, Corrigan was one of those people who didn’t like to sit still. He was a man in a hurry, a man who seemed to thrive on perpetual crisis.

“Please, come in, come in,” Corrigan said, standing back to usher them inside. “Come through to the kitchen. Alan’s here, waiting.”

He led them through the hallway, adding, “Can I offer you a drink?”

“That would be nice,” Spiller replied. “Do I smell coffee?”

“Yes. The same for you, DC Collins?”

“Please,” Collins said. “But I’m a Detective Sergeant now.”

Corrigan seemed to look at Collins anew, but he didn’t comment.

In the kitchen, Alan Hargreaves was standing by the table, a laptop in front of him. Spiller suspected that the man had jumped to his feet to greet them. His brow was wrinkled by worry, but that was a common enough reaction when faced with a couple of detectives. Very few people were glad to see the forces of law and order encroaching on their daily lives.

“Hello again, Mr Hargreaves,” Spiller said. “How are you?”

Hargreaves looked surprised. “I’m all right, but I’m sorry to hear that someone’s died. That’s never something you want to hear, especially if there’s anything suspicious about it.”

“Quite so.” Spiller indicated the nearest chair. “All right if we talk in here?”

“It’s fine by me,” Corrigan replied. “But won’t you need to see us separately?”

Spiller shook his head. “Not at this point, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ll deal with the details in due course, all right?” He glanced meaningfully at the coffee machine and Corrigan didn’t miss it.

“Please, have a seat,” Corrigan said. “I’ll get your coffee.”

A few minutes later, Spiller was savouring his coffee. I needed that, he thought. Visiting the scene of a murder tended to take its toll. Like most coppers, he didn’t let it show, but there was something very bleak about viewing the place where someone had lost their life. It made you wonder where you’d draw your last breath. Would you be tucked up in bed with clean white sheets, your loved ones gathered around? Or would you wind up somewhere much less salubrious? Like the poor sod today, Spiller thought. Face down in the road.

Spiller swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee, feeling it burn its way down his gullet. Good. He was ready, his mind clear. Sitting beside him, Collins had his tablet ready, his fingers hovering over the screen.

Setting his mug down on the table, Spiller began.

“Tell me about Henry Doubleday.”

A fleeting look was exchanged between Corrigan and Hargreaves.

Corrigan nodded, and Hargreaves took this as his cue.

“I’ve known Henry for some time, but only as an acquaintance,” Hargreaves said. “We’ve met at village events, and I’ve spoken to him on occasion. He was always polite to me, and I liked him, but we’re not friends.” He hesitated. “Was Dan right? Is Henry the victim? Has he been…?”

“I’m afraid it’s bad news,” Spiller replied. “Henry Doubleday was found dead this morning. A dog walker came across his body, and we’re treating his death as murder. Henry seems to have been attacked, probably with a blunt weapon of some kind, but we don’t have the details yet. We’ll know more later. There’ll have to be a post-mortem examination.”

“That’s terrible,” Hargreaves murmured. “Poor Henry.”

“Yes.” Spiller focused on Corrigan. “You met Mr Doubleday for the first time yesterday, is that correct?”

Corrigan nodded firmly. “I may have passed him at a village event, but if I did, I have no memory of it. I didn’t know him at all. When we went to his farm, he didn’t register as someone I’d seen around, but then I haven’t lived in the village for as long as Alan.”

“But you thought he may have known something about a missing person you’re looking for,” Spiller prompted.

“That’s right. The missing man is the son of the vicar, and Henry is—” Corrigan stopped to correct himself. “Henry was a churchwarden. Also, the missing person, Joshua Southgate, was a close friend of Henry’s son.”

Collins looked up from his tablet. “Liam.”

“That’s right,” Dan said. “I’ve spoken to him too. He lives in Plymouth. He didn’t know where Joshua had gone, but his partner gave me a phone number for him. I was hoping you could help with that. You can trace a number, can’t you?”

Spiller let his hard-eyed stare do the talking. He wasn’t here to run around after private investigators, and it was about time Mr Corrigan realised that.

“Joshua was reported as a missing person,” Corrigan went on. “You’d be solving a case, and you’d be helping with a mission of mercy. Joshua needs to see his father before it’s too late. The vicar—his name is Greg Southgate—is seriously ill, and we don’t know how long he’s got.”

“I’m going to regret this,” Spiller said, “but I’m going to ask a few questions, and I want your answers to be short and to the point.”

Corrigan nodded.

“Okay,” Spiller began, “When was Joshua reported missing?”

“Six years ago.”

“How old was he at the time?

“Seventeen.”

Spiller glanced at Collins. “No need to make notes on this. It’s… supplemental.”

With a curt nod of acknowledgement, Collins lifted his hands away from the tablet and focused on Corrigan, waiting. Collins was developing the sharp-eyed gaze of the professional interrogator: curious and yet sceptical at the same time. It did Spiller’s heart good to see it.

“Okay,” Spiller went on. “Were there any suspicious circumstances to the boy’s disappearance?”

“Not as far as I know. His parents were baffled. They were concerned that he might have got in with the wrong crowd of friends, and they thought he might’ve been experimenting with drugs, but they weren’t seriously worried. Joshua was doing well at school.”

“And it was his father, the local vicar, who asked you to look for him?”

“That’s right. His name is Gregory Southgate.”

“Why now? Why wait all this time?”

“As I’ve already told you, Greg is very ill. He has a heart condition, and he wants to see his son. You can understand that.

“Oh yes,” Spiller replied. “It’s a sad situation, but even with a phone number, it might not be easy to find someone who’s been missing that long. And he might have stayed away for his own reasons.”

“I appreciate that. So are you going to help or is he going to be just another missing person?”

“I’d change your tone if I were you,” Spiller said. “I don’t appreciate being talked down to. We take every missing person seriously. Every single one.”

“If you say so, but⁠—”

“I do say so, Mr Corrigan. Believe it or not, we don’t operate according to what you might’ve seen on TV. We don’t shrug our shoulders and say nothing can be done when an adult goes missing. We look at every case. They’re not just statistics to us. They’re somebody’s son or daughter, somebody’s partner, somebody’s sister or brother.”

In the silence that followed, Corrigan dropped his gaze as though chastened.

“I’m sorry,” Corrigan said. “I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t doing your job.”

“Yes, you did. But believe me, when you’ve had to deal with families grieving over someone who’s disappeared, you don’t take it lightly. It’s the not knowing that eats away at them. There’s no end to it, no closure.”

Spiller studied the man for a moment, checking his words had hit home, then he nodded, satisfied.

“What’s the number you have for Joshua?” Spiller asked.

Corrigan took out his phone and reeled off a number.

Spiller glanced at Collins and received a nod that said Got it.

Corrigan’s gaze darted to Collins and back. “So you’ll do it? You’ll trace the number?”

“No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much. All I need is an address. If you don’t have time to follow it up, I can do it.”

“We’ll see about that. The last time I checked, you weren’t a police officer, so you’d better leave it with us.” Spiller paused, taking in the downcast expression on Corrigan’s face. The man was like a dog with a bone. Corrigan hated to admit defeat, but he’d just begged for help, cap in hand.

Softening his tone, Spiller added, “You’ve done well to find a number for the lad, but we’ll take it from here. Which hospital is his father in?”

“Torbay. His father’s name is⁠—

“Gregory Southgate,” Spiller said. “I remember. Now, what else can either of you tell me about Henry Doubleday? When you last saw him, how did he seem?”

“He was okay,” Hargreaves replied. “He wasn’t keen to talk to us, but I think that was understandable.”

“You put it more strongly earlier,” Spiller pointed out, turning to Corrigan. “You said he showed you the door.”

Corrigan nodded. “He asked us to leave in no uncertain terms. He’s estranged from his own son, you see, though we didn’t know that until later. When we asked about his son’s friend, Henry became upset.”

“Upset or angry?”

“I’d say annoyed is closer to the mark. Talking about his son was a sore point.”

“Was there anything that seemed amiss? Did he seem worried or concerned for his own safety?”

“No,” Hargreaves replied. “I’d say he was his usual bullish self.”

“Bullish?” Collins said. “Earlier, you said he was always polite, and I’m having a hard time putting the two together. Which is it?”

“Both. Henry wasn’t a bad man, but he could be a bit gruff. In the normal run of things he was generous and kind, but he didn’t suffer fools gladly. We dragged up something he didn’t want to talk about, and he asked us to leave. That’s all there is to it.”

“You sound defensive,” Collins stated. “Why is that? Did you get into an argument with Mr Doubleday?”

Hargreaves shook his head, speechless. Spiller almost smiled at the way Collins had put him on the back foot, but it was time to move on; Hargreaves wasn’t a suspect.

“Was there anyone else present at your meeting?” Spiller asked.

“No,” Corrigan replied. “There were just the three of us in the kitchen.”

“You didn’t see Henry’s wife, Jean?”

“Not in person, but I think she may have been in the house. As we were leaving, I caught a glimpse of someone at an upstairs window, but I didn’t see who it was. The only other person I saw was near one of the barns. He was a farm worker, we think, or a contractor, but we didn’t speak to him. I’ve no idea who he was or what he was doing there, but he did strike me as a bit shifty.”

“In what way?” Spiller said.

“He watched us leave, then he ducked back into one of the barns, as if he didn’t want to be seen.”

“Which barn?” Spiller asked.

Corrigan didn’t reply, but he lowered his eyebrows. He seemed to have picked up on Spiller’s tone, and he was probably wondering why the barn was important.

“Shall I repeat the question?” Spiller went on.

“No, no, I understand. It was the largest of the outbuildings, the one at the top end of the yard, opposite the gate that leads to the house.”

“Thank you,” Spiller replied. “This worker, what did he look like?”

“Stocky, scruffy, dressed in old overalls. I’d put him in his thirties, but that’s a guess. I only saw him for a second.” Corrigan hesitated. “Henry struck me as the careful type. If he employed somebody that day, he would’ve kept a record of it.”

Hargreaves cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t bank on that. A lot of farmers employ casual labour, and they sometimes work cash-in-hand.”

“We’ll find him, one way or another,” Spiller said. “Does the name Roy Searle mean anything to either of you?”

Corrigan and Hargreaves shared blank looks, but it was Hargreaves who spoke first.

“No, it doesn’t ring a bell. Is he a local?”

Spiller remained inscrutable. “Let’s concentrate on your visit to Mr Doubleday’s farm. When you arrived, did you walk across the concrete yard?”

Both men nodded.

“We met Henry in the yard,” Corrigan said. “We exchanged a few words, then he took us into the house.”

“What was the yard like?”

Corrigan seemed taken aback by the question. He glanced at Hargreaves then said, “There’s not much to tell. It’s a concrete yard. I did notice it was cleaner than I’d expected. Not a scrap of mud or cow muck—nothing like that—but otherwise…” He held out his hands and shrugged.

“Farmers tend to be quite strict about hygiene these days,” Hargreaves added. “They call it biosecurity, keeping things clean so as to prevent the spread of disease.”

“I’m aware of that,” Spiller replied. “And if there were animals in any of the barns, I’d agree, but I didn’t see any livestock except the llamas in the field, did you?”

Corrigan shook his head. “I had the impression Henry was semi-retired. He said that he kept a few head of cattle from time to time, but I think that’s the extent of it.”

“How about the smell? Anything you noticed?”

“How do you mean?” Hargreaves asked. “Are you talking about manure, because there weren’t any animals nearby, so I didn’t notice anything like that.”

Spiller took a moment to rephrase the question. “As you said, the yard was clean. We’d like to know if it was washed down with some kind of chemical, and if so, when that might’ve happened.”

Corrigan’s eyes lit up.

“I see.” Corrigan said. “Somebody cleaned up after the crime, is that it?”

Spiller shook his head firmly. “Did you notice any kind of chemical smell or not?”

“No, we didn’t,” Hargreaves replied. “There was nothing but fresh air.”

“Thank you,” Spiller said. “Was there anything else you noticed while you were there?”

“Not at the time,” Corrigan replied. “But later on, while we were in the pub, his car might have gone past. You said you heard it go by, didn’t you, Alan?”

“That’s right,” Hargreaves said. “Henry has a classic car, an MG, or so I’m told, and I heard a sports car go by. I’ve heard that Henry likes to drive through the village when there’s a fine evening.”

“You saw him drive past the pub?” Spiller asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Hargreaves admitted. “I heard what might have been a sports car. It wasn’t long after we arrived. We got there just after eight o’clock, so I heard the car at about quarter past. I’m sorry, but that’s only an estimate. I didn’t check the time.”

“Nevertheless, it’s useful information,” Spiller said.

“Have you found Henry’s car?” Corrigan asked.

Spiller raised an eyebrow. “Really, Mr Corrigan? After all this time, do you honestly expect me to hand out information like that?”

“No, but you can’t blame me for trying.”

Spiller repressed the urge to tell Dan that he was, indeed, very trying. Instead, he downed the last of his coffee and glanced at Collins.

“I think we’re done for the moment,” Spiller said. “Don’t you, DS Collins?”

“Yes, sir,” Collins replied with a smile.

The lad was still getting used to hearing his rank. Let him enjoy it, Spiller thought. He’s earned it.

To Corrigan and Hargreaves, he said, “Thanks for your help, gentlemen. As we mentioned earlier, you’ve both been to Henry’s house recently, so we’d like to take your fingerprints and DNA for the purposes of elimination. We can arrange for a car to come and collect you, or you can make your own way to the station at Middlemoor. The sooner the better.”

“We’ll take care of it right away,” Corrigan said.

“That would be appreciated. I’ll make sure they’re expecting you.” Spiller rose to his feet, Collins following his example.

“I needn’t leave you a card, need I?” Spiller said. “But if you remember anything else that might be useful, you know what to do.”

“We do,” Corrigan replied. “And you’ll check that number for Joshua Southgate?”

“When I get time. We’ll be in touch. Bye for now. No need to get up. We’ll see ourselves out.”

Spiller made for the front door, Collins at his heels. Despite being told not to bother, Corrigan followed them to the door as if determined to see them off the premises.

Spiller waited on the pavement until Corrigan had closed the door.

“Interesting,” Collins said. “Especially the man they saw in the barn. If it was Roy Searle, that places him at the scene on the day Henry was killed.”

“If that barn turns out to be a crime scene,” Spiller replied. “And that’s a big if, but I want you to chase Roy Searle. Let’s bring him in for an interview under caution, but before we go knocking on his door, I want as much background on the man as you can get. I want chapter and verse.”

“Will do, Guv. It’s a shame Hargreaves didn’t see the car last night. That would’ve given us a timeframe.”

“Nevertheless, he made a useful observation and it’s worth pursuing. Somebody on the route will have a security camera of some kind, and if we can see the car going past, it’ll be a massive help.”

“I’ll get on it,” Collins said. “I’ll tell you one thing though, if I do find any footage, I’ll have a DC trawl through it. My days of staring at grainy videos are over.”

“Quite right, Collins. While you’re at it, have someone go through the CCTV from Sainsbury’s to look for Jean Doubleday.”

“Is it worth it? Anisha didn’t raise any red flags.”

“Nevertheless, the spouse is always worth looking at, Collins. Always.” Spiller offered a conciliatory smile. “And have someone check ANPR. If we can spot the Jeep coming and going, we’ll have a timeframe for Jean’s visit to Sainsbury’s. That ought to narrow it down.”

“Will do.”

“And Collins, you might have to sit down and check some CCTV yourself before we’re done. It’s going to be all hands to the pump. This inquiry has only just begun.”

CHAPTER 33

It didn’t take Dan and Alan long to give their fingerprints and DNA at Exeter’s police station in Middlemoor. A uniformed constable introduced herself as Jane and took them to the custody suite. Jane guided them through the process, and the whole thing was done promptly and without fuss.

As they made their way back to the car, Alan said, “What did you think of police HQ?”

“I was quite impressed,” Dan replied. “All that plate glass and computer screens everywhere. I’ve worked in worse offices.”

“It was only finished a few years ago. Their old place at Heavitree is still empty. Abandoned.”

He studied Dan for a moment, then added, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. It’s just a strange experience, putting our identities on the record like that. I know we have nothing to hide, but it makes you wonder how the information might be used, or should I say, misused?”

“I know what you mean, but Jane put my mind at rest. They’ll destroy our records once they’re not needed.”

Dan nodded but without enthusiasm.

“It’s really got to you, hasn’t it?” Alan went on. “What are you worried about?”

“I just don’t like it. We’ve accepted all the CCTV, and we can’t drive far without our car number plates being scanned, but this feels like a step too far. I don’t want this to become normal.”

“There are safeguards,” Alan said. “We’re not quite in Orwell’s 1984.”

“No, we get to do our own surveillance. Who needs Big Brother when we’re happy to post selfies every five minutes and let smart speakers listen to everything we say? Meanwhile, our phones track our every move and social media companies scramble to get their hands on our data.”

“I take your point, but don’t let this get you down. Keep it in perspective. Henry was murdered, and the police are doing their best to find the killer. The least we can do is let them eliminate us from their inquiries.”

Alan checked his watch. “Do you want to grab a coffee somewhere? Or we could have an early lunch.”

“Thanks, but I’ll drop you off and head back. Where shall I take you?”

“Anywhere near the centre is good. I might go along to the library, get some writing done.”

Dan drove Alan to a quiet street not far from the library, and Alan grabbed his laptop bag and jumped out, then he waved a cheery goodbye. Dan smiled as he waved back. It was good to see that gleam in Alan’s eye; he was looking forward to tackling his latest manuscript.

I take up too much of his time, Dan told himself as he drove away. But for the rest of the day, or at least until he met Natalya after work, Alan was off the hook.

Dan headed straight back to Embervale. During the drive, he tried to concentrate on the events leading up to Greg’s collapse, but his mind kept returning to his meeting with Spiller.

Who could’ve wanted Henry dead and why? Where had the body been found, and what about Henry’s car?

There were so many unknowns. He’d only met Henry once and it hadn’t gone well, but it was unfair to judge him on that one prickly conversation. He had no idea what the man had really been like. Both Alan and Brenda Southgate had painted Henry as a good man, albeit one who could be impatient and old-fashioned, fixed in his views.

It struck Dan that Henry’s wife, Jean, had been noticeably absent from the farmhouse on the day of his visit. If she’d been the person he’d glimpsed at the window as he’d left, why had she stayed upstairs? Was she unwell?

Having never met Jean, Dan couldn’t imagine how she might be dealing with her husband’s death. Her only son was estranged, and now her husband was gone. That majestic old farmhouse must suddenly have become a very lonely place.

The police will be looking after her, Dan thought. And they’ll be searching the farm for clues. He’d like a good look at the place himself, but that was not to be.

The journey to Embervale was a smooth one, and Dan was home before noon. He set up his laptop on the kitchen table and started typing up a list of ideas, but nothing seemed to gel. After a few minutes of tapping at the keys, he pushed the laptop away and decided on an early lunch.

He made himself a quick sandwich, but as he took the first bite, his phone rang.

The caller ID showed Alan’s name, and Dan hastily chewed his mouthful of sandwich as he answered.

“Hi,” Alan said. “Have you got a minute? It’s about the case.”

“Yes, but you’re supposed to be writing. I thought you were going to the library.”

“I changed my mind.”

“So it would seem.” Tuning his ear to the background noise on the line, Dan detected the hum of conversation and the rattle of cups. “You’re in a coffee shop.”

“Yes,” Alan admitted. “The library was too quiet. I prefer a bit of background noise when I’m writing.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

In the brief silence that followed, Dan pictured his friend’s exasperated expression.

True to form, Alan said, “Do you want to know what I’ve found out or not?”

“I’m all ears.”

“Okay. I couldn’t help thinking about everything Jay told us, especially all that stuff about Penny Robbins.”

“Any reason in particular?” Dan asked.

“Nothing specific, but Jay only gave us a few hints. He was very cagey about the details, and as we both know, the devil is in the details. So I went back to basics. Background research.”

Dan heard the glee in Alan’s voice, and his heart beat a little faster. Alan thought he’d found something.

“Go on,” Dan said. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Jay thought that Penny had argued with Henry, and as a result her husband went around to Seven Springs Farm and gave Henry a black eye.”

“And did he?”

“Yes,” Alan stated. “Six months ago Henry pressed charges, and Dave was up before the magistrate. Dave pleaded guilty to common assault and had to pay a fine. The fight was actually seven months ago, so it must’ve taken a few weeks to come to court. The case wasn’t hard to find. It was all made public at the time.”

“I expect the police will have looked at this already, but I don’t know how much weight they’ll place on it. One punch six months ago doesn’t make Dave a suspect for murder. It wasn’t as if he was charged with GBH.”

“That had occurred to me, but I was thinking more about Penny. I suppose her husband was trying to stick up for her, but he almost certainly made things worse. I took the date of the incident at Seven Springs Farm and cross-referenced it with the church website. I found a newsletter dated five days after the fight, announcing that Penny was stepping down and thanking her for all she’d done. Reading between the lines, she’d been left in an impossible position. The church had been part of her life, but how could she go back after what happened?”

“I see what you mean.” Dan paused to marshal his thoughts. “Do you still have the church website in front of you?”

“Do you have to ask?”

Dan smiled. “Not really. I was wondering how long Penny served as a churchwarden.”

“I’ll check.” A moment later, Alan added, “I’ve found a newsletter mentioning her years of dedication and hard work, but it doesn’t say when she started. Let me see what I can do.”

Dan waited, listening to the faint sound of Alan’s fingers thudding the keys. He’d watched Alan typing many times, and reckoned he could gauge his friend’s enthusiasm by the speed and ferocity of his keystrokes. Right now, if he was any judge, Alan thought they were on to something. But Dan wasn’t quite so convinced. Not yet.

A minute later, Alan came back on the line. “I had to dig back through the older newsletters, but there’s one that mentions Penny’s five years of service to the church. She left the following year. Let me see, if my mental maths is correct, and taking into account that Penny stepped down seven months ago, she was a churchwarden before Joshua Southgate ran away. We should definitely talk to her. If nothing else, she might be able to give us a more balanced view of Joshua.”

“Possibly, but that isn’t the angle I’m thinking of.”

“Oh? What then?”

“More like who?” Dan said. “Simon Bellamy. When did he arrive? When did he become the deacon?”

There was a shushing sound on the phone, as if Alan had just puffed out his cheeks and exhaled on the microphone. “Of course. I should’ve thought of that.”

There was a brief pause and then Alan said, “He started six years and four months ago, so he hadn’t been there long when Joshua ran away. In other words, he knew both Penny Robbins and Joshua Southgate.”

“That could be a meaningless coincidence, but since I’m not flavour of the month with Bellamy, I’ll talk to Penny Robbins and see what I can find out.” Dan shook his head in silent dismay. “I ought to have spoken to her days ago. Why didn’t we think of this earlier, Alan? How did we miss it?”

“It’s a strange case. There’s nothing straightforward about it, but we’ll get there. Eventually.”

“I hope so, but eventually isn’t going to cut it. We need answers now. I’ll go straight to Penny’s house. It shouldn’t be hard to find the address. Her husband must have a website.”

“There’s no need, I know where he lives,” Alan said. “He’s very much in demand, is Dave. They live at 13, Fulford Road. It’s walking distance from your house, but hadn’t you better call first?”

“I’d rather be face to face when we talk. I’ll go right away.”

“I can come back early and⁠—”

“No,” Dan interrupted. “Thanks, but there’s no need. Stick to the plan and meet Natalya. It would be good if you could visit all those Polish grocers in one day.”

“Okay. Look after yourself.”

Dan said goodbye and ended the call.

He made to stand up, but his sandwich called to him, and he set about finishing it. He was more or less done when there was a knock at the front door.

“What now?” Dan muttered. But when he opened the door, there was no one there, only a parcel sitting on the doorstep. Dan looked along the street, but the courier had vanished. No one waits for a signature anymore, he thought, retrieving his package and taking it back to the kitchen.

He dumped the cardboard box onto the table. He assumed it was the wildlife camera he’d ordered, but there’d be time to unpack it later. It might still be worth installing it in the churchyard, after all, there was still a mystery to uncover there.

Wait until this evening, he decided. Give things a chance to quieten down. The police would be buzzing through the village in their search for a killer, all of them on high alert. If they found him setting up his own amateur surveillance equipment, he’d have some explaining to do.

But the evening was a long way off, and before then, he had a house call to make.

CHAPTER 34

Sophia stormed up the hill to the nearby village of Hennock, but she slowed her pace as she approached the vicarage, a familiar sense of apprehension stirring in her stomach. The vicarage wasn’t grand or impressive, but she only had to see its grey stone walls to be transported back to her childhood.

There’d been happy times there, especially when she was very young. But later, as with so many things, her teenage years had brought change, upset, uncertainty. Teen angst, they called it, but the words didn’t do it justice. Not for her.

That’s all behind you, Sophia told herself. Those days are gone. Even so, unwanted memories surfaced, bringing with them a flood of dark emotions. She shouldn’t be surprised. After everything that had happened over the last couple of days, after everything they’d done, she ought to feel anxious; it would be strange if she didn’t.

But a few pangs of guilt were the least of her worries. Sophia forced herself to walk tall, her shoulders back, and she renewed her determined stride.

She skirted around the house, intending to knock on the back door as usual, but she was saved the trouble. The person she’d come to see was in the garden, lazing on a sun lounger in the middle of the lawn.

“Hi,” Sophia called out, but she received no response, so she marched across the lawn.

Ellen Southgate was warming herself in the gentle spring sunshine, her eyes closed and earbuds in place. Wearing a soft cami top and loose fitting trousers in a matching shade of pale pink, she didn’t look like someone whose father was critically ill in hospital. Quite the reverse. Ellen Southgate looked like someone who didn’t have a care in the world.

Sophia stood over her old friend, deliberately casting a shadow over her, and Ellen sat up with a start, plucking the earbuds from her ears.

“What the hell, Soph?” she demanded. “You could’ve said something.”

“I did. You didn’t hear me.” Sophia looked meaningfully at the earbuds in Ellen’s hand. “What are you listening to?”

“Never mind that,” Ellen replied. “You wouldn’t approve.”

“Try me.”

“No thanks. We’ve been down that road before, and I can’t cope with your contempt. Not today.”

“All right. I was only asking.” Sophia paused, then said, “We need to talk.”

“Inside?”

Sophia looked around then shook her head. “Here’s fine. Let me grab something to sit on.”

There was a patio near the house, complete with a wooden table and chairs. The garden furniture hadn’t changed much since she’d last been here, and she briefly recalled the many meals she’d eaten at the old picnic bench, chatting with her friends, the three of them spending more time giggling than they did eating.

Part of her wanted to push the memory away, to erase it, but she couldn’t let it go; it was far too precious.

Sophia walked over to the patio and picked up a wooden chair. It looked newer than the rest, and it was surprisingly heavy, but she lugged it across the lawn.

She set the chair down close to Ellen and sat facing her, preparing herself.

But first there was something that had to be said.

“Ellen, are those your pyjamas?”

“Yeah, so what?” Ellen lifted her chin defiantly. “Give me a break, okay? I’m going through a lot right now. I don’t need⁠—”

“Okay, okay,” Sophia interrupted. “I was just worried about you, that’s all. It’s not like you to hang about without getting dressed.”

“Like you would know.”

“Meaning?”

Ellen fixed her with a look. “Meaning, you have no idea what’s going on with me. Until last night, you’d been ghosting me for months.”

“I have not. I wouldn’t do that. Never.”

“Yeah? Well what do you call it when someone doesn’t answer your messages, doesn’t return your calls, doesn’t even reach out when they know your dad’s ill?”

“I didn’t know about your dad until the other day.”

“Oh yes, you did. Your mum knows everything that goes on. She’s here all the time, and she sat in our front room and said she’d told you about it. That was weeks ago, Soph. My dad has been ill for weeks.”

Sophia flushed. A flurry of words flashed through her mind, but she couldn’t catch them, couldn’t put them into an answer that made sense.

“It’s different when you want something,” Ellen went on, her tone hardening, growing more bitter by the second. “Oh yeah, you’re quick to call up then.” Ellen spread her hands in mock pleading, derision in her voice. “Oh, drop everything, Ellen, come and help, we have to do something.”

Ellen dropped her hands. “And what do I do? Like an idiot, I went trotting back to that miserable old dump. You must think I’m stupid.”

“No. It wasn’t like that.” Sophia leaned forward. It was her turn to plead, but her words were sincere. “I’m sorry, Ellen. I really am. But why didn’t you say any of this to me the other day? Why now? It’s not fair.”

“Fair? Seriously?” Ellen shook her head. “If I’d said something the other day, would you have listened? Would you?”

Sophia bowed her head. “Probably not. I am sorry, Ellen, really I am. But I needed you. I wish things had been different, but I needed my old friend, and we are still friends, aren’t we?”

She searched Ellen’s expression but saw only anger in the set of her jaw, the coldness of her stare.

“You’re mad at me, and you’re right,” Sophia went on. “I should’ve kept in touch. But I thought… I thought you didn’t want me to. I saw you that day in town. I waved but you blanked me.”

Ellen’s expression faltered. “What?”

“You remember. We were in The Crown. It was student night, and you were there with your friends.”

“When was this?”

“I don’t know. Months ago. The start of term.”

“I didn’t see you,” Ellen said. “I’ve never seen you in there. We go because it’s cheap, but I thought…” Her voice trailed away, her anger replaced by confusion. “If you saw me, why didn’t you come over?”

“Because I thought you were ignoring me, and that hurt. I was on my own, waiting for a friend, and I couldn’t stand in front of you and your mates and be humiliated.”

“I wouldn’t have done that to you,” Ellen shot back. “I don’t know how many times I have to say it, but I wasn’t ignoring you. I didn’t even know you were there. You know what it’s like when you aren’t expecting to see someone—it doesn’t register.”

“Really? You didn’t see me?”

Ellen shook her head in dismay. “All this time…”

“Yeah,” Sophia replied. “All this time.” After a moment, she added, “Are we okay?”

“Yeah, I suppose so. But it’s going to take me a while to get over last night. It was all a bit full on. I feel like I’m still shaking inside, do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, me too.” Sophia hesitated. “Did you hear what happened?”

Ellen was instantly on edge. “What?”

“They found somebody. Dead. Near the old quarry.”

“No.” Ellen’s hand flew to her mouth. “No. It wasn’t him. It can’t have been.”

“Can’t it? Think about it. How many people go up there? Hardly anybody. But he was there, and so were we.”

“But we didn’t⁠—”

“He was terrified,” Sophia interrupted. “Running for his life. He must’ve fallen or something. It’s all our fault.”

“No. You don’t know that.” Ellen grimaced as though she were swallowing a lump in her throat. “Did they say it was him?”

“They didn’t have to. It’s obvious.”

Ellen stared at her. “Soph, did they say his name, yes or no?”

“Okay, they didn’t say who it was. But even if it wasn’t him, even if by some horrible coincidence somebody else was killed, they’ll know we’ve been there. We’ll have left footprints or something, or maybe somebody saw us. The police will ask questions, they’ll find out.”

“Not necessarily, but even if they do, it needn’t matter.”

Sophia started to protest, but Ellen didn’t give her the chance.

“We just have to get our story straight,” Ellen went on, growing calmer as she spoke. “Were we in the old quarry? Yes. Why? We went for a walk. We used to go there when we were kids. It was like old times. We went to that little place where we used to light a fire. We hung around a bit, chatted about nothing much, then we went home. We didn’t see anybody while we were there, and we didn’t hear anything.”

“Nobody will believe that. It won’t work.”

“It will, so long as we all agree, so long as we’re consistent.” Ellen’s phone had been down by her side, and she picked it up and began tapping on the screen. “We’ll do this properly, make a list. What time did we get there?”

“I got there at ten to eight. Do we say it was just us two or what?”

Ellen thought for a while, chewing at the inside of her cheek. Finally she said, “I don’t think we’ve got any choice. They’ll want to talk to all three of us. We don’t have to say why we were there, but we mustn’t lie unless we really have to—lies are too hard to keep track of—but we’ll have to give them our names.”

“Okay.”

Sophia let out a pent-up breath, and the weight on her shoulders seemed to lessen. In a strange way, this was like old times. Ellen had always been the problem solver, the one with the logical mind. If she said there was a way through, a way that would keep them out of trouble, she was probably right.

“Let’s get started,” Ellen said, and as they talked, a new version of the previous evening sprang into life in Sophia’s imagination. It was so thoughtfully constructed, so detailed, she could almost believe it had been real.

CHAPTER 35

Someone rapped on the door of his office, but Spiller had barely begun to call out in response when Collins burst in.

“Come in,” Spiller said pointedly. “Make yourself at home.”

“Sorry, Guv, but you always say, if it’s important…”

Spiller dismissed the explanation with a wave of his hand. “Okay, Collins, what have you got?”

“Roy Searle has form. Theft. He was caught shoplifting.”

“What was he pinching?”

“Food. He was helping himself to packets of meat from a Tesco Express and shoving them in his pockets. Some of the packs had security tags and he got stopped on the way out, more than once.” Collins grinned and held up three fingers.

“Three times?” Spiller asked. “He did the same thing three times? But those tags are bright yellow.”

Collins nodded, smirking. “Not the sharpest tool in the box, is our friend Roy. He didn’t even think to try a different store. It was always the Newton Abbot branch, always packs of meat.”

“They’re low-value items, so I suppose he was up before the magistrates.”

“Yes. The first couple of times he got away with a fine, but on the third offence he was given a community sentence—300 hours.”

“When was this?”

“Only a couple of years ago. He got off lightly because his brief cited mitigating factors.”

“Let me guess,” Spiller said. “Lack of maturity? That would fit with his bungled attempt at shoplifting. You might say he was ham-fisted.”

Collins groaned. “That’s a shocker.”

“It’s a perfectly good pun, but go on, tell me what happened.”

“Searle claimed he was the sole carer for his elderly dad. They live together, and Searle reckoned he was just trying to keep the old man fed.”

“In that case, the first fine ought to have made him see sense.”

“You’d think,” Collins said. “But I reckon he’s impulsive. He doesn’t think of the consequences, he just goes ahead.”

“In other words, exactly the kind of person who might strike his employer and then make a botch job of hiding the body.” Spiller paused. “But if he’s such a hothead, would he have been so thorough in getting rid of the evidence and cleaning the car?”

“That was afterwards, when he’d had a chance to cool down.”

Spiller nodded slowly. “I’m assuming you’ve got his address.”

“Oh yes. I’m ready to go and pull him in, but I wanted to let you know.”

“You did right. By the way, did you find any CCTV of the MG going through the village?”

Collins shook his head slowly. “No joy, Guv. Hardly any cameras to be found, and none of them any good. I guess it’s a low-crime neighbourhood.”

“I expect it was, once upon a time, but nowhere’s safe. Collins. Not anymore.” Spiller stood and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “Okay, we’ll do this the old-fashioned way and knock on Searle’s door. Let’s go.”

“You’re going to come with…?” Collins didn’t bother to finish his question; he simply stepped back to clear a path for his superior officer.

Together, they made for the stairs.

CHAPTER 36

Dan couldn’t recall ever visiting Fulford road, but if he had been before and subsequently forgotten all about it, he wouldn’t be surprised. The place was wholly unremarkable: an anonymous straight road with an unbroken terrace of small houses on either side.

The walls of each house had been rendered and painted in pastel shades to more or less fit in with the village, but there were no concessions to rural life, not even a grass verge or a tree. The only patches of greenery were the tiny gardens in front of each house. It could be a street from almost anywhere in the UK.

Ex-council houses? Dan wondered. Not that it matters. It struck him that when he’d first come to Embervale, he might’ve turned his nose up at a neighbourhood like this. But he’d mellowed, hadn’t he?

I bloody well hope so, Dan thought. Live and let live, that’s what I say. He smiled to himself. Yes, nowadays he largely confined his snobbery to his choice of coffee, and that was a self-confessed foible, so it hardly counted at all.

He reached Number 13 and saw that the house was alike its neighbours in almost every respect. It had curtains at the double-glazed windows, a neat front garden, and a concrete path leading up to the front door. But there was one difference: a sign beside the garden gate that read FOR SALE.

The Robbins family are moving on, Dan thought as he made for the front door. It’s one change after another. First, Penny Robbins resigned as a churchwarden, now her house was up for sale. Could there be a connection?

He pushed the doorbell and only had to wait half a minute before it was answered by a heavyset middle-aged man. Dressed in dark blue jeans and a pristine white polo shirt, the man was clean-shaven, his mousy hair combed into a side parting. He had the jowls and paunch of a man who liked a pint of ale, but his posture was very upright, and his eyes were bright as he studied Dan.

“Hello,” Dan said. “You must be Dave Robbins.”

The man nodded once but seemed inclined not to speak.

Dan held out his hand for a shake. “I’m Dan Corrigan. I live on Fore Street.”

The man frowned at Dan’s hand, but he made no move to shake it.

“If you’ve come about work, I can’t help you,” he said. “I’m booked solid for a month at least.”

“Business must be booming. I’m surprised to see you at home.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? This is my house. But if you want a plumber, you could try⁠—”

Dan raised his hands to stop the man short. “Sorry, but I haven’t come about plumbing. Assuming you are Mr Robbins, I haven’t come to see you at all.”

“Yeah, I’m Dave Robbins, but if you’re not after a plumber, what do you want?”

“Good to meet you, Dave. Actually I was hoping to have a word with Penny. Is she in?”

“No, she’s out.”

“Ah, is she somewhere local? Maybe I could catch up with her.”

Robbins lowered his eyebrows. “What’s this about?”

“It’s in connection with the church.”

“I see,” Robbins intoned. “It’s money you want, is it? What’s it for this time, the leaky roof, woodworm in the pews, a new heater?”

“Actually, no,” Dan started to say, but Robbins wasn’t listening.

“There’s always something, isn’t there? Well, you lot might’ve pulled the wool over my Penny’s eyes for years, but you don’t get me so easy.”

“Mr Robbins, I’ve given you the wrong impression. I want to ask Penny something about the church, but I’m not here to fundraise for them. I don’t even go to church. I’m a private investigator.”

Robbins lifted his chin and looked down his nose at Dan. “Oh, you’re him—the bloke people keep talking about—the private eye.”

Robbins made the last two words sound like an insult, but Dan responded with a polite nod.

“That’s me,” he said. “And at the moment I’m working on two cases. One concerns the vicar’s son, Joshua Southgate. He’s been missing for a long time, but I expect your wife knew him. She was a churchwarden for years, wasn’t she?”

“That’s right.”

“But Penny resigned as churchwarden, didn’t she? Do you have any idea why she left?”

“You’d have to ask her.”

Dan summoned his reserves of patience. “I’d like to, but unless you tell me where she is, I can’t do that.”

“She’s out.”

Here we go again, Dan thought, but before he could speak, Robbins said, “My wife won’t want to talk to you, not about that lot. She doesn’t want anything to do with the church and neither do I. She’s better off out of it.”

“Okay, I hear what you’re saying, but perhaps you could pass on a message for me.” Dan produced a business card and offered it. “My details are all there. If Penny could get in touch, I’d appreciate it. I’m trying to find Josh because his father asked me to. The vicar is in hospital, and he’s very unwell. He wants to see his son while he has time.”

Robbins’ face fell, a genuine sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s a shame. He…” The man moved his lips as though searching for the right words. “Listen, what I said before… I might not have time for some of that lot, but Vicar Greg—he’s all right. He seems like a decent bloke, and I wouldn’t want you to think…”

“I know what you mean,” Dan said gently. Robbins hadn’t taken the card, so he withdrew it, adding, “Anyone can see that Greg is a good man.”

“Yeah.” Robbins looked thoughtful. “What was the other thing? You said there were two.”

“That’s right. I’m also looking for a young person—a teenager who’s been hanging around the church at night. Whoever they are, they gave Greg a fright.”

“I can’t help you there. We go once a year to visit our Susan. We put in fresh flowers and tidy things up, but that’s it.”

Robbins had kept his tone matter of fact, but there was a tightness in the wrinkles around his eyes that pointed to a deeper emotion.

“I’m sorry,” Dan said. “You tend to a grave? I didn’t know.”

“No reason why you would. We lost our daughter a long time ago. Meningitis. A terrible thing.”

“I really am sorry for your loss. And me coming here today and asking about the church, it must’ve seemed insensitive. I can only apologise.”

“You weren’t to know. Besides, it’s better to talk about her, otherwise it’s like our Susan gets forgotten, and we don’t want that.”

“Of course not.” Dan struggled to find the right thing to say. He’d known grief in his life, but it was impossible to imagine the loss of a child. All he could do was be there and listen, giving this taciturn man the chance to open up if he so wished.

Clearing his throat, Dan said, “How old was Susan?”

“Thirteen going on twenty-one. She knew her own mind, did our Susan. Bright as a button, and once she got talking…” Robbins shook his head, smiling. “She could’ve sold snow to an Eskimo, that one, but she was kind with it. She’d do anything for anybody.”

“She sounds wonderful.” Dan hesitated. “Perhaps being talkative runs in the family. I met your other daughter a few days ago.”

Robbins’ expression suddenly became guarded.

“Kayleigh, I mean,” Dan explained. “She was working in the pub and doing really well. I know Sam is very pleased with her.”

“Ah well, it’s a job, I suppose. She could do a lot better, but with things being as they are, there’s not a lot of work to be had around here.”

“Is that why you’re moving, to look for more opportunities?”

“Something like that.” Robbins looked away for a moment, then said, “You were going to give me your number.”

Dan shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve taken up more than enough of your time, and I’m sorry for dragging up the past, I didn’t mean to⁠—”

“Never mind,” Robbins interrupted. “Least said, soonest mended, but you can give me the number. If Penny doesn’t want to talk to you, that’s up to her. I can’t change her mind either way.”

“That’s understood. Thank you.” Dan offered the card again, and this time Robbins took it, furrowing his brow as he read Dan’s details.

“Much call for this sort of thing, is there?” he asked, looking up.

“Not around here,” Dan admitted. “Not usually anyway. I generally have to travel further afield.”

Robbins’ gaze sharpened. “Get an accountant, sort out your taxes. Best thing you’ll ever do, especially if you have to travel.”

“Thanks, I’ll look into that.”

“All right. Well, I’ve got things to do, so…”

“Yes, of course, I’ll leave you to it. Goodbye Mr Robbins, and good luck with selling the house.”

Robbins simply nodded and stepped back, closing the door to leave Dan standing on the path alone.

Dan glanced up at the house, then he turned and walked smartly away, his gaze on the ground. The last few minutes had left him feeling hollow. He wasn’t going to get far as a private investigator without knocking on doors and asking questions, but he’d intruded on someone’s private life on the slimmest of pretexts.

I couldn’t have known they’d lost a child, Dan told himself, but that wasn’t entirely true. He could easily have been more thorough in his background research. He could’ve asked Alan to help. Jay had mentioned some difficulty in Penny’s life, but he hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Dan had let it slide, but he should’ve pressed for an explanation, he should’ve insisted on knowing the truth. If he’d been better prepared, he could’ve been more tactful.

Dan tried to put himself in Penny’s shoes, but perhaps her situation was too far from his own experience. It wasn’t hard to see why she might have turned to the church for support, finding solace and a sense of community to tide her through the lonely days of her grief. And she’d thrown herself into the life of the parish, taking on the role of churchwarden.

Even so, it seemed strange that she’d placed her duty above her family, leaving them to fend for themselves, albeit temporarily. How had her other children and her husband felt about Penny’s devotion to the church? Kayleigh’s offhand remark about cooking the Sunday dinner hinted at a long held resentment.

And what about Dave Robbins? He was a closed book, his emotions tucked away behind a businesslike manner.

Families, Dan thought. Are they ever straightforward? Some, perhaps, were simpler than others, on the surface at least. But family ties ran deep, and feuds were deeper still.

The bonds that held a family together might be tightly intertwined, but the years could take their toll, the strongest strands fraying until they split apart. And when a thread snapped—when someone died or disappeared or was estranged—who took up the strain?

If the loss was shared equally, that might not be so hard to bear. But when the burden fell on one person’s shoulders alone, there would be consequences.

As he walked back home, Dan recalled the words Alan had used immediately after Greg had been whisked away by an ambulance: We’re getting into dark waters. At the time, the phrase had matched their mood, but now it seemed uncanny, almost prescient.

Dark waters indeed, Dan thought. And not a glimmer of light in sight.

CHAPTER 37

Spiller allowed Collins to drive him to Embervale in a pool car, and Collins opted for his vehicle of choice, a Vauxhall Insignia. Spiller sat quietly in the passenger seat, using the time to think. When they arrived at Searle’s address, Spiller was ready. Collins parked on the opposite side of the street, and they climbed from the car. Both men took a moment to look up and down Fulford Road.

“Council houses?” Collins asked.

“Some of them, maybe, but not all.” Spiller pointed to the FOR SALE sign not far from the car. “Unless the tenant of number 13 fancies his chances of selling a council house and getting away with it.”

Collins had the decency to look abashed, and Spiller spared him a lecture. Instead, he inclined his head toward Searle’s residence, number 18, and said, “After you.”

They marched up to the front door and Collins rang the bell.

There were drab net curtains at the windows so Spiller couldn’t see in. He gazed up at the upstairs windows, but there was no sign of anyone twitching the net curtains to look out.

“The garden’s a bit of a mess,” Collins said. “And there’s a leaky gutter up there somewhere. You can see the stain on the wall. Whoever owns the place, they’re not looking after it.”

Spiller made an appreciative murmuring sound to let Collins know he’d redeemed himself. The house did, indeed, look run down. Several of the double glazed windows were misted with condensation trapped between the panes, and the rendered walls were cracked and speckled with some kind of organic growth. The garden had been laid to gravel and paving slabs, but that hadn’t stopped the weeds from making themselves at home. There were a few plant pots arranged on the row of uneven slabs below the window, but the plants within had withered and died, leaving only a few dry stems, crooked and leafless. Someone had once tried to bring a little life and colour to the forlorn garden, but their attempts had come to nothing.

Collins reached for the doorbell again, but Spiller raised a hand to stop him.

“Try going around the block,” Spiller said. “See if there’s a back way in.”

“Got it.”

Collins set off at a brisk jog, quickly disappearing from view. I ought to have sent him sooner, Spiller thought, but at this point, Roy Searle was only a person of interest. Time would tell whether he became a witness or a suspect.

Spiller didn’t have to wait long before a dark shape appeared on the other side of the door’s small window. The patterned glass obscured almost everything, but Spiller doubted whether he was looking at Roy Searle; the figure was not tall and moved at a slow and uneven pace.

A grating sound came from the lock, and the door’s handle was slowly pressed down. A strange shuffle and thud came from within, and then the door swung open to reveal an elderly man leaning heavily on a walking frame.

The man squinted at Spiller, screwing up his eyes as though he wasn’t used to the daylight, then he took a wheezing breath and said, “Hello?”

“Mr Searle?” Spiller asked.

The man nodded. He looked frail, his sallow features drawn and lined with pain. The effort of answering the door had clearly been a strain. His checked shirt was frayed at the collar and his green woollen cardigan was wearing thin in places, but he’d made the effort to wear a tie. His trousers looked like they’d once belonged to a suit, and his shoes, although sorely in need of a polish, had once been a smart pair of black brogues.

Spiller introduced himself, showing his warrant card.

Mr Searle’s only reaction was to raise his eyebrows.

“Is Roy at home?” Spiller went on. “I’d like a word with him.”

“No. He’s working.”

“And where might that be?”

“I dunno.” Mr Searle bowed his head and took a few ragged breaths. Without looking up, he added, “He works all over, my Roy. Here and there. He does his best.”

“I’m sure he does, but I’m keen to talk to him. Has he got a phone with him?”

Mr Searle raised his head, his gaze searching Spiller’s expression.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Spiller went on. “The sooner I get hold of Roy, the better, so if I could have his number, it would be appreciated.”

“I don’t know it by heart. I’ll have to go and get it.”

“That’s fine. I think you ought to sit down. Maybe I could come in and have a chat. I can make you a cup of tea or something.”

Conflicting emotions played out on Mr Searle’s face, but then he nodded and began the laborious process of turning around.

Spiller followed him into the hallway, taking in the wallpaper peeling at the edges, the tired paintwork. “Just you at home, is there?” he asked.

“That’s right.” Mr Searle passed an open doorway and Spiller looked in to see that the front room had been converted into a bedroom. The bed was raised and equipped with rails to ease getting in and out, and a commode sat in one corner next to a small wardrobe of dark wood. The armchair by the window might well be older than Spiller, but there was a small and relatively modern TV on a low table in front of it, so it looked as though the chair was where Mr Searle spent his days.

Poor chap, Spiller thought, but at least there was plenty of light from the window, and the room was tidy and clean, so someone was trying to look after the old man.

“We’ll go in here,” Searle said, manoeuvring his walking frame through a doorway. He paused to nod down the hallway. “Kitchen’s down there. Kettle’s on the side. Teabags in the cupboard. Milk in the fridge.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Spiller replied. “Do you take sugar?”

Mr Searle hesitated, then he shook his head. “I’m not meant to.”

“But would you like sugar? If you’re allowed it, I mean. If you’re diabetic or something, I won’t tempt you.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s expensive though, isn’t it? Everything costs so much these days.”

“You’re not wrong,” Spiller replied. “By the way, is there a back door?”

“Why?”

“When nobody answered at the front, I sent my colleague around the back.”

Mr Searle halted and half turned to face Spiller. “What’s going on? You never said.”

“We’ll get to that in a minute.”

“Roy hasn’t been… he hasn’t got himself in trouble, has he? Because I told him, I warned him.”

Spiller made a downward motion with his hands. “We’re just making some routine inquiries. We think Roy may be able to help us. But let’s get you into a chair so you can get your breath back. Do you need help to sit down?”

“No, I can manage.” Mr Searle looked distinctly displeased, but he added, “Back door’s in the kitchen. The key’s in the lock.” With that, he shuffled out of sight.

Spiller went through to the kitchen and opened the back door to find Collins waiting.

“Come in,” Spiller said. “Only Roy’s dad is at home. We’re going to have a chat.”

Collins looked disappointed. “Do we know where Roy is?”

“No. According to his dad, he’s working. He says Roy works all over, so my guess is he picks up casual labour where he can, but we’ll see. With a bit of luck, we’ll have his phone number in a minute, but we’ve got to go gently—Mr Searle is a bit frail.”

Spiller ran his gaze around the room. The kitchen, though small, was neat and orderly. There was crockery in the draining rack but no dirty dishes in the sink, and the surfaces had been wiped clean.

He nodded to the kettle. “Be a good lad and make some tea. The old man’s not in great shape, but a cuppa might perk him up. And if you can find some sugar, give him a spoonful—he looks like he needs it.”

“No problem. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a biscuit.”

“No, and I don’t think you’ll find much of anything in the cupboards, so don’t go mad with the teabags—see if you can make do with one or two between us.”

“Okay, but don’t complain if it ends up like dishwater.”

Spiller shot him a reproving look, then he went to join Mr Searle in the back room.

He found him sitting at a small dining table, looking ill at ease on a high-backed chair, his forearms resting on the table. There was only one other chair and Spiller took it, sitting to face Mr Searle across the table.

“Tea’s on its way,” Spiller said. “How are you doing?”

“All right, but I’d be a damned sight easier in my mind if I knew what all this was about.”

“Of course.” Spiller paused for a moment before asking, “Any chance we can have that number?”

“All right.” Mr Searle slid his hand into his cardigan’s pocket and pulled out an old Nokia, raising it to eye level and squinting at the small LCD screen while his bony fingers pecked at the keys.

“Do you need some help with that?” Spiller asked.

“No, I can work it. It’s not one of those smartphones.”

“You can say that again. I haven’t seen one like that for a while.” Spiller took out his own phone and created a new contact, ready to take down the number.

Patience, he thought. Give the old man a chance.

To fill the time, he said, “Do you have any carers coming in?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m interested, that’s all. The place is neat and tidy, so I thought⁠—”

“We do all right on our own,” Mr Searle interrupted, sending Spiller a sharp look. “Now, do you want Roy’s number or not?”

“Yes please.”

Speaking slowly and enunciating each digit with exaggerated care, Mr Searle read out the number, and Spiller noted it down. That done, he rose to his feet.

“I won’t be a minute,” Spiller said. “I’ll go outside and give your son a call.”

Before Mr Searle could respond, Spiller marched through to the kitchen. He waggled his phone in the air as he passed Collins, then he exited via the back door.

There was a small garden, and it had fared better than the one at the front. The lawn was patchy and dotted with dandelions, but grass had been cut not too long ago, and the shrubs had been more or less tamed.

For a part-time gardener Roy Searle didn’t do too well at home, but then, that was often the way. The butcher’s dog goes hungry, Spiller thought as he placed a call to Roy’s number.

The call connected, but after a few rings it went to voicemail. Spiller didn’t leave a message; there was no sense in giving the man advance notice.

He went back inside, pausing in the kitchen to say one word to Collins: “Voicemail.”

Rejoining Mr Searle, Spiller took the same seat as before. As he sat down, the older man said, “Why do you want to talk to my Roy? What’s going on? I’ve a right to know. You’re in my home.”

Spiller nodded in acknowledgement, but before he could say anything, Collins walked into the room carrying two mugs.

Perfect timing, Spiller thought, and he made the introductions.

Mr Searle’s brow furrowed as he studied Collins. “Don’t you want tea, young man?”

“No thank you, sir. I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself,” Mr Searle replied, watching like a hawk as Collins made to hand out the drinks.

“There you go, sir,” Collins said. “I took the liberty of popping a teaspoon of sugar in there. I hope that’s all right.”

Collins was careful to use the cork-backed coasters provided, and this seemed to be appreciated. Mr Searle lifted the mug, his hand trembling a little, and after a sip, he let out a sigh and visibly relaxed.

Well done, Collins, Spiller thought. He liked that ‘sir’. Mr Searle, he guessed, had once been treated with respect. If Collins had picked up on that, he had better instincts than Spiller gave him credit for.

There was no other chair in the room, so Collins stepped back, producing his phone and standing ready, his gaze on Mr Searle.

“My colleague might make a few notes as we go along,” Spiller explained. “It helps us to keep the facts straight.” He offered Mr Searle a smile. It was time to change tack and put Mr Searle at ease.

“I was wondering,” Spiller began, “what did you do for a living, Mr Searle?”

“I was a farmer, as it happens. A tenant farmer, anyway. We had a good few acres.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Along the Teign Valley between here and Christow. It was a good life, for a while, but…” He lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “There’s no money in it anymore, not for small farmers.”

“What happened?”

Mr Searle pulled a face. “We got cheated. The supermarkets spoiled everything. We worked hard to raise a good herd of beef cattle and that doesn’t come cheap. It was good stuff—the best—and the supermarkets took all we could raise. They wanted more, so we obliged. We thought we’d got a good deal. We were finally going to make a decent living, but those buggers turned on a sixpence and let us down. Sorry, they said, but we don’t want it anymore. We can get it cheaper from somebody else.” He pressed his lips tight as though biting back his words.

“So you were left in the lurch and out of pocket,” Spiller suggested.

“That’s putting it nicely. We went under. We lost the farm, lost everything. We had a nice house in Embervale, the oldest in the village, but that went too. We ended up here.” He cast his baleful gaze around the room and smiled sadly. He looked lost and took refuge in his mug of tea.

“The supermarket that you had a problem with,” Spiller began, “it wasn’t Tesco by any chance, was it?”

Mr Searle nodded. “That was the one, but they’re all the same—out for what they can get.” He took another sip of tea then smacked his lips, and a hint of colour crept into his cheeks. “What’s done is done,” he muttered. “No use dwelling on it.”

He refocused on Spiller, his eyes a little brighter. “What’s all this got to do with Roy?”

“Okay, let’s talk about Roy,” Spiller replied. “Has he been working for Henry Doubleday?”

“Yes, he goes round there in the mornings, five days a week. He does a bit of everything, but he mainly works with the animals.”

“Do you mean the llamas?” Collins asked.

“Sometimes.” Mr Searle studied Collins from beneath a furrowed brow. “Llamas. That’s a lot of daftness.” He tutted, then said, “He works with the beef cattle when Henry has them. My Roy would’ve made a fine stockman. He ought to have a herd of his own, but I don’t suppose he’ll ever have the chance.”

“That is a shame,” Spiller said. “Does he like working for Mr Doubleday?”

“I suppose so. Henry’s all right, so long as you mind your manners. He doesn’t stand for any nonsense.”

“Did they get on?”

“Yeah. Roy’s a hard worker.”

“I hear it doesn’t pay very much, farm work,” Spiller said. “Is that right?”

“Depends. Some jobs take more skill than others.”

“And Roy was happy with his wages, was he?”

Mr Searle managed a lop-sided smile. “We could all use a bit more in our pockets, but he never complained, not to me. He was thankful to have a steady job—there’s plenty who don’t.”

“Very true,” Spiller replied. “What time did Roy leave for work this morning?”

“About half past six. He gets up early and puts the kettle on, then he helps me for a bit. We have breakfast, then off he goes.”

“You said he’s only at Mr Doubleday’s farm in the mornings. What happens when he finishes there?”

“He usually pops back around noon and we have a bite to eat, then he goes out again. He does all kinds of odd jobs in the afternoons—gardening mainly. But I don’t know what he’s doing today. He hasn’t been back.”

Spiller made a show of looking at his watch. It was almost half past two in the afternoon, so it was no wonder the old man hadn’t been looking so hot when they’d arrived. He’d been on his own for a long time, and he might not have eaten.

“Is it unusual for Roy to miss lunch?” Spiller asked.

“No. He’s very good. He does his best, you know. I expect he had to work right through.”

“And what about at the end of the day? What time does he generally get home?”

“Varies. He’s back by five, as a rule, dog tired and ready for his dinner. I try to help in the kitchen, but I’m not much for cooking. My wife did all that, God bless her.”

“I’m sure you do very well for your age,” Spiller replied. “So was it business as usual last night, or was there anything different?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, but Roy came back at five or about then.”

“How did he seem?”

Mr Searle puffed out his cheeks as though he thought such daft questions weren’t worth asking.

“You did see him last night, didn’t you?” Spiller insisted.

“I said so, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but I need to be clear. You said Roy came home around five. What was his mood?”

“He was all right. He’d been doing a spot of gardening, and he reckoned he might get paid a bit more. Some kids had painted on a wall, and the bloke asked Roy to clean it off. Roy said he’d done a good job so there might be a few quid in it.”

“So he was in a good mood?”

Mr Searle nodded, but there was a tightness in his expression as though he were rapidly running out of patience.

Jumping in quickly, Collins said, “Last night, did Roy go out again?”

“Yeah. He goes birdwatching. He said he might find some bird or other, I don’t know what.” He half shrugged. “He’s into wildlife and all that, always has been, ever since he was a lad.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“No, he goes all over.” He paused, then added, “He must’ve been a fair way though. He took the van.”

“That would be a Ford Transit,” Collins said. Referring to his phone, he rattled off the registration number.

“That’s it.” Mr Searle shuffled in his seat uncomfortably. “There’s something going on here. You’re insinuating something, and I don’t like it. You’d better go.”

“In a minute,” Spiller replied. “First, we need to know what time Roy went out in the evening, and what time he came back.”

Mr Searle jutted his chin, his mouth firmly closed.

“It’s important,” Spiller insisted. “If you don’t tell us, Roy might end up in trouble.”

“All right. He went out just after seven and came back at about nine.”

“Are you sure about that?” Spiller asked.

“Yes. I was watching the telly, and my programme finished soon after he came in—Coronation Street.” He frowned as if at a memory.

“What is it?” Spiller said. “What were you thinking about just then?”

“Nothing.” Mr Searle’s frown deepened, and his eyes grew dull with anxiety. “He hasn’t gone, has he? My Roy, he hasn’t…”

“As far as we know, he’s all right, but⁠—”

“That’s not what I meant,” Mr Searle interrupted. “I mean, has he run away? Only, he said something funny.”

“What?”

“I can’t remember exactly, but he looked at the telly and said maybe we ought to move up north. He said something about the houses, how they might be cheaper. I just laughed, but he looked put out. I reckon he might’ve been serious. And now… now he’s run away, hasn’t he? Is that why you’re here? Has he done something daft?”

Spiller raised his hands, the fingers spread wide. “Take a breath, Mr Searle. You’re looking a bit peaky. Can we get you a glass of water, something to eat?”

“I’m all right. I can shift for myself. I made a sandwich.”

Did you really? Spiller wondered. Or is that your pride talking?

“Just get on with it,” Mr Searle went on. “I’m all right. You’ve obviously got something to say, so you’d better say it.”

“Fair enough.” Spiller paused for a moment, then said, “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Henry Doubleday was found dead this morning. We’re treating his death as suspicious.”

Mr Searle had been pale before, but now all colour drained from his face. His cheeks wobbled, then in a faint voice he said, “But Roy was there this morning. He never said anything. He never called.”

“All the more reason for us to find him,” Spiller said.

“You don’t think… you don’t think my Roy had anything to do with it, do you?”

“That’s something we’ll need to establish. We believe that Mr Doubleday was killed on Monday night. Would Roy have been there then?”

“No. I told you, he works in the mornings. Besides, he wouldn’t hurt anyone, especially not Henry. That man was good to him. He was the only one who’d give Roy a chance after… after he got himself into a bit of trouble.”

“We know about Roy’s convictions for theft,” Spiller began, but Mr Searle butted in.

“Theft? It was just a packet of meat. He was getting it for me. It was a stupid mistake, and he was sorry for it. He’s not that sort of lad, but he got the idea into his head, and he did it without thinking. He got all muddled for a minute, that’s all.”

“Three times?” Collins asked. “That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?”

Mr Searle screwed up his features. “He didn’t mean to do it. It was like he couldn’t help himself. He was angry when we lost the farm—we all were—but he was only young when it happened. He’s never been the same since. He bottled it all up.”

Spiller had heard enough. He exchanged a look with Collins then said, “Mr Searle, I’m afraid we’ll have to issue a warrant for the arrest of your son, and I’m going to arrange for a couple of officers to search this house and the garden. They’ll show you the search warrant and explain everything to you.”

Mr Searle looked from Spiller to Collins and back again, dazed.

“In the meantime, DS Collins will stay with you,” Spiller went on. “You’ll be looked after, we’ll make sure of that.”

“But Roy hasn’t done anything,” Mr Searle protested. “He wouldn’t hurt anybody—I told you.”

“Then he hasn’t got anything to worry about.” Spiller got to his feet, then said, “I know this is upsetting, but try not to be too upset. This is a question of routine. Roy worked for Henry, so we have to look at everything your son has done recently, even if it’s only to rule him out. Does that make sense to you, Mr Searle?”

The old man slumped in his chair and lowered his head until his chin rested on his chest.

“Mr Searle,” Spiller repeated, “are you clear about what’s going to happen?”

His words were waved away by Mr Searle, who seemed to have shrunk into himself.

Spiller took that as his cue to leave the man in peace. He exchanged a few words with Collins, leaving him a list of instructions, then he made for the front door.

But he hadn’t gone more than a few steps before Collins called him back. He turned to see Collins dangling a set of car keys from his finger.

“No need,” Spiller said. “I’ll be back in a bit. I’m going to walk and talk.” He brandished his phone. “I’ll call the boss and get things moving. You won’t be stuck here for long.”

“Fair enough. I can have a quick look around while⁠—”

“Don’t do that,” Spiller said. “Wait for someone to come and relieve you. Stay with Mr Searle.” Spiller renewed his march to the door, calling back over his shoulder, “And make the poor chap a sandwich or something. We don’t want him passing out.”

Outside, Spiller began making calls, running through the necessary tasks on autopilot, his years of experience coming into play. And as he talked, his feet took him toward Fore Street: the familiar main road through Embervale.

His conversation with Chief Superintendent Mike Bradbury at an end, Spiller paused for thought, then he made one more call.

Collins answered immediately: “Guv?”

“Everything all right?” Spiller asked.

“Fine but hang on. I’ll take this into another room.”

“You’re with Mr Searle?”

“Yeah.” There was a brief pause before Collins continued. “Right. We can talk.”

“How’s he holding up?”

“Not too bad. Like you said, I made him a cheese and pickle sandwich, and by the way he wolfed it down, I reckon he needed it. He’s looking a bit better, and he’s talking more. He’s convinced himself this is all a mistake. He says Roy’s going to turn up any minute having been to the shops or something. I’m nodding along, letting him talk.”

“That’s a good call,” Spiller said. “You never know, he might let something slip.”

“That’s what I thought, Guv, but to be honest, I don’t think he knows much about what his son gets up to. Apparently, Roy spends a fair bit of time out of the house, and when he’s in, he often goes up to his bedroom.”

“And his dad can’t manage the stairs.”

“That’s right.”

Spiller found himself scowling. The more he heard about Roy Searle, the less he liked the man. “Okay, Collins,” he said, “someone will be there to relieve you before long, hopefully with a search warrant, then we’ll see what we can see.”

“Are you sending Barry?”

“Yes. He’s the only one free. You can run the search together.”

“That’s fine,” Collins said. “I’ll keep an eye on him. He’s keen, but he needs watching.”

Spiller’s scowl almost turned into a smile. Until recently, DC Barry Clarke and Collins had been the same rank, but Collins was already talking like an old hand. His promotion had been the making of him.

“To keep you in the loop, things are going along nicely,” Spiller said. “We’re looking for Roy’s van, and there’ll be a few patrol cars out on the local roads, keeping an eye out in case he’s stayed closer to home. I have a feeling he might not have cut and run just yet.”

“He might want to check in with his dad,” Collins suggested.

“Exactly, so watch out for that. If he does turn up, he could get feisty, figure he’s got nothing to lose. But wherever he goes, we’ll get him before long.”

“Are you heading back here?”

“Not yet,” Spiller said. “I want to check the house where Roy’s been doing the garden.”

“No problem, I’ll get you the address.”

“Good lad. Text it to me.”

“Will do, but should you go on your own?” Collins asked. “If we wait until Barry shows up, I can come with you.”

“It’s all right. He’s not likely to be there. I’ll take a quick look around, then I’ll be back.”

Spiller ended the call and resumed his journey along Fore Street, his brisk pace and the fresh air doing him good. A minute later, a notification pinged on his phone, and he read the message:

Searle’s old address - The Old Bakery, Mill Road, Embervale.

Spiller put the address into his phone’s map. Good. He’d be there in a few minutes.

CHAPTER 38

When he reached home, Dan found a familiar figure pacing the pavement in front of his house. Seeing Dan approach, the man stalked toward him.

“Hello, Mr Higgs,” Dan said smoothly. “How are you?”

“Never mind that,” Higgs spluttered. “I’ve been waiting.”

“I wasn’t expecting you. Anyway, I thought you were only here at the weekends.”

“I decided to stay an extra night, make a long weekend of it, but I would be in London right now if I had any choice.” He stopped in front of Dan, barring his way. “I called you, but you’ve blocked me, haven’t you?”

“Have I?”

“You know you have. I sent emails too, but you didn’t even reply.” Higgs was building up a head of steam, his cheeks growing florid.

“I told you,” Higgs went on. “I told you this was getting serious, but you wouldn’t bloody well help, and now this has happened.”

Dan fought back the urge to shove Higgs aside and walk past. Instead, he said, “Mr Higgs, I can see you’re having some kind of problem, but you need to take a moment. I’m going to go inside now, but if you come to my door in a couple of minutes and you’re in a calm frame of mind, I’ll listen.”

Higgs started to argue, but Dan talked over him, raising his voice but keeping his tone neutral. “I’m not promising to help. As I told you before, I am busy with another case, but I will listen, and that’s my best offer.”

Higgs stared at him, his eyes glittering with pent up rage.

“It’s that or nothing,” Dan went on. “You decide.”

Dan skirted around Higgs and strode down the alley, heading for the garden gate without a backward glance.

Once inside the kitchen, Dan poured himself a glass of water and gulped it down. He’d barely finished it when Higgs marched past the kitchen window.

Dan let him in at the back door and motioned for him to sit at the kitchen table.

Looking not quite contrite, but perhaps prepared to be civil, Higgs sat down and cleared his throat.

Dan took the seat beside him, forcing Higgs to turn in his chair to face him.

“Right,” Dan said. “You have a problem, and you believe that it’s related to the graffiti on your house.”

“No, it was never on my house. It was one of the outbuildings. I had it cleaned off, but that’s hardly the point. They’ve moved on, escalating.”

“What’s happened?”

Through clenched teeth, Higgs said, “They’ve stolen my bloody car. That’s why I’m still here. I wanted to leave this morning, but that’s all gone out the window.”

“Someone’s stolen the Lexus? Isn’t it fairly secure? It must have an immobiliser and⁠—”

“They took the keys. They went into my house and helped themselves.”

Dan thought for a moment. “Went in or broke in?”

“The back door was unlocked. I lock it at night or when I’m away, but I was in the house. I was upstairs, having a shower, but the cleaner was downstairs. At least, she should’ve been. I don’t know where she’s got to.”

“I presume you’ve called the police.”

“Of course I have,” Higgs stated. “But they’ll take forever. All they wanted to do was give me a crime number for the insurance, but that’s not good enough.”

“Nevertheless, the police are much better equipped for this kind of crime. They have cameras that can pick up the registration and⁠—”

“That’s not the point. You and I both know it must’ve been the locals. This reeks of their muddy paws.”

“Seriously?” Dan asked. “I consider myself a local, Mr Higgs. Do you think I stole your car? Do you picture me as having muddy paws?”

Higgs made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

“Oh, I know what you mean.” Dan’s disapproving gaze remained on Higgs for long enough to make a normal man quail, but it had no effect on this particular specimen.

“Tell me,” Dan went on, “did you have a CCTV system installed, as I advised?”

“I’ve booked a company from Exeter. They’re coming over tomorrow. It was the best I could do. I tried a few local tradespeople, but the buggers didn’t even call me back.”

“I wonder why, when you have such a charming manner.”

“Are you this rude to all your clients?” Higgs demanded. “I didn’t come here to be subjected to your damned sarcasm. I came in good faith. You said you’d listen.”

“Apologies,” Dan said. “Carry on. Tell me how you think I can help.”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? This was an inside job. It must be something to do with the cleaner or the gardener, but I can’t get hold of either of them. I don’t know, maybe they were in it together.”

“What are their names? And when was the car stolen?”

“Does that mean you’re going to work for me? You’re going to help me to nail the bastards?”

“Not necessarily,” Dan replied. “But I don’t like this happening on my doorstep, and I don’t like my friends and neighbours being unfairly accused. If I can help to clear their names, I will. Let’s face it, your car was probably stolen by someone from outside the village. Thieves target remote areas like Embervale because there’s hardly any crime here, so most people don’t think about security at all.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“That’s your prerogative,” Dan said. “Let’s start with the time. When did you notice your car was missing?”

“Just after 7:30 this morning. That was when I’d planned to leave. I came downstairs and saw it wasn’t on the drive.”

“Did your keys disappear at the same time, or might you have lost them earlier?”

Higgs looked like someone sucking a lemon. “I don’t lose things. My keys were on the hall table last night—I distinctly remember seeing them. They were taken this morning.”

“You must have another set.”

“Of course,” Higgs replied. “But they’re back at my place in London.”

Dan glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. “It’s after half-past two. You waited a good few hours before you came to me.”

“Is it any wonder? I thought twice about it, but I’ve run out of options. I called the police at first, but then I had to deal with the bloody insurers. I was on the phone for ages—they kept putting me on hold.”

“It’s not a company car then?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Dan said. “What’s the name of your cleaner? I’d guess he or she must have a key for your house.”

“She, and yes, she does. She’s called Julie, Julie Robbins.”

“Any relation to Dave the plumber?”

“How the hell would I know? She’s a girl from the village, but…” For a brief moment, Higgs’ expression changed, and there was sorrow in his eyes. “Look, what I said before… I was angry, but I don’t want to give you the wrong idea, not about her. She does a good job, and she keeps the place spotless. I don’t really think she’ll have done anything dishonest, not intentionally. There’s plenty of valuable stuff in the house if she wanted to take it, but I’ve never missed so much as a teaspoon.”

She’s made an impression on him, Dan decided. But he’s holding something back.

“Does she have a sister?” Dan asked.

Higgs started to shake his head then corrected himself. “Yes, I’d almost forgotten, but a while ago, Julie couldn’t come. I think she was ill, so her sister came in her place. A friendly girl, I think she was called Kylie, something like that.”

“Kayleigh,” Dan suggested.

“Yes, I was just about to say that. Her name’s Kayleigh. I only saw her for a minute or two, but she was very different to her sister.”

“How so?”

“Well, Kayleigh is the kind who likes to chat. You know what I mean. I don’t have time for small talk myself, so I left her to it. But Julie—you’d hardly know she was there. Quiet as a mouse.” Again, there was a hint of something unspoken in the man’s expression, but then it vanished, masked by Higgs’ frosty demeanour. It was as if he’d drawn down a visor, concealing all trace of his earlier emotion.

What’s he hiding? Dan asked himself. What’s happened between him and Julie?

“Kayleigh’s a very attractive young woman,” Dan said. “Is Julie⁠—”

“Is she what?” Higgs interrupted. “Is she pretty, is that what you were going to say? Because I can honestly say I haven’t noticed. She’s sixteen, for God’s sake. What kind of man do you take me for?”

Dan raised his hands. “I wasn’t implying⁠—”

“Yes, you bloody well were.” Higgs squared his shoulders and clamped his hand on the table’s edge as if preparing to launch himself from his seat.

“If you’ll let me finish, I wasn’t suggesting you’ve done anything wrong,” Dan said. “It’s possible to think someone is good looking without there being any kind of devious intention behind it. You seem to think highly of Julie, but there’s something you’re not telling me, and I have to wonder what it is. So forgive me for fishing, but I’m trying to build a picture here, and it would be easier if you’d be more open with me.”

“I don’t have anything to hide. Not a thing.”

“Fine. So tell me about Julie. You said she wouldn’t have been dishonest intentionally—what did you mean by that?”

Higgs exhaled noisily, then he let go of the table and flexed his fingers. “It’s not easy talking to you, is it? I never know what you’re going to come out with next.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Yes, I might’ve known you would.” Higgs gazed levelly at Dan. “You remind me of the guy I work for, the CEO. He’s a pain in the arse as well. Maybe you’ve chosen the wrong vocation. You should work in the City.”

“Been there, done that,” Dan said. “I might be a pain in the arse, but that’s not all I am. It took moving out here to make me realise that.” Dan paused. “Maybe we’re not so different, you and I. You come here for a reason, don’t you?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. It’s what people do, isn’t it? A guy at work bought a cottage in Somerset, so I bought one in Devon, only mine had to be bigger and older. It had to be better. That’s the way things are, and who am I to do any different?”

Higgs paused, wrinkling his brow. “You know, you annoyed the hell out of me the other day, questioning whether I should even be here. But not because you were wrong; it was because you were right. I have no idea why I come all this way almost every weekend. It’s a hell of a drive, and I’m shattered by the time I get here. I don’t have any interest whatsoever in going to the village fete or any of that nonsense. I mean, yes, the views are nice, and Dartmoor has a certain appeal if you like it bleak, but there’s nothing for me here. I come out of habit, and so I can go back to the office on Monday and tell the chaps I’ve been to my country house, just like them.”

My heart bleeds, Dan thought, but aloud, he said, “You still haven’t answered my question. What did you mean by saying Julie wouldn’t be intentionally dishonest?”

“Look, Julie’s a good kid, all right? But she’s…” Higgs hesitated. “She can do the housework with her eyes closed, and she looks after the houseplants better than I ever could, but she gets in a muddle if I ask her to do anything different.”

Higgs raised a hand to ward off any questions.

“I don’t mean anything untoward,” he said quickly. “But if, say, I ask her to make up the bed with the best linen because I’m bringing a friend at the weekend, and I want the place to look nice—you know, to create a certain impression—I’ll find she’s used the ordinary stuff as usual. I suppose she’s a creature of habit, but I can’t get her to change her routine. Anything new seems to go right over her head.”

“You think Julie might be easily led,” Dan suggested.

Higgs nodded. “That’s a good way of putting it. I was trying not to say the wrong thing, but with the best will in the world she’s what you might call a simple soul. And she hardly says a word. She’ll say hello or good morning, but then she makes herself scarce. The other day, I asked her how she was. I thought she was looking a bit off-colour, but she just said she was fine and went off to clean the kitchen. It’s as if she’d rather do anything than engage in conversation.”

“It’s not uncommon for teenagers to feel painfully shy.”

“Yes, I suppose that could be it, but there’s more to it than that.”

“Do you think she might have a learning disability?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.” Higgs held out his hands. “I’m not good at pop psychology, but I’ve seen Julie often enough to know something isn’t right.”

“And you’re concerned that she’s vulnerable.”

After a moment, Higgs nodded.

“This is why you came to me in the first place, isn’t it?” Dan said. “You were worried about Julie. It wasn’t so much the graffiti as the fact that someone had been creeping around your house. You knew she was sometimes there alone, and you were concerned for her safety.”

Higgs tilted his head to one side, then he nodded once.

“But you didn’t want to spell it out because you didn’t want me putting two and two together to make five,” Dan went on. “You didn’t want me to think there was something going on between you and Julie.” He paused. “How do you think that went?”

“Badly,” Higgs admitted. “It couldn’t have been much worse, could it? And to top it all, somebody’s nicked my car. I suppose you think that’s some sort of poetic justice.”

“Not at all. As a matter of fact, I owe you an apology. As you said, you came to me for help, and I turned you away. Worse, I was rude, and I apologise.”

Higgs stared at Dan for a second, then for the first time, his expression cleared as if his anger had ebbed away, and he was ready to lower his shield.

“Accepted,” Higgs said. “But it takes two. I could’ve handled this a lot better, but it’s no use raking over the coals. The point is, where do we go from here?”

“We’ll start with a quick look at your house,” Dan replied. “I can’t stay for long. I wasn’t being evasive when I said I have an urgent case to deal with, but I can give you half an hour. Let’s go.”

Higgs looked taken aback. “Bloody hell. It’s all or nothing with you, isn’t it?”

“Very much so.” Dan gestured to the door. “After you.”

CHAPTER 39

It took Spiller longer to reach The Old Bakery than Google Maps had predicted, and he arrived feeling as though he’d run a mile.

I’ve got to get back in the gym, he told himself. The spectre of his next mandatory fitness test reared itself in his imagination, but he quashed it with a heartfelt statement of intent. He would go to the gym as soon as he’d finished work. Or maybe tomorrow, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. Or the day after that.

Spiller grunted under his breath. This was one thing he could not afford to put off until another day; he had to get himself back in shape.

He took a moment to stand in front of the house, not to get his breath back, but to get a feel for the place.

The cottage was large by any standard, and its image could grace any picture postcard or jigsaw. The old walls were painted white and they looked thick, as though they might be made of cob. The window ledges had been picked out in matt black in stark contrast to the wooden window frames which had been painted gloss white. No plastic windows here.

A wooden trellis supported a wisteria, the plant’s rope-like stems thick and twisted, as though it had grown in that spot for decades.

But the house’s crowning glory was its thatched roof. Recently restored by the look of it, the roof might’ve been constructed yesterday, its reeds perfectly cut and laid, its surface curving gently to soften the roof’s angles and edges.

It must’ve taken ages, Spiller thought, and cost a fortune too.

Unlike most period properties the house boasted a drive to one side, complete with a garage, but the drive was empty. Spiller turned on the spot, scanning the road for any sign of Roy Searle’s van, but there were only a few cars parked along the road and none were vans.

A low wrought-iron gate gave onto the front garden, and Spiller let himself in. The front garden was small but perfectly kept, the beds bursting with a profusion of greenery, some of the plants just beginning to bloom. Perhaps Roy Searle knew what he was doing after all.

The garden path was made from aged bricks laid in a herringbone pattern, and Spiller followed it around the house and into the back garden.

The cottage may have been picture perfect, but the garden went a step beyond even that; it was idyllic. At home, Spiller tackled the garden whenever time allowed, and he’d learned a thing or two, but he could scarcely guess at the skill and hard work needed to create such an earthly paradise.

It’s like something off the telly, he thought as he marched along the path to the back of the house. The place looked empty, but when he pressed his face close to a window, he saw a kitchen table with a plate and mug. Perhaps someone had recently eaten lunch without bothering to clear up.

He tried the back door, finding it locked.

Spiller made his way across the perfectly flat lawn, and a small cluster of outbuildings came into view. He counted three, all built from concrete blocks, their walls painted white and their window ledges black to match the house. He was on his way toward them when his phone rang, and he saw that Collins was calling.

“What’s up?” Spiller asked. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, Guv. But Mr Searle just told me something else. He said they used to live in The Old Bakery. Roy grew up there.”

“But now he’s just the gardener, and a part-time one at that.”

“That’s right. It gives him another reason to go back there.”

“We’ll see,” Spiller replied. “Stranger things have happened, but I can’t see it myself. He must’ve guessed we’d come looking for him, and for what it’s worth, the place seems deserted.”

“You’re there now?”

“I am. I’m going to check the outbuildings. Do not tell me to watch my step, Collins. I know what I’m doing.”

“Yes, Guv. By the way, Barry got here a minute ago, search warrant in hand. I don’t know what you said to the boss, but you must’ve lit a fire under him.”

“Not really. He knows I don’t cry wolf. I never ask for anything unless I need it.”

“If you say so, Guv. Anyway, we’re ready to start the search, unless you want me to⁠—”

“I don’t need backup,” Spiller interrupted. “Crack on with the search and keep me up to date. The second you find anything, call.”

“Will do.”

“Good, but Collins…”

“Yes, Guv?”

“Stop saying ‘will do’ all the time. It’s driving me mad.”

“Er, yes, Guv.”

Spiller waited for a fraction of a second, just in case Collins was about to throw in some other hackneyed phrase he’d picked up, but when none came, he told the lad he was doing a good job and ended the call.

He approached the largest outbuilding, noting that one of the walls was noticeably cleaner than the others. According to Mr Searle, his son had cleaned up some graffiti, and this could be the place.

Someone had evidently trespassed on the property, perhaps thinking that they wouldn’t be observed. The buildings were some way from the house and partially hidden by mature shrubs.

A sense of apprehension prickled the back of Spiller’s neck. There was something he wasn’t seeing, some connection between this place and the murder of Henry Doubleday, but whenever he grasped for it, the answer slipped away from him.

Roy Searle won’t be here, he told himself. Not now. But as Spiller neared the building, he heard a sound that made him stop in his tracks.

A rustle, a scraping of feet coming from inside.

Someone was in there.

Placing his feet carefully, Spiller crept toward the sturdy double doors. Like the window ledges, the wooden doors had been painted black, including the handle and the heavy-duty hinges.

The only exception was a rugged hasp of stainless steel. Unpainted, it looked brand new. And it was secured with a formidable high-security padlock.

If someone was inside, they were locked in.

CHAPTER 40

Much to Dan’s surprise, Brad Higgs talked almost non-stop as they walked to his house. It was as if, having begun to unburden himself, the man couldn’t stop.

Dan nodded and made appreciative noises, but much of what Higgs had to say concerned high jinks in the city, and Dan was relieved when Higgs gestured toward a fine thatched cottage and said, “Here we are.”

“Very nice,” Dan replied. “Perhaps we could start with the graffiti. You said it was on an outbuilding. Is that around the back?”

“Erm, we can get to that later,” Higgs said quickly. “Wouldn’t it be better if I show you where the car was?”

Dan looked pointedly at the drive. “I can see that for myself.”

“Yes, but don’t you want to look for clues?”

“No. There’s no mystery as to how your car was stolen. Someone had the keys, and we know where they were.” Dan gazed up at the house. “I’m more interested in the motive behind that graffiti. Somebody stole your car because it’s worth a lot of money, but why would they deface your property? Why would they post nasty things through your letterbox?”

“You know why. They resent me being here. You said it yourself.”

A thought struck Dan, and he closed his eyes for a moment. I can’t believe it, he thought. I should’ve asked straight away.

“Brad, this graffiti, what did it say?”

Higgs pulled a face. “Filthy stuff. You don’t want to know.”

“Yes I do. It’s important.”

“It was just random. Teenage swear words—perv, creep, stuff like that.”

“Apart from you, who has access to the outbuilding? You mentioned a gardener.”

“Yes, he has a key. Searle.”

A sinking sensation stirred in Dan’s stomach. “Roy Searle?”

Higgs nodded.

“Call Julie. Now.”

“I told you, I’ve⁠—”

“Try again.” Dan set off toward the house. As he opened the gate, he said, “How do I get to the outbuilding?”

Brad followed, taking out his phone. “Go around the back. They’re at the end of the garden. You’ll see them when you go across the lawn. But what’s wrong?”

Dan took the brick path and picked up his pace, skirting around the house. “The police are looking for Searle,” he called over his shoulder, “in connection with a murder.”

Higgs hissed an oath, then passed Dan, outpacing him. “It’s this way.”

He stormed across the lawn, Dan hard on his heels, but both men halted at the same time.

A man was standing close to the largest outbuilding, his face close to the window, cupping his hands around his eyes to cut out the reflections.

He turned quickly, startled, staring at them from beneath lowered eyebrows.

Higgs started forward, but Dan grabbed him by the arm, holding him back.

“It’s all right,” Dan said. “He’s a police officer.”

DI Spiller recovered his composure. “Mr Corrigan, what brings you here?” His attention shifted to Higgs. “And who’s this?”

“I’m Benedict Higgs. This is my house. Are you here about my Lexus?”

Spiller raised an eyebrow. “Has your car been taken?”

“Yes. This morning at about half past seven.”

“I see. First things, first, do you have a key for this shed?”

Higgs pointed back to the house. “I’ll go and get it.”

“Good. Quick as you like.”

Higgs made to move then seemed to stop himself. “Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s Julie, isn’t it?” Dan said. “She’s inside.”

Spiller studied Dan for half a second before replying. “There’s someone in there, certainly, and I think it’s a young woman.”

“Bloody hell,” Higgs blurted. “Is she all right?”

“I think so. She’s frightened, but I’ve seen her moving around. I’ve told her I’m a police officer, so she knows we’re going to get her out, but she won’t talk to me. Who’s Julie?”

“She cleans the house for me,” Higgs replied. “Her name’s Julie Robbins. We’ve got to get her out. She’s just a kid. She gets nervous.”

Before anyone could reply, Higgs bared his teeth and growled, “Who’s done this to her? Was it Searle?”

“Key,” Spiller said. “Now.”

Higgs waved his hand angrily in acknowledgement, then he turned and ran back to the house.

Spiller looked concerned as he watched Higgs hurrying away.

“It’s okay, he’ll be back,” Dan said. “He’s worried about her, that’s all.”

Spiller nodded though he didn’t look convinced. “Mr Higgs is having a bad day. Is that why you’re here, because of his car?”

“Yes. Brad thought he was being harassed by the locals. It started with graffiti on that shed, but when his car was taken, he assumed things were escalating.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“A Lexus. Electric. No idea of the model.”

“That’s good enough for now,” Spiller said. “The main thing is to look after this young woman, but I need to make a call.” Spiller took out his phone and retreated a few paces, speaking in a low voice as he reported in.

Dan could make out the words ‘electric Lexus’, and both Higgs and Searle were mentioned, but the rest was riddled with acronyms and abbreviations he couldn’t follow.

Spiller pocketed his phone and joined Dan as Higgs ran back across the lawn, a bunch of keys in his hand.

“Let me,” Higgs said, making for the door. “If it’s Julie, she needs to see someone she knows.”

But Spiller stood in his way, holding out his hand. “I can’t let you do that, sir. Hand me the key and then stand back. I need you to keep out of the way.”

Higgs glared as though he might argue, but one look at Spiller’s implacable expression seemed to change his mind.

“Here,” Higgs said, holding out the keys. “It’s the one with the black handle.”

Spiller took the keys and unlocked the padlock, sliding it free from the hasp. His hand on the door handle, he called out, “My name is Detective Inspector Tim Spiller, and I’m going to open this door now. You’re safe, and I want you to stay calm. We need to make sure you’re all right, so when I open the door, I want you to walk out slowly. Do you understand?”

Spiller waited a second, but there was no reply.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m opening the door.”

Spiller pulled one of the double doors open and stood in front of the doorway. No one could exit the outbuilding without going through him.

Dan found himself holding his breath.

From within the building came the sound of shuffling feet. Something fell to the floor with a jangling, metallic crash, and Higgs flinched, as did Dan. But Spiller stayed stock still.

“It’s all right,” Spiller said gently. “Julie? It is Julie, isn’t it? Julie Robbins. There’s no need to hide anymore. You’re safe now.”

In the silence, Dan thought he heard a whisper, but he couldn’t be sure.

“I expect you’d like a drink of water,” Spiller went on, “or a cup of tea.”

Higgs edged toward Spiller, peering over his shoulder.

“I asked you to stay back, Mr Higgs,” Spiller said quietly. “Please do so.”

Ignoring him, Higgs called out, “It’s okay, Julie. You’ll be all right now.”

Spiller glared at him, and Higgs raised his hands in mock surrender, backing away.

There was more shuffling from inside the shed, then Spiller said, “Ah, there you are. Come on, let’s get you out of there.”

He moved back, and a moment later, a young woman appeared in the doorway, blinking in the light. Tall and slim, with the gangly limbs of a teenager, she emerged from the shed with faltering steps, almost tripping over her own feet. Her short fair hair was stuck to her scalp with sweat, and her hands and clothes were filthy. The young woman’s face was grimy, streaked by tears, the dirt shockingly dark against the deathly white of her cheeks, and her eyes were red-rimmed. But it was in her green eyes that Dan saw her resemblance to Kayleigh.

The young woman sidled away from Spiller, then moved back until she came up against the shed wall. Like a cornered animal, she stared at them, her eyes darting from side to side.

Without taking his eyes from her, Spiller said, “Mr Higgs, is this Julie?”

“Yes.” Higgs swallowed. “She must’ve been in there for hours. I haven’t seen her since first thing this morning.”

“Hello, Julie,” Spiller said. “I’m Tim. I’m a policeman. Would you like to come up to the house? We’ll get you a glass of nice cold water.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Higgs put in. “And you can use the bathroom and get cleaned up.”

Spiller shot him a look. “Mr Higgs, go up to the house and pour a glass of water for Julie. Leave everything else to us.” To Julie, he said, “I’m going to send for a doctor to make sure you’re okay. It’ll be a woman doctor, and we’ll fetch a woman police officer to sit with you and make sure you’re safe. Does that all sound okay?”

Julie blinked, staring at Spiller as though he’d spoken a foreign language.

“We’ll look after you, Julie,” Spiller went on. “No one’s going to hurt you. You’ll be safe.”

Julie’s lower lip trembled. She took a sudden, sharp breath and in a quiet voice said, “I tried. I tried to stop him, but…” She broke off and sniffed back a tear.

“I’m sure you did your best,” Spiller replied. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Who was it Julie? Who locked you in there?”

“Him.” Julie’s gaze dropped to the ground. “Roy Searle,” she whispered. “He did it.”

Spiller’s expression didn’t change much, but Dan had known him for a while, and he saw the jut of his jaw, the tightening of his cheeks. He’d never seen the policeman so angry. And who could blame him?

Dan looked at Julie and his heart went out to her. She’d been through an ordeal, and from what Higgs had said, the poor thing was particularly ill-equipped to deal with it. Even through the grime, he could see that Julie looked younger than her years, and there was a child-like quality to her gaze. Did she have some form of learning disability?

Alan would know, Dan thought. We could do with his help right now. There were times when Alan’s previous career as a teacher came to the fore. He was good with young people: calm and patient while asserting a gentle authority. He would’ve known what to say, whereas Dan felt utterly helpless.

But some part of Dan’s inquisitive mind was still at work, analysing the scene, and a realisation came to him unbidden. Julie might be the young person Greg had seen in the churchyard. It made sense. She’d been to visit the grave of her sister, and when she’d run into Greg she’d been frightened, unable to speak.

Oh no, Dan thought. Was Julie also the young woman Natalya had seen in the shop? Natalya had suggested that the woman might be pregnant. If so, it was just as well that Spiller was going to fetch a doctor.

“DI Spiller,” Dan began, “can I ask Julie a question?”

“No.” Spiller replied. “Definitely not.”

“You’re right, of course,” Dan said. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Can I do anything to help?”

Spiller shook his head. “Go inside and sit with Mr Higgs. I need everyone where I can see them, and I want to be sure no one goes near this shed. It’s a crime scene now.”

“Fine,” Dan replied.

Spiller looked as though he were expecting Dan to protest or make some difficulty, but when none came, he turned his attention back to Julie and extended his arm toward the house.

“Shall we go inside?” he asked.

Without replying, Julie set off across the lawn, her steps unsteady. Spiller walked at her side.

Dan took a last look at the shed, then he followed. Perv, he thought. Creep. Higgs had been wrong about the graffiti. It wasn’t random at all. It had been written with a very specific purpose, but it hadn’t been aimed at Higgs. It was beginning to look as though Roy Searle had a lot of questions to answer, but that would have to wait.

The police will find him, Dan thought as he followed Spiller and Julie. I hope they throw the book at him.

Something made Dan glance back at the garden. He stopped walking and turned around, sniffing the air. There. A bitter scent stung his nostrils. The wind must’ve changed, because he hadn’t noticed it before.

Smoke, he decided. Coming from the back of the garden.

Dan checked on Spiller. The policeman was almost at the house, all his attention on Julie. Dan waited. In a second or two, Spiller would disappear behind the shrubs and Dan would be alone and unobserved.

Dan took a step back. And then another. He shouldn’t do this, he really shouldn’t. But so long as he stayed away from the outbuildings, he wouldn’t be encroaching on a crime scene. And if he found anything useful, he’d go straight up to the house and tell Spiller right away.

Spiller and Julie vanished from sight, and Dan turned and headed for the far end of the garden. He’d look around for a minute or two, that was all. Where was the harm in that?

CHAPTER 41

Spiller stood over the smouldering remains of a small bonfire at the bottom of Bradley Higgs’ garden. Beside him, Dan Corrigan waited in silence. He’d made a fuss about the bonfire, but Spiller had made him cool his heels until Detective Sergeants Collins and Kulkarni had arrived.

Kulkarni was sitting with Julie in Higgs’ front room, making sure she was okay while they waited for a doctor to arrive. Collins was securing the crime scene around the outbuildings, and Mr Higgs was sitting in his kitchen with a mug of coffee. The man hadn’t appreciated being told what to do in his own house, but he’d been given no choice.

Spiller squatted on his haunches and looked closer at the small pile of ash. Most of it was fluffy and pale grey, much as you’d expect to see from burning dry wood, but mingled with the ashes was a significant amount of something else: black flakes that looked like burnt paper.

He took a few photos with his phone then stood, turning his questioning gaze on Dan Corrigan.

“I didn’t touch it,” Corrigan said. “I smelled something burning, so I thought I’d better check, just to be safe, and as soon as I found this, I came up to tell you about it.”

“After you’d had a good look,” Spiller suggested.

“Okay, yes,” Corrigan admitted. “I may have studied it for a second or two, but I didn’t disturb it.”

“You were tempted though, weren’t you?”

Reluctantly, Corrigan nodded.

“I thought so. It was a good job you didn’t, otherwise I might’ve given in to a temptation of my own and arrested you. We don’t want that, do we?”

“No, this case is complicated enough as it is.”

“Is it?” Spiller asked. “We have a suspect on the run, so he came to a place where he works, a place where he planned to steal a car⁠—”

“That doesn’t work,” Corrigan interrupted. “He couldn’t have known the car would be here. Brad normally spends the working week in London, but he decided to stay an extra night.”

Spiller wasn’t impressed. “He might’ve told his gardener he’d be here, or perhaps he told someone else and word got around. I’ll check.”

“The graffiti on that shed wasn’t meant to harass Brad Higgs,” Corrigan stated. “If they’d wanted to do that, they’d have painted on his house. Instead, they chose the shed. It was aimed at Searle.”

“And you know that how?”

Corrigan tilted his head from side to side. “I can’t prove it, but it’s the choice of words. According to Brad, it said perv and creep.”

Spiller pursed his lips. Corrigan’s idea was worth filing away for later, but it was of little use at the moment. It didn’t warrant a reply.

As if he sensed he wasn’t going to get an answer, Corrigan said, “What was Searle burning, do you think?”

“Evidence of some kind. We can have it analysed if the need arises.”

“But you have to follow this up,” Corrigan said. “If it was important enough for Searle to burn⁠—”

“If he burned it,” Spiller interrupted. “Time will tell. I don’t think Mr Searle is going to get far, and once we have him, my instincts say he’ll confess.”

“You think he murdered Henry Doubleday.”

“Don’t you?”

Corrigan shook his head, then he stared into the middle distance as if seeing something invisible to others.

“Let’s get you back inside,” Spiller said. “The SOCOs will be here any minute, and we can’t have you trampling all over the place.”

“Can’t I go home? I mean, there’s nothing I can really help you with. You got here before I did, and I’d never seen Julie until she walked out of that shed. I don’t even know anything about Roy Searle. I saw a man at Henry’s farm, but I don’t know for sure it was Searle. We’ve never actually met.”

“You seem to know Mr Higgs pretty well. You call him Brad, even though his name is Benedict.”

“I wouldn’t say I know him. He’s been to my house a couple of times, trying to hire me, but I really didn’t like him, not at first. I turned him away.”

“But you came today. Why?”

“He mentioned Julie and he seemed concerned for her safety,” Corrigan said. “There’s been a trespasser and some instances of harassment. As well as the graffiti, he told me that someone has been posting things through his letterbox.”

“What kind of things?”

“He didn’t specify, but he made it sound like something nasty. Julie is often here on her own, and that was enough to make Brad worried.”

Spiller nodded. “So you came along, riding to the rescue.”

“Not at all,” Corrigan protested. “I offered to help a neighbour. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all.” Spiller took one last look at the pile of ashes then said, “Let’s go.”

He escorted Corrigan up to the house, then he parked him in the dining room on his own. When Spiller left the room, Corrigan was standing at the window, staring out at the back garden.

A number of uniformed officers and a team of SOCOs had just arrived, and they were already going into action, white suits and high-vis jackets intermingling in an orderly display of bustling activity.

Spiller smiled to himself as he left Corrigan on his own. The man had his uses, but if he had his wings clipped now and then, it was no bad thing.

With its large table, the kitchen was a logical place to set up a temporary base, and Spiller settled himself at the table, checking his phone before placing it on the table in front of him.

Collins came in from the garden, a roll of crime-scene tape in hand.

“Right,” Collins said. “What’s next, Guv?”

“We’ll talk to Mr Higgs,” Spiller said. “Bring him in here, would you? And I’d like you to sit in and do the usual.”

“I’ll fetch my tablet.” Collins made for the door but halted and turned back. “What about Corrigan? Was this bonfire worth looking at?”

Spiller shook his head. “Not likely to be important. Whatever it was, it’s gone now. As for Mr Corrigan, we’ll have a word with him after we’ve talked to Mr Higgs.”

“It’s odd, him being here, isn’t it? Corrigan, I mean.”

“It is,” Spiller said. “But then, most things about our friend Corrigan are odd. I can’t decide whether he sniffs out trouble or it finds him. Either way, the two go together. I’m only surprised that Mr Hargreaves isn’t here into the bargain.”

Collins smirked. “Maybe he’s changed his ways, got a life.”

“Maybe. Grab that tablet, Collins, and fetch Mr Higgs on your way back.”

“Will do, er, no problem, Guv. On it.”

On it?, Spiller thought as he watched Collins leave. I think that might actually be worse.

CHAPTER 42

Alan stood at Natalya’s side and watched while she chatted to the man behind the shop counter. As in the last three Polish and European supermarkets they’d visited, Alan couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying. Not one.

As before, he maintained an affable smile, but surely anyone would know he was utterly baffled by the conversation taking place in front of him.

The man stopped speaking and turned his quizzical gaze on Alan. His pale blue eyes, sharp features and very short haircut combined to lend him an intimidating gaze. He wore a polo shirt with the store’s logo on the front, and his arms were wiry, his lean muscles well-defined beneath his pale skin.

“You know him?” he asked Alan, waving the flier Natalya had written and printed out at work. “You know Josh?”

“I know his father,” Alan replied carefully. “He’s the vicar in our village—the priest.”

“I know what a vicar is,” the man replied. “I was born in this country.”

Alan felt his cheeks redden. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any offence. I thought the Eastern Orthodox Church has priests rather than vicars, but that was presumptuous. I’m getting a little tired, you see. This is the fourth shop we’ve tried, and⁠—”

“The fourth?” The man shook his head, his expression a mask of outrage. “You should’ve come to me first. Josh’s girlfriend is from Gdańsk. She wouldn’t go anywhere else.”

Alan was about to apologise once again, purely from habit, when he realised what this man had just implied. It was his turn to ask a question: “You know her? You know Josh’s girlfriend?”

The man pressed his lips shut tight as though he’d already said too much.

Alan looked to Natalya, and he could see she’d understood.

Natalya spoke to the man, her tone sincere, her hand on her breastbone. Alan didn’t need to understand the language to know she was pleading for compassion, for understanding, for empathy. She was speaking of a missing son and a man who didn’t have long to live.

The shopkeeper listened, his expression unchanging. When Natalya finished, he stared at her for a moment, then said, “I will not put your notice in my shop.”

Alan started to protest, but the man lifted a hand to stop him.

“I will give it to Josh’s girlfriend when she comes in,” he went on. “She will be here later or maybe tomorrow. She likes to buy things fresh. Sometimes she brings Josh. He’s trying to learn Polish, but…” The man smiled as if to say, ‘What can you expect?’

“This is wonderful,” Natalya replied. “Thank you so much. You’re very kind.”

“Yes, thank you,” Alan said. “I don’t suppose you have an address or a phone number, do you?”

“Of course not,” the man replied. “Do you tell every shopkeeper where you live?”

“No, but this is no ordinary shop. This is a little piece of her homeland. I thought perhaps you might’ve become friends.”

The man tilted his head to one side. “That is a good answer. Very good. But you haven’t met my wife.” He leaned forward and clapped Alan on the shoulder. “I can give the young lady a note from you, but not from me, and I definitely can’t ask for her number.”

He laughed and Alan laughed along. “Yes, I can see how that might be awkward.”

Natalya rolled her eyes and waited.

“Awkward,” the man said. “That’s putting it mildly, my friend.” He glanced at Natalya. “You’re not married yet but wait and see. You’ll know what I mean.”

“Right,” Alan replied. “I’m, er… I’m sure I will.” Feeling Natalya’s gaze on him, he quickly added, “Well, we’d better be on our way. We’ve done what we came to do, so thanks once again for your help. We really appreciate it.”

“Yes, thank you,” Natalya said. Smiling, she spoke a few parting words in what Alan presumed was Polish, then she tapped Alan on the arm and led the way to the exit.

Outside, they paused on the pavement, facing each other.

“Thank you so much,” Alan said. “I don’t know what you said to him, but it did the trick. It’s worked out better than we hoped. So much better.”

“Yes, in more ways than one.”

“Oh?”

Natalya smiled sweetly. “Yes, and you know what I mean, Alan.”

Alan’s mouth was dry. “Do I?”

Natalya nodded, suddenly demure. “Is there something you want to say to me, Alan?”

“Erm, I’m not sure.”

“Really? You seemed very sure just now.” She paused, her eyes locked on his. “Maybe we can talk about it later. We’ve finished for the day, yes? There was one more shop to visit, but now we don’t have to bother. We can go out for dinner.”

Alan tried not to look too relieved, but his sudden exhalation gave him away. “Yes, we can take the rest of the night off. I’ve booked a table at The Hotel du Chambray. My treat, naturally.”

“A hotel?”

“Oh, we’ll just be in the restaurant. I haven’t booked a room.”

“I see.” Natalya’s lips formed the suggestion of a pout. “That’s a pity.”

“Well, I could ask if there’s a room available. Then we could… we could both have a drink. We could share a nice bottle of wine.”

“Yes,” Natalya said. “Let’s do that.”

She took Alan’s arm and they began walking, although Alan wasn’t entirely sure whether his feet were in contact with the pavement or if he was floating in mid-air.

“And when we’ve had our dinner and our wine, we can… You know…”

Alan didn’t trust himself to speak, so he settled for making an affirmative sound and hoping it would do.

“I mean, we can talk,” Natalya went on, “and maybe you’ll ask me to marry you.”

Alan’s mouth opened and closed. His mind was awash with a giddying swirl of sensations, but some part of his spirit rose up to cut through the clamour. For God’s sake, man, he told himself. Pull yourself together. Don’t just flap your lips like a goldfish.

Alan stopped walking, and when Natalya turned to face him once more, he said, “Yes, I might just do that.” He smiled. “But if I do, how would you answer?”

Natalya laughed. “That, Alan, is for me to know. You’ll have to wait and see.”

CHAPTER 43

Dan stopped on the narrow pavement, fingered the straps of his small rucksack and looked back along the darkened road. The street was quiet, clothed in the rapidly gathering gloom of early evening. It was a peaceful scene, a cheery glow at the windows of several houses, and the faint mist in the air lent the streetlights a hazy halo. The day had been warm, but as soon as the sun set, the clear sky meant a rapid cooling of the air.

Dan pulled up the hood of his black hoodie and gazed up at the stars.

I’ll never get used to the brightness of the stars out here, he thought. I hope not anyway.

He breathed deep, making the most of the moment. But he wasn’t here to admire the night sky.

Dan turned around to face his destination. The church was in complete darkness, its old stones stained black by shadows. The iron gate creaked wearily as Dan let himself into the churchyard, and as he followed the path between the neatly tended graves, the church tower loomed above him.

He paused, listening, but there was no sound, not even a breath of wind. He was alone.

Dan had brought his trusty tactical light, but if he used it, he’d be seen by any passersby. Besides, his eyes had already adjusted to the dark, and he could see well enough.

He picked his way around to the side of the church until he reached the corner of the building.

Here, he decided. He shrugged the rucksack from his shoulders and kneeled down to unpack it. The wildlife camera had come with everything he might possibly need for its installation, including a plastic spike to mount it near the ground. But Dan selected an adjustable strap and attached it to the camera’s mounting bracket. A sturdy cast iron downpipe ran down the wall by the corner, its pitted metal surface painted black, and it would make an ideal site for the small, dark-coloured camera.

Dan mounted the camera as high as he could reach. He’d set the camera up at home, checking the supplied memory card was okay, and the camera was ready to go. There’d been fancier models with Bluetooth, Wi-Fi and even mobile phone options, but they’d been pricier, so he’d gone for simplicity over features he didn’t need.

Dan spent a couple of minutes fine-tuning the camera’s position, angling it slightly downward until it covered a wide angle from the church to the far corner of the churchyard. The job done, Dan knelt once more to repack his rucksack. He worked quickly, using the faint light from his phone’s screen to sweep the ground, making sure he’d left nothing behind.

Dan rose and shouldered his rucksack, then he headed for the gate. He’d come back in the morning to retrieve the camera and download any footage.

If there is any, Dan thought. The whole venture might be a waste of time but there was always a chance, and he’d bought the thing, so he may as well use it.

The route home didn’t take him past The Old Bakery but, on an impulse, Dan made a small diversion. He slowed as he passed the old cottage, looking down the empty driveway and peering beyond the low gate to the back garden. There was nothing to see. The garden was dark, and only a faint light came from one of the cottage’s upstairs windows.

Dan wasn’t sure what he’d expected—a police cordon, perhaps, an officer on duty to guard the scene, Scene of Crime Officers working beneath the glare of floodlights—but it seemed as though the investigative activity was over for the day.

He walked on, passing only one person: a woman on the other side of the road, walking her dog. The collie looked more eager to be on its way than she did, and she was bustling along, doing her best to keep up.

“Evening,” Dan called out.

The dog was in no mood to stop, so the woman only had time to spare him a glance and echo his greeting as she strode onward. The woman was wrapped up in a waxed cotton coat with a high collar, and her matching brimmed hat cast a shadow over her face, but Dan didn’t think he’d ever seen her before. Dan was about to mention the fine starry night, but the woman was already marching away, and then she rounded a corner and was gone.

Dan smiled to himself. It had taken him a while to get used to the local habit of exchanging greetings with complete strangers, but he was starting to enjoy it.

Imagine trying that on the underground, he thought, but he couldn’t quite picture it. It was as if his old life in London was becoming fainter in his memory, a blur of fractured images, each one rushing past too quickly for him to see it clearly.

Was that really me? he asked himself as he walked homeward through the silent streets. Did I actually live at that pace? It was hard to believe, but at the time it had felt right: the rush of adrenaline, the sense of striving for a goal, energy surging through his veins, his nerves tingling as he strode into each meeting, ready to dominate the room.

Dan lifted his face to the breeze and felt the cool air pinching his cheeks. An idea struck him, and he picked up the pace. If he chose the right turning, the way home would take him to The Wild Boar. The pub would be warm, a fire burning in the grate, and after his evening’s chilly work a pint of ale would be very welcome indeed.

CHAPTER 44

Marjorie sat at her usual table in the Wild Boar, but she couldn’t enjoy her drink. She’d forgone her usual sherry and treated herself to a gin and tonic, but Sam had persuaded her to try some fancy new combination, and she regretted giving in. The gin had come in a bright blue bottle, and it wasn’t the same. As for the tonic, it was supposed to be flavoured with elderflower, but it wasn’t fooling her.

Marjorie tried another sip and pulled a face. That’s never been within a mile of an elderflower, she decided. Nothing natural about it.

She set the glass down on the table, eyeing it with suspicion. There was nothing that couldn’t be spoiled by some big company. They took good food, fed it into a factory, and it came out the other end barely recognisable. No wonder people were getting overweight and unhealthy. They ate stuff laced with chemicals and packed full of salt and sugar. There were kids growing up without ever having picked a raspberry from the cane or pulled a potato from the earth with their bare hands. Show them a gooseberry or a stick of rhubarb and they’d run a mile.

‘Tis shameful, she thought. But truth be told, she was brooding on all this to take her mind off the one thing that really had her worried. She’d never managed to find Hugh, and he hadn’t returned to his tent. And she was certain of that because she’d kept half an eye on the lane all day.

Where had he got to? It wasn’t safe for people to be wandering about on their own. Look what had happened to poor Henry.

She didn’t fear for herself. If someone thought they could have a go at her, let them try. It would take more than some stupid thug to frighten her.

Marjorie picked up her glass and stood, marching to the bar. She’d have a word with Sam about this drink, and while she was at it, she’d catch that new barmaid. She looked very much like the young woman Charlie Marshall had described—the woman he’d seen heading home with Hugh the night before.

But as Marjorie reached the bar, a familiar voice made her stop and turn. Here he was, the man himself, Hugh walking in through the door. He spotted Marjorie and flashed a smile, then he half turned and said something to the person walking in behind him.

Well, I’ll be, Marjorie thought. What’s he doing here?

Trailing in Hugh’s wake was Charlie Marshall, beaming like a child and nodding like a novelty toy.

The unlikely pair stood at the bar beside Marjorie, the pair of them smiling at her.

“Marjorie,” Hugh began, “I’m so sorry I haven’t been back to your place today. Charlie needed me.”

“I had a fall,” Charlie said cheerfully. “Can’t think what happened. It was my own daft fault, leaving clutter lying around where it gets in the way. I tripped over my old footstool and went clean over.”

Marjorie studied Charlie’s face. He looked all right, so that was something, but she’d always had him down as the neat and tidy sort: a place for everything and everything in its place.

“It was a good thing Hugh was there,” Charlie went on. “He’s been looking after me.”

“Anyone would’ve done the same,” Hugh said. “I could hardly leave you on your own, could I?”

“I reckon he can look after himself,” Marjorie replied. “He looks all right to me.”

Charlie seemed determined to let no one dent his good mood. “Oh, I was lucky. I got away with a few bruises, but it shook my confidence a bit, I can tell you. Hugh cheered me up, made me a cup of tea or three.”

Charlie looked at Marjorie expectantly as though she ought to laugh at his turn of phrase, but she was having none of it.

“When you fall over, you’ve got to get straight back up,” Marjorie said. “It isn’t anything worth making a fuss about, otherwise you’ll end up with one of those walking frames, shuffling about like an invalid.”

Finally, Charlie’s smile slipped, and he glanced at Hugh.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to get one of those contraptions,” Marjorie went on. “You don’t need a walking frame, Charlie Marshall. Look at you—you’ve just walked to the pub, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but Hugh thinks it might be a good idea. I don’t have to use it all the time, but if I get a bit tired, it’ll be there when I need it.”

Marjorie shook her head, speechless.

“Not everyone is quite so hale and hearty as you, Marjorie,” Hugh said gently. “You’re fit and strong, but Charlie took a tumble today, and he needs a bit of support. I thought you might be a bit more understanding.”

“Oh, I understand all right.” Marjorie gazed at the pair of them, seeing all too clearly what was going on. Charlie had found someone to lean on, and he’d seized the opportunity with both hands, clinging to Hugh for all he was worth.

Tempting him away from the work he’s already started, Marjorie thought. Taking him away from me.

As if reading her mind, Hugh said, “I’ll still come over and finish your meadow, as soon as Charlie gets settled. But…” He broke off and shared a look with Charlie.

“What?” Marjorie demanded.

“I was going to come over and tell you, but since you’re here.” Hugh hesitated. “I don’t need to camp in your field anymore. I’m going to be staying with Charlie.”

Marjorie’s eyebrows shot upward.

“I had a spare room, see,” Charlie said. “It’s been standing empty, and since Hugh has been working in my garden, he’s spotted a few other jobs that need doing. There’s plenty to keep him busy, and I like having a bit of company for a change.”

“And how long is he staying, might I ask?”

“We haven’t really discussed it,” Hugh replied. “I’ll be there as long as Charlie needs me.”

“Is that right? Paying rent, are you, for this spare room? And what about the bills? Chipping in for the electric and gas, are you? To say nothing of the food.”

Hugh had the effrontery to look hurt.

“Now, Marjorie,” Charlie said, “there’s no need to be like that. What Hugh pays or doesn’t pay is between him and me. He’s worked hard today, and I’m grateful.” He huffed under his breath. “Let’s say no more about it, but if you can’t be polite, leave us to have a drink in peace.”

“Did somebody say drink?” the new barmaid sang out as she sashayed toward them. “What can I get you?”

“A pint of Jail Ale for me please,” Hugh replied. “Same for you, Charlie?”

Charlie dithered, looking at the pumps in turn. “Isn’t it a bit strong?”

“We’ve a nice guest ale,” the barmaid suggested. “Lighterman. It’s an amber ale, brewed in Exeter. It’s more of a session beer.”

“Erm, go on then, I’ll have a pint of that.”

“Right you are.”

While the barmaid busied herself with the drinks, Charlie took out a leather wallet worn smooth from years of use, and he plucked a bank card from it.

“Put your money away,” Hugh said, producing a wallet of his own. “I’ll get these. It’s the least I can do.” He offered Marjorie a bashful smile. “Can I get you something? Think of it as a peace offering.”

“No, I’m perfectly happy with my drink, thank you very much.”

Marjorie turned smartly away and marched back to her place, where she sat and sipped her drink, not tasting it at all.

Whatever next? she asked herself. And where did Hugh get enough money for a round of drinks?

She’d sorely misjudged that young man. Seeing Charlie like that, completely taken in by Hugh’s patter, she realised what a fool she’d been. She’d given Charlie short shrift just now, but she’d been every bit as daft as him.

She’d thought Hugh was different, but no. Like almost everyone else, he was out for himself. Why hadn’t she been wise to him from the start?

He’d talked his way into her affections, gaining a free campsite, then he’d promised to work for it and left the job half done.

And he pinched some of my eggs, she decided. No doubt about it.

She almost felt sorry for Charlie. He’d convinced himself that Hugh was doing him a favour. The old fool was in for a rude awakening, but for the time being, he was under Hugh’s spell. If she tried to warn Charlie, he wouldn’t listen.

But what could she do about it?

Hugh was a charmer. He’d only been in the village five minutes, and he’d already wormed his way into two households. And he’d been seen stepping out with some woman or other.

Marjorie looked back to the bar. Hugh was receiving his change from the barmaid, but while she seemed friendly enough, she quickly moved on to serve another customer. She didn’t stop for a chat, nor did she pay Hugh particular attention. It had been the same when she’d come to serve them. There’d been no spark of recognition, and she hadn’t used Hugh’s name, not once.

So she’s not his new girlfriend, Marjorie thought. He must’ve taken up with someone else.

Whichever young woman Hugh had chatted up, she’d better watch her step. He was not to be trusted.

But what could be done?

Marjorie finished her drink and made for the door without saying goodbye to anyone. It was early, but she couldn’t stay and watch Charlie make a complete fool of himself. Besides, she wanted to have a think, and there was nothing like a walk in the fresh air for clearing the mind.

As she exited the pub, she looked back along the road and spotted a familiar figure passing beneath a streetlight in the distance as he approached. There was no mistaking the impatient stride of Daniel Corrigan; would the man never learn to slow down? And where had he been at this time of night, anyway?

Marjorie marched for home, her thoughts becoming clearer as her footsteps fell in to their usual brisk rhythm. An idea came to her, and she made a plan for the following day. She’d fix Hugh, right enough.

The decision made, Marjorie’s mood picked up no end, and she strode homeward, her knees already loosening up from the exercise. Maybe that fancy gin and tonic had done her a bit of good after all.

WEDNESDAY

CHAPTER 45

DS Collins plugged the portable hard drive into his PC, then he opened the drive’s directory, staring moodily at the screen as though it were responsible for his misfortune. Here he was, relegated to checking Jean Doubleday’s alibi, even though they already had the prime suspect in custody.

The search for Roy Searle hadn’t taken long. The man had stolen a powerful car he could barely control. Searle was familiar only with tractors and an old van, and the rapid acceleration of the electric Lexus had quickly got the better of him. He hadn’t managed twenty miles before he’d put his foot down to avoid a lorry emerging from a side road, and Searle’s nervous wrench of the wheel had steered the Lexus into a ditch.

The lorry driver had stopped to check everyone was all right and found Searle dazed and rambling. The level-headed trucker had called 999, and Searle had been apprehended within minutes.

They had their man, but that wasn’t enough for DI Spiller. He wanted every i dotted, every t crossed, and that meant Jean Doubleday’s story had to be corroborated.

Collins had managed to shift some of the donkeywork to someone else. He’d asked DC Barry Clarke to check the ANPR system for any hits on Jean Doubleday’s Jeep, and that had been successful. Thankfully, Jean had taken the main road rather than weave through lanes and side streets, so the Jeep’s number plate had been picked up twice on a major roundabout very near Sainsbury’s, accounting for her journey to and from the supermarket.

The first hit had been just before ten to six, and the second had been at almost exactly eight o’clock. That gave a timeframe of over two hours, and that made for a lot of supermarket CCTV that had to be checked.

I ought to have known I’d get lumbered with this, Collins thought bitterly. After all, as Spiller had pointed out, Collins had met Jean Doubleday in person, so he stood the best chance of spotting her among the throng of shoppers as they came and went.

The store manager at Sainsbury’s had gone above and beyond, providing footage from every area of the store and leaving plenty of leeway on either side of the requested timeframe. No doubt this was their idea of excellent customer service, but the long list of files made Collins’ heart sink.

Thankfully, the supermarket’s system had assigned an intelligible label to each recording, so Collins selected the file from the main entrance and set the footage rolling. He increased the playback speed until the timestamp reached quarter to six, then he let it play at the normal speed.

It had been a busy evening for the store, a steady stream of shoppers arriving, probably popping in after work. But oddly enough, that helped. While most of the customers were middle-aged or younger, there were very few in Jean’s age bracket. Retired people would shop during the day when it was quiet, but these customers were in a hurry, striding into the store as if on a mission, trolleys thrust forward with a vengeance.

So when Jean Doubleday appeared at a few minutes before six, she was an island of sedate tranquillity among the impatient arrivals, and Collins spotted her straight away.

Pushing a small trolley, Jean wandered in and drifted across to a stand carrying newspapers. She stopped to browse the papers, taking her time over the decision. She lifted one paper, scanned it for a few seconds then replaced it neatly back in its place. A moment later, she repeated the process with a different paper. Then she did it again.

Just pick one, Collins thought. You must know which one you want, so just get it and move on.

Collins shook his head at his own impatience. There was absolutely no point in getting wound up about something that had already happened. Jean was probably checking the headlines, catching up on the news without having to buy more than one paper.

Collins sent the footage skipping forward as fast as it would go. He’d find her leaving the store, and if it proved to be just before her Jeep used the roundabout on the way home, the job would be done. Jean’s alibi would be secure, and since she wasn’t the prime suspect anyway, all would be well.

Shouldn’t take long, Collins told himself. With a bit of luck, I’ll be out of here in ten minutes. He thought of coffee and possibly a bacon roll. He’d had a decent breakfast at home, demolishing a bowl of cereal and a couple of rounds of toast, but that suddenly seemed as if it had been ages ago. His stomach growled in agreement. Yes, a bacon roll was definitely a good idea.

Collins slowed the footage, and there she was, right on cue, Jean Doubleday pushing her trolley through the exit at twelve minutes to eight. Give her a few minutes to transfer her bags to the car and drive out of the car park, allowing for the traffic lights she’d have to negotiate, and she’d reach the roundabout just in time for the Jeep to be recorded by ANPR.

Collins made a couple of notes on his tablet, then he locked his computer’s screen and got to his feet. Spiller had asked to be kept up to date, but that could wait for a while. A bacon roll was calling.

CHAPTER 46

Dan awoke with a vague sense of unease. He’d slept alone because Sam had worked late at the pub, catching up with the accounts, so she’d stayed at her flat above The Wild Boar.

Probably just as well, Dan thought as he got out of bed and padded for the door. He’d slept badly, dreaming he was locked in a tiny room, somewhere cramped and dark and dirty. He didn’t have to be a psychologist to work out where that notion had come from, but nevertheless, the vivid feeling of being trapped had not been conducive to a restful night’s sleep.

And there’d been something else playing on his mind: the memory of the smouldering pile of ashes he’d found at the bottom of Brad Higgs’ garden. Whatever Spiller said, it had to be significant. When you were on the run and suspected of murder, you didn’t hang around to burn something unless it was absolutely vital to do so. But what had been on those pieces of paper?

In the kitchen, Dan started the morning ritual of making coffee, his hands carrying out the familiar routine without guidance, allowing his mind to wander, to ask questions, to pick away at the problem piece by piece.

Who puts anything important on paper these days? Dan thought. Everything is digital. But Roy Searle, perhaps, had been old-fashioned in that regard. What might he have kept? Love letters or private correspondence that incriminated someone in some way? Records of fraudulent accounting or illegal earnings?

Speculation, Dan told himself. Step back, rewind. Had Roy Searle definitely been the man he’d seen at Henry’s farm? If so, why had he been acting in such a shifty manner? What had he been doing in the barn that was so secret?

Dan thought back to the graffiti left at Higgs’ house. More than ever, he was certain that it had been aimed at Roy Searle. What had the man done to be labelled a pervert?

Whatever wrongdoing Searle had been guilty of, it had led to murder. Henry must’ve discovered the truth and been silenced, but that still didn’t answer the question: what transgression was so abhorrent that Searle would rather kill than have it come to light?

Vile possibilities came to Dan’s mind, anger and revulsion rising in his throat. He pushed the thoughts away. Anger was blind, and Dan needed his mind’s eye to be clear, his wits to be sharp.

I don’t envy the police, Dan thought. Thank God Spiller doesn’t need me as a witness.

After their interview the previous day, Spiller had announced that Dan was unlikely to be needed in any subsequent court case. When it came down to it, Dan had never met Searle, so he had nothing of evidential value to add. Dan had wanted to say that he’d told Spiller this in the first place, but he’d kept quiet and taken his leave.

Dan’s coffee was ready, and he took a cautious sip. It burned his lip, but he was glad of the distraction. Taking his mug over to the window, he looked out, turning his mind back to the case of Joshua Southgate.

He’d had a message from Alan the night before. It had been uncharacteristically brief, and it had included a spelling error, which was unheard of. But Alan had met a shopkeeper who seemed to know Joshua, and the message was on its way. All being well, it would only be a matter of time before Josh visited his father in hospital.

That’s something at least, Dan told himself. Even so, he had a nagging sense there was something he’d missed. Was there a link between Joshua running away and the murder of Henry Doubleday?

Joshua had been a teenager when he’d left home. Might he have been victimised by Searle?

Dan shuddered. And a sudden realisation hit him between the eyes; he might already have met another of Searle’s victims.

Two runaways for the price of one: those were the words Liam Doubleday had used when Dan called on him in Plymouth. Had Liam wanted nothing more than to distance himself from his father’s disapproval, or had there been an even greater motivation for him to stay away? And had that reason involved Roy Searle?

If Searle had outed Liam to his father, that might’ve given Searle a hold over his employer. Henry had valued his position as a leading figure in the church and the community, a man of certain values. The fact that many others didn’t agree with those values probably hadn’t mattered to Henry. He would not have wanted the truth about his son to be known.

Searle was a man who preyed on the vulnerabilities of others. Liam must’ve seemed like an obvious target. And what was more, Searle could easily have come into contact with Liam’s close friend, Joshua Southgate. The cases were linked.

Dan reached for his phone, intending to call Liam, but he stopped short. Had Alan been present, he would’ve given Dan a talking to, and he would’ve been right.

Whatever Liam’s relationship with his father, he would be grieving, coming to terms with a terrible loss. He wouldn’t want to talk, and he definitely wouldn’t want to answer the question Dan had in mind.

Dan’s hand shrank from his phone. He’d leave Liam in peace.

But then a memory nagged at him. When he’d spoken to Mark, Dan had promised to provide Liam with some business contacts, but events had taken over and the task had slipped his mind. Still, there was something he could do about that.

Dan fetched his laptop and set it on the kitchen table. He sat down and spent ten minutes or so trawling through old contacts from his time in the City, then he compiled a list and composed a carefully worded email to Liam. He said how sorry he was to hear of Liam’s loss, and expressed his hope that the contacts would provide a lifeline for the future: a reminder that better days would come. Before signing off, Dan added: If you want to talk, give me a call.

He sent the email and then sat back. He wouldn’t pester Liam. But what next?

The decision was made for him when his phone rang, and he saw Mark’s name on the screen. In his haste to answer, Dan almost knocked his phone to the floor. He took a steadying breath and then accepted the call.

“Hi,” Mark said, his tone reserved. “Thanks for sending that email to Liam. He appreciated it.”

“No problem,” Dan replied. “I hoped it would help. I really am sorry for his loss.”

“Yeah, it’s… it’s a lot to deal with.”

“It must be hard for him. Please give my best to Liam. If he wants to call at any time, you have my number.”

“Sure. Thanks.” A pause, then Mark said, “To be honest, I never thought you’d get back to him. Most people don’t.”

“It was the least I could do.” Dan hesitated. “How is Liam?”

A sigh. “He’s… coping. Most of the time. It hasn’t been easy for him.”

“Of course. Are you still in Plymouth?”

“No. We’re at the farm, looking after his poor mum.”

“I’m sure she appreciates you being there.”

“Yeah, I think so.” Mark paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “I don’t know what Liam’s dad was really like, but Jean is… she’s great.”

“I’ve never met her.”

“You should. She’s so strong and together, and she keeps telling all these bad jokes and making us all crack up. Now I know where Liam gets his sense of humour.”

“Speaking of Liam, I was wondering if there’s any chance he might speak to me. I can come over and⁠—”

“No,” Mark interrupted. “Not now. It’s chaos over here. The police are everywhere, people in white suits. Liam and his mum need space.”

Something in his tone gave Dan hope. “Later maybe? Perhaps somewhere away from the farm. You’re welcome to come over to my house.”

“Thanks, but that’s not a good idea. Does this place have a pub?”

“Yes, a good one—The Wild Boar. Liam will know it. It’ll be open at lunchtime, and it’s bound to be quiet today.”

“I don’t know. Maybe this evening.”

Dan suppressed the urge to push for an earlier meeting. He had no right to press Liam, but Dan had a question he wanted to ask, and this might be his only opportunity.

“Mark, I wonder if you might be able to help,” Dan said. “I apologise in advance, but this is a very personal question. You don’t have to answer, and if you don’t want to talk, I respect that. But if I can trespass on your goodwill for a few more seconds, I’d really appreciate it.”

The sound became muffled as though Mark had covered the phone, and Dan heard the indistinct mumble of faint voices.

When the voices fell silent, Dan said, “Mark? Can you hear me okay?”

“I heard you.” Mark’s tone had changed, becoming harder, loaded with suspicion, as if he’d sensed a quid pro quo coming hard on the heels of Dan’s email.

“I don’t mean to be insensitive,” Dan began, “but do you mind if I go ahead and ask my question? When you’ve heard it, you can hang up if you want. There’s no pressure at all.”

A pause and then: “Go ahead. Ask your question.”

“Thank you. This might sound strange, but it’s about Liam coming out. Has he told you what happened?”

“What’s that got to do with you?”

“That’s hard to explain, but my question is, did Liam tell his father himself, or did someone else play a part? In other words, was Liam outed by a third party, perhaps against his will?”

Mark ended the call without making a sound, and Dan stared stupidly at his phone before putting it back on the table.

“Damn!” he muttered. “Damn! Damn! Damn!”

He’d blown it. He’d been within touching distance of a vital clue, but he’d let it slip through his fingers. He hadn’t properly recovered from his poor night’s sleep, and he wasn’t thinking clearly. He’d wanted to make a thoughtful gesture to Liam, and he should’ve left it at that. Instead, he’d blundered in and the whole thing had backfired.

Dan stood and took his mug to the sink. It was still half full, but the coffee had gone cold, so he tipped the dregs away and considered making another. He needed something to kickstart his mind and lift him from the doldrums. And there was one thing guaranteed to reboot his brain.

Dan skipped breakfast and changed into his running gear. He grabbed his small rucksack and a bottle of water, then he started the tracker on his Garmin watch and headed out.

He set a fast pace through the village, striding out, enjoying the sensation of his muscles waking up, his heart rate rising, his breaths deepening.

I’ve missed this, he thought. I’ve been lazy. But his mind quickly cleared of all extraneous chatter as he settled into an easy rhythm. The church came into view, and Dan slowed down. He could pop in to retrieve his wildlife camera, but then he’d be tempted to check for recordings and his run would be over before it properly began.

Dan picked up the pace and ran on. The camera could wait until he was on the way back home. He reached a junction and turned left into the lane. This was the same route Simon Bellamy had taken when they’d pursued him just a few days before. Bellamy had said he enjoyed the hills, and Dan soon discovered what he’d meant.

The lane climbed steeply up the side of the valley, twisting and turning between the typical Devon hedgerows: high banks of earth topped with various shrubby plants Dan hadn’t yet learned to identify.

Dan had to work hard to maintain his speed, breathing deep, his leg muscles straining to push him onward. The top of the slope always seemed to be around the next bend, but Dan kept going, more out of determination than anything else.

By the time he reached the top, his breath was coming in harsh gasps, and his throat was dry, but he’d done it.

Swerving to avoid a mound of horse droppings, Dan jogged to a halt beside a metal gate that gave onto a field. He shrugged out of the rucksack and grabbed his bottle of water, then he rolled his shoulders. Where the bag had pressed against his back, his tee-shirt was soaked in sweat, but that was fine: it showed he’d put in a serious effort.

Dan dropped his rucksack and concentrated on gulping down a few mouthfuls of cold water. He’d earned it, and it tasted all the sweeter.

Two minutes, then I’ll go on, Dan thought, and he leaned on the gate as he looked out over the rolling landscape. The pasture beyond the gate was almost unnaturally lush, the grass rippling in the gentle breeze. Before long the field would be full of cattle or sheep, but for the moment, it was pristine. His gaze followed the hedge bordering the field, and above the foliage he spotted a lone figure dressed in a bright pink coat moving away. The hedge was tall, but of course, the person was riding a horse, and when Dan looked more carefully, he spotted their riding helmet. But where had the lone rider sprung from?

Dan wandered away from the gate and found what he was looking for. There was an opening in the hedge and a path leading away down the slope. The rough path looked barely wide enough to admit a horse, but the earth had been churned and bore the marks of many hooves, so it was evidently used fairly often.

That explains the manure in the road, Dan thought. But where does it lead?

Alan would know. He was an expert on the footpaths, bridleways, green lanes and byways that ran through this part of the world. According to Alan, many of them had names, but they didn’t always have signposts, and this track was a case in point. Perhaps it led back to Embervale or to a farm, but there was no way to find out unless he ran along it, and he didn’t much like the idea of getting lost in the woods.

Dan strolled back to retrieve his rucksack, intending to set off straight away, but he lingered for a while, admiring the view.

Below the pasture, a patchwork of fields and hedges clothed the valley’s slope, and beyond, a band of woodland snaked along the valley floor, following the path of the River Teign.

Not bad, Dan thought, and he took another sip of water as he gazed out over the serene countryside. It took him a moment to pick out Embervale. The village was partially hidden by trees and the undulating slope, but once he’d orientated himself, Dan could make out the church, the village hall and even The Wild Boar. He took his phone from the rucksack’s front pocket and snapped a few photos, zooming in to show the village in more detail. He’d send one or two images to his parents via email, and maybe one to his sister as well, though having lived in the village before him, she probably knew it better than he did.

Packing away his phone and his bottle, Dan realised that he hadn’t bought anything to eat. A snack bar or an energy gel would’ve been very welcome, but he’d be okay so long as he didn’t get carried away and go too far.

The rucksack back on his shoulders, Dan tightened the straps and resumed his run, still heading away from the village. It was easier at first, but the road hadn’t finished with him yet; it dipped and rose, over and over, never straight for very long and rarely approaching anything that could be described as level.

Still, Dan pressed on, getting back into his stride. Bellamy must be a decent runner, Dan thought. If the man was to be believed, this hilly stretch was only one part of a training run. And before Bellamy had begun the steep uphill climb, he’d already run several miles from his home in Chudleigh.

Or had he? Dan asked himself. Bellamy had said he was going to run to his home in Chudleigh, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d set off from there. He could’ve been given a lift to Embervale.

After all, when they’d accosted Bellamy in the lane, he wasn’t sweating or breathing hard, and whatever route he’d taken from Chudleigh to Embervale, he would’ve travelled some distance up the valley’s side, and that was no walk in the park.

And what about Bellamy’s return journey? He’d claimed it was another four miles to Chudleigh, but that didn’t feel right to Dan. At the time, Alan had said it would take Bellamy a long time to get home, and Alan knew the lanes pretty well.

Had Bellamy lied or had he simply been protecting his privacy?

I really don’t know, Dan decided. Maybe I’m seeing what I want to see. He and Simon Bellamy seemed to have taken an instant dislike to each other. Their unfortunate first meeting hadn’t helped, and Dan’s impertinent questions had made matters worse.

But he hadn’t forgotten Bellamy’s odd appearance in the pub on the night Henry had been killed. Bellamy had kept his head down, apparently anxious to conceal the scratch marks on his face. He’d drunk his whisky quickly, and then he’d left, using the pub’s back door to avoid Dan and Alan.

Bellamy was an odd character, but that didn’t mean he’d done anything wrong.

Dan reached a T-junction, and he stopped to get his bearings. The road sign said that turning left would take him towards Chudleigh, but turning right would take him higher, toward the large reservoirs of Trenchford, Kennick and Tottiford. The reservoirs were not far away, and they were certainly worth visiting—he’d run a loop around them before—but Dan’s heart wasn’t in it.

He turned back the way he’d come and headed for home with a smile. It would be downhill all the way.

* * *

Dan was still grinning when he reached the church. The run had done him a lot of good. He let himself in at the church gate and crossed the churchyard quickly. He wasn’t exactly dressed for his visit, but thankfully he was alone, and he wouldn’t be long.

He headed for the church corner where he’d strapped the wildlife camera, but he stopped short. The black cast iron downpipe was bare.

Dan hurried forward and checked the ground but found nothing, not even the strap he’d used to attach the camera.

Oh hell, Dan thought. Not only had he lost an expensive piece of kit, but someone might’ve realised it had been placed there without permission. If it could be traced back to him, he was going to be in trouble. His name would be mud, and Alan would remind him that he’d counselled against the camera in the first place.

Dan turned around and strode toward the gate. He had a premonition of somebody marching out from the church to catch him in the act, but he made it back to the road without incident.

Dan glanced over his shoulder just once, but the coast was still clear, so he set off at a brisk jog. He’d be home in ten minutes.

CHAPTER 47

In his office, Spiller cleared the remains of his breakfast from the desk, brushing the crumbs into his hand and depositing them in the waste bin. He’d rushed out that morning with nothing more in his stomach than a mug of tea, but Sheila had been prepared. He’d arrived at work to find an extra plastic container in his careworn leather briefcase. Inside the tub was a carefully wrapped egg sandwich and a note bearing three words: Look after yourself.

Spiller reminded himself to thank Sheila when he got home, then he looked back at his computer’s screen, skimming once more through the document he’d been reading.

“All very well,” he murmured, “but is it enough?”

The day before, he’d accompanied DS Kulkarni as she’d taken Jean Doubleday to identify the body. He didn’t have to be there, but he felt he owed it to Henry’s widow.

Mrs Doubleday had been quietly dignified, nodding once as she’d gazed down at the face of her husband. “That’s him,” she’d said. “That’s my Henry.”

The memory of that moment had stayed with Spiller: Mrs Doubleday, standing very upright, her lips pursed. Only her tear-filled eyes betrayed her inner turmoil. Her heart was breaking but she was unbowed, determined to remain strong.

We have to get someone for this, Spiller told himself. And Searle has to be our best bet.

But where was the evidence?

He made a call to Nicola Haig, and after a few seconds she answered:

“Tim, how are you doing?”

“Fine, fine,” Spiller replied. “Have you got a minute?”

Nicola sounded vaguely distracted. “Well, I’m busy, but…”

“This won’t take long,” Spiller said quickly. “I’m looking at the crime scene reports from Embervale.”

“The preliminary reports, you mean.”

“Yes, the preliminary reports. You’ve done good work, as always, but there’s one thing I wanted to ask you about.”

“The toadflax-leaved St John’s-wort?”

“No, that wasn’t it but hang on.”

Spiller scrolled rapidly through the document until he found the relevant section, scanning it once again to refresh his memory.

“Is that significant?” he went on. “I know you found a leaf in his overalls, and it might be from a rare plant, but⁠—”

“Part of a leaf,” Nicola corrected him. “But things have moved on, and I think it’s worth pursuing.”

Spiller sat back in his chair. “We’re stretched pretty thin as it is, Nicola. Searle is a farmworker. It would be odd if he didn’t have a bit of greenery in his overalls, wouldn’t it? Besides, we don’t know if he wore them on the night of the murder. They were on his bedroom floor with the rest of his dirty laundry.”

“Tell me about it. Not the most hygienic of men, our Mr Searle.”

“Rather you than me,” Spiller said. “But to be honest, I’m not so much interested in his pocket litter as the bloodstain on his sleeve. Have the results come back yet?”

“Bad news, I’m afraid,” Nicola replied. “It’s his.”

Spiller thumped his fist against the desk.

“I heard that,” Nicola said. “But it’s not over yet, Tim. We’ve a long way to go. There’s a mountain of evidence waiting to be examined.”

“I know. It’s a shame about that hammer. Anything new on that?”

“I’m afraid not. We looked at it again, but there’s no trace of blood or body fluids. There were a few prints but they’re only partials. They were left by someone with oil or grease on their hands. Unlike the rest of the place, the tools in that cabinet haven’t been cleaned.”

“Ah well, that feels like a dead end,” Spiller replied. “They weren’t cleaned because the killer never touched them, but that yard was cleaner than Searle’s bedroom. I don’t know why anyone would go to such lengths unless Henry was killed in or around that barn, but I’m not seeing anything that’ll stand up in court. There isn’t even much I can throw at Searle. Tell me something’s turned up, Nicola. Make my day a little brighter.”

“I wish I could. The place has been drenched with a heavy-duty cleaner. We found an empty drum of the stuff behind the barn, but there were no prints on it, and that’s not surprising. Anyone handling it would’ve used gloves. And before you ask, no, we didn’t find the gloves.”

“No specks of blood?” Spiller asked. “No sign of a weapon?”

“Nope. There were a few footprints beside the track leading into the farmyard, but they were indistinct and inconclusive. The ground has been too dry to hold a print. There weren’t even any decent tyre tracks.”

A brief silence sprung up between them.

“Hear me out about the leaf,” Nicola went on. “I can understand why you’re not exactly carried away with excitement. You’d rather have a bloodied murder weapon covered in fingerprints and DNA, but this might be a stepping stone to exactly that. We’ve made progress.”

“Okay, enlighten me. Tell me why it’s important.”

“Right. Since I sent my report, we’ve double-checked and we’re solid on the identification. This isn’t my speciality, but do you know Travis?”

“Yes. He’s the one with the beard.”

Nicola chuckled. “That doesn’t narrow it down much but never mind. The important thing to know is that Travis wants to specialise in forensic botany. This stuff is meat and drink to him. He goes looking for plants almost every weekend, stomping about the countryside with a hand lens in his pocket.”

“A regular David Bellamy.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter. Let’s say Travis is right. Where does it get us?”

“Oh, he’s right. He’s chased down every reference, and he’s certain he’s identified it correctly. This is where it gets interesting. This type of St John’s-wort only grows in a few locations in the UK, and one of them happens to be right across the road from where we found Mr Doubleday’s body.”

Spiller sat up. “That is interesting.”

“I thought you’d like it. It would’ve been good to know this yesterday, but until we had his overalls…”

“You’re doing your best. Tell me more.”

“You might remember seeing a hedge not far from the spot where we found the body. I believe that marked the edge of a disused quarry which is now designated as a nature reserve.”

“Hence the rare plant,” Spiller suggested. “That might be enough to place Searle there.”

“Exactly.”

“What about pollen? If we had pollen on Searle’s clothes, we could be off to the races, right?”

It sounded as though Nicola was sucking air over her teeth. “I wouldn’t go down that route just yet. Pollen analysis is time-consuming and expensive, and there aren’t many flowers in bloom at this time of year, so the chances are slim.”

“Okay. That’s something to keep in our back pocket. In the meantime, it’s time to expand the search to this nature reserve.”

“Agreed,” Nicola said. “Then we can look at the soil types too. There were stains on the overalls, especially around the knee area, as if he’d been kneeling on the ground. If we can find a match, it’ll be one more link between your suspect and disposal site, but there’ll be a lot of ground to cover.”

“I’ll get you some extra pairs of hands. It sounds like you’re going to need them.”

“Very much so. Thanks, Tim.”

“No problem. It’s good to feel like we’re getting somewhere. Say well done from me to that Travis chap. He sounds keen. I’d hold on to him if I were you.”

“I’ll try. How’s it going with your suspect? Is he still keeping schtum?”

“So far. It’s been ‘no comment’ all the way, but I’m going to have another crack at him this morning. A night in the cells might’ve changed his perspective.”

“Well, good luck with—” Nicola broke off and Spiller heard someone speaking in the background: a man, his tone hushed and urgent. Then Nicola said, “Hold on, Tim.”

Spiller waited, sitting up very straight, his jaw growing tighter by the millisecond. He strained to hear the conversation between Nicola and an unknown male, but he couldn’t make out a single word.

When Nicola came back on the line, her voice seemed unnaturally loud.

“Okay, Tim, we’ve got something new—a possible murder weapon.”

“Possible? Does that mean you’ve found something?”

“Not exactly, but I can suggest something to look out for. Mr Doubleday had two sets of tools, one in the barn, and another much better set in the workshop. It looks as though he saved the good ones for his MG. The tools in the workshop were all in sets, all of them branded, and most were made by Snap-on.”

“Expensive.”

“So I understand. You’ll have seen in the report that one spanner was found in the boot of his car.”

Spiller frowned. “Yes, but you said it was clean, and all the others were accounted for, weren’t they?”

“Not quite. You know we check everything very thoroughly, but sometimes a detail can slip through the net. I can only apologise. We ought to have spotted it sooner.”

“We’re all of us human. Go on.”

Nicola cleared her throat. “Erm, there was one large ring spanner missing from the set in the workshop, and as you say, we thought we’d found it in the MG’s boot. But on closer inspection, the spanner from the car didn’t match the others. It was superficially the same, even made by the same brand as the others, and when we put them together, they looked like a set. But we made a mistake. It doesn’t match. Maybe we took our eyes off the ball because this spanner was clean. I mean, it looks brand new and there was not so much as a fingerprint on it, but nevertheless, we missed the fact that it didn’t belong and that’s unforgivable.”

“In my experience, very few things are unforgivable, and you picked up on it as soon as humanly possible,” Spiller said. “But let me guess. The one in the boot was metric, and all the others were in inches.”

“Actually it was the other way around. I’d have guessed the same as you. Henry had an old car, but only the spanner in the boot was in Imperial units: three-quarters of an inch to seven-eighths. Back in the workshop, the rest of the set was metric. He may have bought his spanners separately rather than as a set, but if he owned a full set, we’re missing a large metric spanner.”

“A spanner that has perhaps been switched,” Spiller said. “Henry will have put his tools down as a business expense and filed the receipt. We’ll have to check his books.” Spiller pulled a pad and pen toward him. “Give me the details, and I’ll see what I can find.”

“Okay, we’re missing an 18-20 mm ring spanner made by Snap-on. My colleague tells me it’s an American brand, so if you want to find it online, it’ll be referred to as a box wrench. It would’ve been quite long, 384 mm.”

“That’s over a foot long,” Spiller mused. “That’s enough to get a hefty swing, and it fits nicely with your idea that Henry was hit by something narrow.”

“Absolutely, but we’ll know more after the post-mortem examination. It’s set for this morning, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. I’d better let you get back to work, Nicola. Let me know if you find anything in the nature reserve.”

“I’ll be in touch. Bye, Tim.”

Spiller said goodbye and ended the call, then he shuffled a stack of papers into a cardboard folder and stowed them away in a desk drawer, locking it through force of habit. There was something nostalgic about a bulging cardboard folder. There was a time when his job had been all about handling documents and assembling collections of important papers. Now that almost everything was digital, his desk was a good deal tidier, but it wasn’t the same.

Spiller stood, arching his back and feeling the vertebrae click. The day before, he’d had an idea about visiting the gym, hadn’t he? But that would have to wait. There was another body that demanded his attention, and this one was past all earthly aches and pains. It was time to visit the pathologist, Dr Bunting. Henry Doubleday’s post-mortem examination was about to begin.

CHAPTER 48

Dan sat at the desk in the small room he used as an office. Accounts, he thought as he fired up his computer. Tax return.

He gazed at the screen, but his fingers did not reach for the keyboard. There were times when he didn’t mind admin, but this wasn’t one of them.

He ought to be working on a case, but the search for Joshua Southgate had reached an impasse. The message had been sent, the ball was in Joshua’s court, and Dan had called Brenda Southgate earlier, leaving her a voicemail to let her know the state of play.

There was nothing else to do except wait. And the case of the churchyard visitor had been halted by whoever had pinched his wildlife camera.

What else was there left for him to do? He couldn’t interfere in the case of Henry Doubleday’s murder. The police were handling it, and according to the news online, they had a man in custody. That had to be Roy Searle. The case was as good as over, and Dan wasn’t even needed as a witness.

Dan drummed his fingers on the desk, but still, he had no urge to tackle his accounts.

Where has Alan got to? he wondered. Dan pushed his chair back and went through to his front room. Like Dan’s house, Alan’s abode had a small gravel driveway in front of it, and his VW Golf was still absent, as it had been the night before. Perhaps Alan had stayed over at Natalya’s flat in Moretonhampstead.

He’ll turn up sooner or later, Dan decided. He looked aimlessly around the room. There was a new throw over his old sofa, and a few brightly coloured cushions had made it look much more inviting than before. Sam had brought a rug from her flat and laid it in front of the fireplace. Piece by piece, she was turning his house into a home. And it seemed empty without her.

Dan glanced out of the window and decided that it was going to be a warm day. He wouldn’t need a jacket. He retrieved his phone from the office and made for the back door.

It took only ten minutes or so to walk to The Wild Boar, but Dan enjoyed every step, lifting his face to feel the gentle heat of the spring sunshine. The fresh air was sweet with the scent of damp earth. His lawn had been glistening with dew that morning, so he supposed the sun was warming the soil and stirring it into life, bringing with it the promise of growth and renewal.

Dan couldn’t help but smile. A few years ago, he wouldn’t have noticed such things. I’m going native, he thought. And that’s no bad thing.

The front door of the pub would be locked, so Dan went straight around to the back. There was a slightly shabby door that served as a staff entrance, and Dan rapped on it with his knuckles. There was no answer, so he let himself in, calling out Sam’s name as he passed through the kitchen.

Sam met him as he stepped into the short corridor that led to the bar. They were both moving quickly and almost collided. After a moment’s hesitation, they moved in for a hug and a kiss.

“Hello,” Sam said. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.”

“Missed me, did you?”

“I might have done,” Dan admitted. “A bit.” He hesitated. “Well, a lot actually. Especially last night.”

“Me too.” Sam gave him another kiss and then pulled back, her arms still on his. “Are you rushing off or can you stay for a bit?”

“I can stay as long as you want. I can help if you like.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got Kayleigh helping this morning. She gave me a call, asked if I needed a hand.”

“Really?”

“I was as surprised as you, but she was keen to come. I told her I was only cleaning up and such, but she wanted to come. Said she could use the extra cash.”

“Did she tell you what happened to her sister?”

Sam widened her eyes. “Oh yeah. It’s horrible. Bloody Roy Searle. I hope they throw away the key. I always thought he was a creep.”

“Did you? You never said.”

“Well, he’s an odd one, isn’t he? He’s always kept himself to himself, and you hear rumours—you used to, anyway.”

“What kind of rumours?”

“It was ages ago. People said he went sneaking about the fields of an evening. Reckoned he was birdwatching, but some said he spied on people.” Sam pulled a face. “He used to go into the old quarry, and it was a place some of us used to go, and we did what teenagers do. You know what I mean.”

“I think I do,” Dan said. “I was a boarder at a boy’s school, but I guess you shared a bottle of cider and a few cigarettes, that sort of thing.”

Sam looked sheepish. “Yeah, and a bit of fooling around. Couples would go off in the long grass. We were young, but we didn’t go too daft. We had our friends nearby, and we looked out for each other.”

A silent horror blanked Dan’s mind. His voice hollow, he said, “And Searle used to spy on you?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Sam admitted. “I didn’t see him myself, but people said that’s what he did. He was like a bogeyman. If we thought he was around, we’d make ourselves scarce.”

“I wish I’d known this before. Maybe I could’ve done something about it and spared Julie all that trauma.”

“You can’t go thinking like that,” Sam said. “Like I said, this was all years ago, and I haven’t laid eyes on that nasty little man for a very long time. I’d forgotten all about him until Kayleigh told me what happened. The poor thing. She’s upset, but she wants to work. I think she was keen to get out of the house, take her mind off everything.”

“What’s she doing? I can take over if she wants to go home.”

Sam tilted her head to one side. “She’s in the cellar at the minute, bringing up bottles to restock the shelves. I can ask if she wants any help, but she seems happy enough. I reckon she needs a bit of space, but she’ll be back up in a minute. You can say hello and see for yourself.”

Sam led Dan through to the bar, and a moment later, Kayleigh appeared, carrying a plastic crate loaded with bottles. She seemed to be in a world of her own, and she gave a start when she saw Sam had company.

“Hello,” Dan said. “How are you?”

Recovering quickly, Kayleigh nodded. “Yeah, I’m good, thanks. You?”

“I’m fine,” Dan replied. “Do you want a hand with that?”

“No, I’ve got it.”

As if to prove the point, Kayleigh hoisted the crate a little higher as she carried it behind the bar, then she squatted down, disappearing from view. Bottles clinked in a rapid rhythm as Kayleigh went to work.

Sam sent Dan a look, her eyebrows raised, and Dan nodded. Sam was right; for the moment at least, Kayleigh was content.

Or is there more to it than that? Dan wondered. Kayleigh had come to the pub expecting to do manual work, but she was smartly dressed, her hair shone, and her makeup was immaculate. Dan had often lugged crates up from the cellar, and it always left him dishevelled, his clothes crumpled and grimy, and dusty cobwebs clinging to his hair.

But when Kayleigh had appeared from the stairs, she’d looked fresh as a daisy, her clothes still neat and her complexion glowing. Had she taken the time to get herself together before emerging from the cellar?

It may be that Kayleigh was determined to keep up appearances and put on a brave front; there was nothing wrong with that. But when she’d realised Dan was in the bar, there’d been a hint of fear in her eyes. Perhaps Kayleigh wasn’t coping as well as she made out.

“Don’t just stand there,” Sam said to Dan. “Make yourself useful. I could do with a coffee.”

“That is my area of expertise,” Dan replied.

“One of many,” Sam said with a smile. “Can you do me a latte?” She tented her eyebrows, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “Only, can I have cow’s milk? There’s some in the fridge.”

“Absolutely. One latte coming right up.” Dan pointed to the coffee machine behind the bar, and lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “It’s a bit cramped back there. Will Kayleigh mind?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Ask her.”

“Oh, but⁠—”

“Hey, Kayleigh,” Sam called out. “You all right if Dan comes back there to make a coffee?”

“Doesn’t bother me,” Kayleigh replied, standing up and turning to face them. “Be my guest. I’ve got to go and get another load anyway.” She lifted the plastic crate, now empty, and marched out from behind the bar.

“Would you like a coffee?” Dan asked her.

“No thanks,” Kayleigh said without stopping. “I’m fine.”

“There you go,” Sam said. “It’s all yours. I’d like my latte nice and hot, young man, and while you’re at it, have one for yourself.”

Before Dan could respond, Sam added, “I’ll be in the kitchen.” With that, she strode from the room.

“Certainly, milady,” Dan muttered. “Right away.”

Dan installed himself behind the bar and began making preparations. It was always a novelty to be on the other side of the bar, as though he’d been given access to a private domain, and using the full-size Gaggia was a dream come true for any coffee enthusiast.

He was so busy frothing the milk for Sam’s latte, the hissing roar of the steam blotting out all other sounds, that he didn’t hear Kayleigh returning with another crate of bottles. It was only when he turned off the steam that he noticed her kneeling a few feet from him, taking bottles from the crate and reaching into the low shelves to push them to the back.

Kayleigh seemed absorbed in her task, paying him no heed as she worked.

Good for her, Dan thought. And as he watched the twin streams of espresso falling quietly into the cup of steamed milk, he took a moment to revise his opinion of Kayleigh.

The young woman was carrying on, refusing to be cowed. Perhaps she’d inherited a stoical streak from her father. Dan had only met Dave Robbins once, but he’d seemed like a practical type of man, very down to earth. He’d spent his working life fixing problems, using his hands to set things straight, but how would he fare when faced with Julie’s anguish and distress?

The effects of trauma were so much harder to understand than a leaky pipe or a faulty tap. And sometimes, even for the most caring person, there was no simple solution, no easy way to make everything all right.

The Gaggia hissed and sputtered as it finished dispensing hot water, snapping Dan back to the present. He transferred the finished latte to the bar and called out, “Sam, your drink’s ready.”

Kayleigh looked up sharply, but she wasn’t looking at Dan. Her keen gaze was focused on the steaming cup he’d just put down.

“Have you changed your mind?” Dan asked. “I can make you a coffee in no time at all.”

Kayleigh shook her head. She sniffed.

“Are you sure?” Dan went on. “I make an excellent americano, but I can manage a macchiato at a pinch, or⁠—”

“No.” Kayleigh stood, quickly turning away, but not before Dan saw the look on her face. Kayleigh looked unwell, her face pale.

“Kayleigh, are you…?” He didn’t need to complete his sentence. Kayleigh was already hurtling away toward the back room, her hand pressed to her mouth.

Sam chose that moment to reappear, just in time to see Kayleigh fleeing from the room. In the ensuing silence, there came the sound of a door creaking open and swinging shut. It didn’t sound like the back door, so Kayleigh had almost certainly taken refuge in the ladies’ toilet.

“What did you say to her?” Sam demanded, her hands on her hips.

“Nothing. I offered her a coffee and she went white as a sheet.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“That’s all I said,” Dan insisted. “I wasn’t asking questions or anything like that. She looked up when your drink was ready, and…” Dan’s voice trailed away.

“What?”

“Kayleigh looked like she was going to be sick. It must’ve been the smell of the coffee. It made her nauseous. You don’t think…”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Sam muttered. “I’ll go and see if she’s all right.”

Sam set off in pursuit, and Dan was left alone with his thoughts. He picked up Sam’s rapidly cooling drink and poured it down the sink, then he washed out the cup. It would be some time before Sam would return.

It wasn’t long since Dan had downed a coffee at home, but the machine was still on, so he made himself another. When a long wait was on the cards, only a very large americano would do.

* * *

Dan had made himself comfortable in the bar, commandeering a table by the window. The chairs had been stacked on the tables, but he’d put a couple back on the floor, assuming Sam wouldn’t mind.

He’d made his cup of coffee last for as long as possible, but he was down to the very last dregs when Sam returned. She looked tired, and she sat down heavily, facing Dan, the sadness in her eyes telling him everything he needed to know.

“Is she pregnant?” Dan asked.

“She is,” Sam replied. “There’s not much doubt about it. Poor kid, she doesn’t know which way is up. She…” Sam shook her head, the skin around her eyes tightening.

“What’s the matter?” Dan asked. “Should we be worried? Should we be calling the police?”

“No, there’s no need to go overboard. As far as I can tell, she knew what she was doing. She’s been going out with a local lad, so she says. I didn’t recognise the name, but that’s not the point.” Sam hesitated. “She’s so upset. Just now, I saw another side to her. She’s always been so confident, you know? Outgoing.”

“I totally agree.”

“Not in there, she wasn’t. The poor girl could barely string two words together. It was like all the fight had gone out of her. Between you and me, I reckon she’s terrified of what’s going to happen when people find out. She’s scared out of her wits.”

“Is that because of her father?” Dan asked.

“No, I don’t think so. Dave’s all right. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but he dotes on those girls. He was always the one who’d take them for walks or stand in the play park, pushing the swings. He’s a big softie really, but… I don’t know.” Sam stared down at the table, drawing imaginary circles on its surface with her fingertip.

“I haven’t met Kayleigh’s mum,” Dan said. “What’s she like?”

“Penny?” Sam looked up. “She comes in here sometimes. She’s okay. Chances are, you’ve seen her.”

“Jay said the same thing, but I can’t put a face to the name.”

“Come on, Dan. Where do you think Kayleigh gets her looks from? Penny’s an attractive woman. You must’ve seen her.”

Dan shook his head. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re the only woman in the place.”

“I’m not fishing for compliments, you daft lump. Can’t you see what I’m getting at? I’m trying to make you understand. Look at it from Kayleigh’s point of view.”

“I wasn’t being flippant,” Dan protested. “Honestly, I’m lost.”

“And you’re supposed to be the sharp one.” Sam met Dan’s gaze and her face fell. “I didn’t mean that to come out like… I didn’t mean…”

“It’s all right. I understand. You’re upset for Kayleigh.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t take it out on you. If you say you don’t know Penny, then I believe you, but…” Sam drew a breath. “Penny had her children young. She must’ve been a teenager herself. I’ve heard her talking when she’s had a couple of gins, going on about the life she could’ve had, the things she could’ve done. She’s not going to be too pleased when her daughter has gone down the same path, is she?”

“I suppose not. And then there’s Penny’s religion. At one time, I believe she was a keen churchgoer.”

A puff of air escaped from between Sam’s lips, and she widened her eyes.

“What is it? What are you not saying?”

“Never mind. I won’t spread gossip, you know that, but I’ve heard things.”

“Such as?”

Sam shook her head firmly.

“Can’t you give me the gist?” Dan said. “I wouldn’t ask, but⁠—”

“Leave it, Dan,” Sam interrupted. “That family has had enough to deal with, and I’m not just talking about what’s going on now.”

“I know. They’ve had more than their share of troubles. Dave told me about Kayleigh’s sister, Susan. And Julie must be struggling after what happened yesterday.”

“Exactly, so leave them alone, okay? You know I’m right.”

“Yes, I do.”

They sat in silence for a while, then Sam hauled herself to her feet.

“I’d better get back to Kayleigh,” she said. “You may as well go. This is going to take some sorting out.”

“Okay.” Dan stood, and they faced each other awkwardly. “What are you going to do?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Sam admitted. “I’ve half a mind to call Penny myself. Whatever Kayleigh decides to do, she’s going to need her family around her, but I can’t interfere. All I can do is listen and be a shoulder to cry on.”

“You’re wonderful. She’s very lucky to have you.”

Sam dismissed the compliment with an upward flick of her eyebrows, then she shooed Dan away. “Go on. I’ll have to get a move on, or I won’t be ready for lunchtime.”

“I’m going,” Dan said, “but not before I give you a kiss.”

“All right, you soppy thing.”

They exchanged a brief kiss, and Dan let himself out. It was only as he was walking home that he began to wonder at the implications of Kayleigh’s bombshell.

Natalya had met a young woman in the shop and believed her to be pregnant. Could that have been Kayleigh? Natalya had guessed at the young woman’s age, saying she was seventeen, and Kayleigh was only one year older than that, a difference that could be accounted for by clothes, hair and make-up.

Had Natalya been to the Wild Boar since Kayleigh had started working there? Dan thought not, so there’d been no opportunity for Natalya to recognise her. Then there was the pregnancy test Alan and Natalya had found in the old quarry. In the circumstances, the test might well have belonged to Kayleigh. And what about the teenager Greg had seen in the churchyard? Could that have been Kayleigh too?

I’ve only ever seen her smartly dressed and looking her best, Dan thought. But Sam said she’d seen another side to her. It sounded as though Kayleigh’s self-confidence had vanished, leaving her incoherent.

Behind Kayleigh’s facade of easy charm, was there a part of her that was uncertain, even fragile?

It wouldn’t be surprising. Kayleigh hadn’t been blessed with an easy life. She’d been a child when her family had been riven by grief. How had Kayleigh coped? Had she plastered over the cracks in her family by becoming a mother figure, the one who stayed home to cook the Sunday dinner? Had she foregone her childhood, staying home to look after her younger sister while her peers were out having fun?

Dan couldn’t answer any of those questions, but he knew what it was to live with anxiety, and as he walked, memories of his past troubles returned to haunt him: the crippling indecision, the cold dread that had left him almost helpless, the surges of panic that had threatened to overwhelm him.

Those days are gone, he told himself. Gone for good. His new life had dug him out of a hole, but what could be done for Kayleigh?

She needed support and, all being well, that would come from her family and friends. She was young and strong, and she had Sam in her corner. One way or another, Kayleigh would come through this. But as Dan strode home, a heavy sense of foreboding settled on his shoulders.

CHAPTER 49

Standing in the doorway of his office, Spiller called out to Collins and beckoned him over. Collins rose from his seat, clutching his tablet computer, and Spiller returned to his position behind the desk, making himself comfortable as he waited.

When Collins appeared, Spiller gestured to the chair facing him.

“How did the post-mortem go?” Collins asked as he sat down.

“Pretty much as we expected,” Spiller replied. “Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the skull. Someone hit Henry hard enough to fracture his skull, probably with a narrow metal implement. I asked about that spanner, and Dr Bunting said it was the right shape, but he questioned whether it was long enough for someone to wield it with enough force. He thinks we should be looking for something twice as long—a crowbar, for instance.”

Collins shook his head in regret. “I’m not so sure, Guv. I like that spanner for the weapon.”

“Maybe, but we’ll listen to the doctor on this one. He knows what he’s talking about. You can’t argue with physics.”

“I know, but if somebody’s in a rage, lashing out, they can hit pretty hard. If you swing a weapon quick enough, even if it’s short, you can hit with a lot of force.”

“And I’m sure Dr Bunting knows that. Let it go, Collins. We’ll have to cast the net wider.”

Collins didn’t look happy, and Spiller gazed at him in silence. So, now that Collins had made detective sergeant, he was going to start arguing, was he?

There’s a turn up, Spiller thought. This is going to be interesting.

Spiller rested his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers.

“Okay, Collins. Make your case.”

“Well, it can’t be a coincidence we found that spanner at the scene. And it stands out. Henry knows about fixing cars and he takes it seriously, so he wouldn’t have kept the wrong type of spanner in his car. You told me yourself, the rest of the set were metric, but the one in the boot was in inches.”

“It can be a coincidence, and it probably is,” Spiller said. “But there might be a good reason for the spanner being there. It’s an old car, parts get replaced, and Henry might well have used a different nut and bolt if they were all he had to hand. Besides, I’ve used the wrong type of spanner myself, and they sometimes work fine—near enough, anyway.”

“But you’ve seen Henry’s workshop, Guv. He has more tools than Halfords, and it was all very neat and tidy. A place for everything and everything in its place. For a man like Henry, near enough wouldn’t cut it.”

“That’s a fair point but look at it another way. If someone used the spanner to kill Henry, why would they leave it in the car? They’d ditch it.”

“They did,” Collins stated. “They got rid of the weapon, but they knew we’d notice one was missing, so they replaced it with another. They didn’t realise it wasn’t exactly the same.”

“No. If you were right, they would’ve put the new spanner in with the others to make up the set. They wouldn’t have left it in the car.”

“In an ideal world, yes, but it can’t have been easy to get Henry’s body into the car. The killer was in a rush, and they panicked. They left the fresh spanner in the boot by accident.”

Spiller thought for a second. “There is another possibility. The killer was trying to be clever, to throw us off the scent. They threw away a perfectly good spanner and gave us another, making it look like the murder weapon. They knew it would come up clean, but that was okay, because we’d be wasting time when we should have been looking for the actual weapon.”

“Isn’t that a bit complicated, Guv? You’re always telling me the simplest solution is usually the right one.”

“And so it is, Collins. But what do think, are we looking for a spanner or something like a crowbar?”

Collins shifted in his seat. “Well, for the time being, I’m keeping an open mind.”

“That’s no bad thing, Collins, but we’ll put that debate aside for now. We’ll go down and interview Roy Searle in a minute, but before we get to that, how did you fare with Jean Doubleday’s alibi?”

“It was a piece of cake. The CCTV backs up her story one hundred percent.” Collins consulted his tablet. “ANPR captured the Jeep near Sainsbury’s around ten to six, and again at around eight. Those times fit perfectly with her entering and leaving the supermarket.”

Spiller sat back, smiling. “Good work. Write it all up, and make sure you put all the exact timestamps and so on. You know the drill.”

“Yes, Guv. No problem.”

“Moving on, we have Roy Searle awaiting our pleasure in Interview Room Two. Sadly, we have nothing but circumstantial evidence, but there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.”

Collins raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“Mr Searle,” Spiller went on, “has waived his right to have a solicitor present.”

“Really? He must be dafter than he looks.”

“Possibly, but don’t go into the interview with that assumption.”

“I’m saying it as I see it, Guv. Searle hasn’t got two brain cells to rub together. I mean, he didn’t make the best job of running away, did he? It was pure dumb luck he didn’t hit another car.”

“His driving skills aside, I’m not convinced that Mr Searle is as stupid as he makes out,” Spiller replied. “I’ve met many liars, and there are some who brazen it out, feigning ignorance. Remember, he’s been through the system three times before, albeit for much less serious offences. He got off lightly in the past, and he might reckon he can do it again.”

“You’ve got a point there,” Colins admitted. “I had a look through his file, and his brief played up Searle’s lack of education. He made out like his client was a simple soul, doing his best to look after his poor old dad. The magistrates swallowed it hook, line and sinker.”

“But he was given a community sentence for his third offence. What did he have to do, and where?”

“Restorative justice,” Collins intoned. “Litter picking, cleaning graffiti off walls, all of it in Newton Abbot. Oh, and there was something in a school.”

“What?”

“It was in the summer holidays. There were no kids around. Him and a few others were painting benches and that kind of thing. It was in Kingsteignton—the secondary school.”

“I don’t care what time of year it was, why in God’s name would you put offenders in a school?”

“Government cuts, I expect.”

Spiller shook his head in disapproval. “Searle probably enjoyed himself, doing a few odd jobs. It’s the kind of thing he does for a living anyway.” Spiller hesitated. “You know, when we were looking at that bonfire in Higgs’ garden, Corrigan said something interesting.”

Collins pulled a face as though he’d just eaten something unpleasant.

“You know there’d been graffiti on that shed,” Spiller went on. “Corrigan reckoned it was someone having a go at Searle. I checked with Mr Higgs. Mostly it was just insults, stuff like ‘bastard’ and ‘bugger off’, but they’d also written ‘creep’ and ‘perv’. The last one, several times.”

“Bloody hell,” Collins muttered. “Now I know why you didn’t want him near a school. But I’ve been through his file, and there’s nothing about child abuse. He’s never worked with kids, never had a DBS check.”

“I know. It could be a coincidence. Local kids knew the house was empty during the week, so they went around to cause mischief. The shed was a soft target. No one was going to see them back there, so they wrote on the wall, trotting out a few rude words they’d picked up with no idea of the implications.”

“That sounds likely to me.”

“To me too.”

Collins smirked. “Corrigan does like a leap in the dark, doesn’t he? Typical amateur. Throw it all at the wall and see what sticks.”

And sometimes he gets it right, Spiller thought. He beats us at our own game. But he contented himself with a nod and a smile.

“Right, shall we go and have a word with Searle?” Collins went on.

“Oh yes. But remember, we won’t let him play the innocent abroad. He’s a liar, and so far, he’s done his best to get away with murder. He cleaned the farmyard and the car, then he turned up for work the next day, bold as brass. But Henry Doubleday had been good to him, and that’s going to weigh heavy on Searle’s conscience. Some tiny part of him wants to confess, wants to get this over with, shrug the guilt from his shoulders. It’s our job to nudge him in the right direction, okay?”

Collins nodded, his eyes bright. He was looking forward to this.

So am I, Spiller thought. So am I.

CHAPTER 50

Dan was almost home when he realised Alan’s VW was back on the drive. He decided to call in, making straight for the back door. As he passed the kitchen window, he caught a glimpse of a figure sitting at the kitchen table, but he didn’t like to peer in.

Instead, he knocked on the door and waited until Alan appeared, looking particularly fresh-faced and bright-eyed.

“Dan, come in, come in.” Alan waved him in and stood back, adding, “Look who’s here.”

Dan stepped inside and stopped short. Regarding him from the kitchen table, her stern gaze loaded with impatience, was Marjorie Treave.

“Here he is at last,” she stated. “Where have you been, Daniel Corrigan?”

“Erm, I’ve been busy.” Dan looked to Alan for an explanation.

“Marjorie is here on business,” Alan said with a broad smile. “We were just about to have some tea. Would you like a cup?”

“Not really, but I’ve a feeling I might need one.”

“No need to be so melodramatic.” Alan gestured to a chair. “Sit down. The tea won’t be long.”

Dan did as he was told, feeling the full force of Marjorie’s fierce gaze as he tried to make himself comfortable.

“Did you come here looking for me?” Dan asked.

“That I did,” Marjorie replied. “There’s something going on that needs sorting out, but I can’t see to it myself, and I reckon you owe me a favour.”

“Do I?”

Marjorie nodded. “All that business with old Morty a few years back—reckon I more or less solved the whole problem for you.”

Dan was lost for words. The clash between reality and Marjorie’s pronouncement was so total that it drove all other thoughts from his mind.

“Anyhow, I definitely set you on the right track,” Marjorie went on, “so you can return the favour.”

“I told Marjorie we’d be happy to help,” Alan said cheerfully as he placed a tray on the table, complete with a teapot, mugs and a small jug of milk.

Marjorie looked down her nose to study Alan’s efforts, then she sat back in silence. She passed no judgement, and at least she didn’t appear to be displeased.

Alan joined them, taking the chair at Dan’s side.

“The mug with the milk in is for you,” he said to Dan. “It’s oat milk.”

“Thanks.”

Marjorie tutted quietly to herself.

Alan appeared not to have heard her. “Shall I pour?” he asked, reaching for the teapot.

“Give it a minute or two,” Marjorie replied. “Let it steep.”

Alan dropped his hands to his lap. “Okay. Do you want to explain the situation, Marjorie, or shall I?”

“You tell him. I’ll chip in if the need arises.”

“I’m sure you will.” Alan drew breath then related the tale of Hugh’s comings and goings, paying particular attention to the fact that he’d gone out of his way to befriend two older people who both lived on their own.

“The man is nothing more than a con artist,” Marjorie said when Alan had finished. “Charlie Marshall doesn’t know what’s hit him, and now there’s a cuckoo in his nest.”

“It certainly sounds that way,” Dan replied. “Do you think we can have that tea now?”

“Yes, you’d better get it poured, young man,” Marjorie said to Alan. “It’ll be going cold at this rate.”

For the first time that day, Alan’s smile slipped, but he recovered quickly, his tone bright once again as he asked Marjorie how she liked her tea.

“Just as it comes,” Marjorie replied. “I’m not fussy.” She glanced disapprovingly at Dan as if to say, unlike some.

The tea dispensed, Alan sat back, watching as Marjorie took a tentative sip.

She raised her eyebrows and gave a small nod.

Alan looked relieved. “So, what do you think, Dan?” he asked. “About Hugh, I mean. We can take the case, can’t we?”

“I’m not sure. I’d like to help, but there are quite a few irons in the fire just now.”

“Really? We’ve passed a message on to Joshua Southgate, and that’s all we can do for the moment. And if you’re thinking of Henry’s murder, I know the police have Roy Searle in custody. I saw it in the local news. They said he was helping them with their inquiries.”

Dan mentally squirmed at the mention of the man’s name. He tried to hide his reaction behind his mug as he took a long drink of tea, but Alan knew him too well to be fooled.

“What is it?” Alan asked. “What’s on your mind?”

“He knows Searle’s game,” Marjorie stated. “Knows all about it.”

Alan’s gaze darted between the pair of them. “You’re an unlikely couple of conspirators. Come on, what do you two know that I don’t?”

“He knows about Searle sneaking around and spying on folk,” Marjorie replied. “He always was a nasty little sneak, going around the place with his camera, poking it where it don’t belong. Birdwatching? My eye.”

“I’m lost,” Alan admitted. “What has he been up to, and how do you know about it?”

“Sam told me this morning,” Dan said, and he related Sam’s account of Searle’s activities.

Alan was speechless, his lips twisted in distaste and his eyes cold.

“I didn’t know the police had got him, but I’m glad to hear it,” Marjorie stated. “It’s about time he was dealt with, but I’ll tell you something else—Roy Searle didn’t kill Henry. He hasn’t the guts for it. I’ve known that man since he was a nipper, and he might be sly, but he’s got no backbone. He could never take on a man like Henry Doubleday. He’d be too busy bowing and scraping, doffing his cap.”

“He could’ve taken Henry by surprise,” Alan said. “It doesn’t take much courage to sneak up on someone when their back is turned, and you said Roy is sly.”

Marjorie shook her head firmly. “Never in a million years. I can never look at Roy Searle without seeing how he was back then. He was always howling, running home to his mum every time things didn’t go his way.”

“You mean he was bullied,” Alan suggested.

Marjorie pulled a face. “No. He’d cry over nothing. He only had to fall over, and he’d be wailing and complaining about a little scratch or a graze on his knee. He couldn’t stand the sight of blood. He’d fall down in a faint. The other lads put up with him for a while, but they got bored with him in the end, told him to play elsewhere.”

“I almost feel sorry for him,” Alan replied. “I’ve known children who faint easily, and the fear of blood can be very real. Maybe his unhappy childhood led to⁠—”

“I don’t know about that,” Marjorie interrupted. “But I reckon young Searle played up to it. One minute you’d think he was at death’s door, but once his mum had made a fuss and given him a handful of sweeties, he’d be happy as Larry.”

“So, as a child, he was a loner,” Dan said. “The boys rejected him, and I’m willing to bet the girls didn’t take to him either.”

“Happen you’re right.”

“How did you guess that?” Alan asked Dan. “You’ve never met him, have you?”

“No, but I came across his handiwork only yesterday. I haven’t seen you since then, Alan. You haven’t been answering your phone. I left a voicemail.”

Alan looked bashful. “I’ve been spending time with Natalya.”

“Okay, well I’d better fill you in. You’ll have heard Roy Searle was on the run, but the police didn’t release the fact that he stole a car from a man called Brad Higgs. Searle’s his gardener. Unfortunately, Searle was seen by Higgs’ cleaner, Julie Robbins. She’s Kayleigh’s younger sister.”

“What happened?” Alan asked, his voice faint.

“She’s okay,” Dan replied. “She didn’t seem to be hurt, but she was very upset. Presumably, Searle wanted to stop her from raising the alarm, so he locked her in a shed at the bottom of the garden and left her there.”

Marjorie scowled. “That’s sinful. Young Julie is as meek as a mouse. She must’ve been beside herself.”

“She was,” Dan replied. “She’s at home now. DI Spiller got to her first. He was there looking for Searle. I think I turned up just after he’d arrived. Brad Higgs had come to me for help. He thought his car had been taken by locals—people who were trying to harass him.”

Alan stared at Dan in dismay. “What? He was more worried about his car than the young woman who was locked in his shed?”

“He didn’t know she was there. I don’t think Julie was able to shout for help. She was too traumatised.”

“Oh my God,” Alan murmured. “This is horrendous.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I picked the wrong time to be away, didn’t I? I should’ve been there to help.”

“Not at all,” Dan replied. “You don’t owe me anything. Besides, you’re here now, so we can put our heads together. Maybe we can help Marjorie by sorting out this Hugh character.”

He smiled at Marjorie but it was not returned.

“It’s Mrs Treave to you,” she said. “And never mind about Hugh for a minute. You’d better do something about Roy Searle. The police have the wrong man. Roy Searle didn’t kill Henry. It’s not possible.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Dan replied. “He must be guilty of something, otherwise why did he run?”

Alan nodded. “I agree with Dan. Searle is the obvious suspect. He worked for Henry, so he might easily have fallen out with him. It’s not hard to see how one thing could’ve led to another.”

“That’s all very well,” Marjorie said. “But just because the cat has kittens in the oven, it doesn’t make ‘em currant buns.”

Dan wasn’t sure how to react to this, and from the look on his face, neither was Alan.

Marjorie tapped the table firmly with her finger. “Innocent until proven guilty, that’s what the law says. You know that well enough, Alan Hargreaves. Wasn’t it you helping the police with their inquiries a few years back?”

Alan nodded unhappily. “I take your point, but what can we do about it? We don’t have another suspect, do we?”

“Not at the moment.” Dan examined Marjorie’s expression and saw absolute conviction in the set of her jaw, the glint in her eye. Marjorie could be wrong, but she’d known Searle for a long time.

Marjorie Treave is nobody’s fool, Dan thought. Who am I to ignore her intuition?

“Okay,” Dan said. “I’ll take what you’ve said on board, Marj— I mean, Mrs Treave.”

Alan was about to argue, so Dan quickly added, “Let’s go with it for the moment. If Searle isn’t the killer, why did he run? What else has he been up to?”

“Well, there’s this allegation that he spied on people,” Alan replied. “But that doesn’t get us anywhere. If Henry found out about it, he could’ve threatened to expose him, so Searle killed Henry to keep him quiet.”

Dan nodded. “That possibility had occurred to me, and it could fit in with something I saw yesterday. While I was in Higgs’ garden, I found the remains of a bonfire. Searle had burned some papers before he stole the car and took off. I showed the ashes to DI Spiller, but he didn’t seem to take much interest. To my mind, that was a mistake.”

“I see what you’re getting at,” Alan replied. “Whatever he’d burned, it must’ve been incriminating in some way. Could you make out anything from the ashes?”

“Not really. I could tell it was paper, but beyond that, I couldn’t say.”

The three of them sat quietly. Marjorie sipped her tea. Putting down her cup, she said, “It’s a small village, but ‘tis strange how one thing can get all tangled around another.”

Dan shot her a look. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t bother saying before, because it’s neither here nor there, but I was in the shop this morning, and I ran into Emma Parkhurst.” Marjorie’s eyebrows flicked upward. “Oh, she can talk. I couldn’t get away. But she did tell me one thing I didn’t know already. She told me who’s been stepping out with Hugh.”

“Go on,” Alan said. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“As a rule, I never repeat gossip,” Marjorie replied. “It never does any good, and half the time somebody’s got the wrong end of the stick in the first place.”

Alan gestured for her to continue.

“Well, I reckoned Hugh must’ve been chatting up some young woman from the village, but it wasn’t.” She sent them a meaningful look.

“Do you mean it was another man?” Dan asked.

“No, don’t be so dense, Daniel Corrigan. I meant she isn’t young.” Marjorie paused as if enjoying the moment, then she said, “Hugh has been stepping out with a lady old enough to know better—Julie’s mum, no less. He’s been tilting his cap at Penny Robbins.”

CHAPTER 51

Spiller expected to find Roy Searle slumped in his seat, sullen and dejected, but the reverse was true.

Searle was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and trousers, his clothes having been taken for forensic examination, but he seemed undaunted. Searle was perching on the edge of his plastic chair, leaning forward with his forearms on the table, his head erect and his expression eager. He made to stand when Spiller and Collins approached, as if he might be expected to shake hands, but Spiller waved him back into his seat.

“All right, Mr Searle,” Spiller said as he and Collins took their places. “Let’s get started.”

Spiller placed a cardboard file stuffed with papers in front of him but left it unopened. It was the oldest trick in the book, but Searle’s gaze remained on Spiller; it did not waver toward the file on the table, not even for an instant.

Here we go, Spiller thought, and keeping his tone friendly, he began.

“So, Mr Searle, how are you feeling after your accident?”

“Fine,” Searle replied. “I… I don’t know what happened. It was like this fog came over me, you know?”

“Save your explanations for the recording,” Spiller replied. “DS Collins, will you do the honours?”

“Yes, sir.”

Collins began the recording and set up his tablet, but Spiller focused his attention on Searle. The man was nervous, certainly, but there was something else, something that gave Spiller pause.

He’s excited, Spiller decided. He’s like a kid in a toyshop.

Maintaining a stony expression, Spiller recited the standard caution and confirmed that Searle had declined the offer of legal counsel.

“It’s all right,” Searle said. “I haven’t done nothing, so…”

“So…?” Spiller prompted.

“So I ain’t got nothing to worry about, have I?”

Spiller fixed him with a stern look. “Mr Searle, you do understand that you were arrested on suspicion of murder, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but that’s…” He held out his arms, his palms facing upward. “That’s just a load of old bollocks, isn’t it?”

“I can assure you that we’re deadly serious,” Spiller said. “Where were you on Monday evening?”

“I had tea with my dad, then I went out for a walk.”

“On your own?”

“Yeah. It suits me.”

I’ll bet it does, Spiller thought.

Picking his moment to chip in, Collins asked, “Where did you go?”

“Out and about. Through the village and back.”

Collins nodded, smiling as though Searle’s explanation made perfect sense. “On foot?”

“Yeah, otherwise it wouldn’t be a walk, would it?”

“True enough,” Spiller said. “But the reason my colleague asked is that your dad says you took your van—a Ford transit.”

“Nope. He got it wrong, but it’s not his fault. He didn’t see me go. He doesn’t get out.”

“That would explain it,” Spiller replied. “Your dad also told us you went out birdwatching that evening. He was very specific about it.”

“Well, yeah, I do a bit of that.”

“Me too.” Spiller left a pause to let his words sink in.

Searle didn’t react much, but there was a tightening of the skin around his eyes.

“I saw an Emberiza cirlus the other day,” Spiller went on. “I was chuffed to bits.”

“A what?”

Spiller furrowed his brow. “Surely you’ve heard of the cirl bunting.”

“Oh yeah. No. You see, I don’t know all those fancy Latin names. I only know the common ones.”

“Ah.” Spiller turned to Collins. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe there were any binoculars among Roy Searle’s possessions.”

Collins checked his tablet, although Spiller was certain he didn’t need to.

When Collins looked up, his expression was grave. “No, sir. No binoculars or telescope, no books or magazines about birds. Nothing like that.”

“I don’t go in for all the fancy gear,” Searle blurted. “You see them blokes all dressed in camouflage and that. That’s not me. I go for a walk and look around, listen to the birds singing. That’s all.”

“I see,” Spiller replied. “And when you went for a walk on Saturday, did you take your phone with you?”

Searle pushed out his lower lip. “Probably. I’m not sure.”

“Seems to me that you’d know,” Collins said. “What if your dad had needed you? What if he’d fallen over and couldn’t get up?”

“Yeah, I usually have my phone in my pocket, but I might’ve left it at home. I can’t remember. Why do you want to know?”

Spiller waved his question away. “Don’t worry about it, Mr Searle. Our technical people are working on your phone. They’ll soon tell us where it’s been.” He sent Searle an affable grin. “I understand you’ve forgotten the PIN to unlock it, is that right?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“If I had a pound for every person who sat there and spun me that line, I’d be a rich man, Mr Searle. But do you know what? It doesn’t matter. It takes our people a matter of minutes to get into any phone. You wouldn’t believe the stuff they can drag up. You might’ve thought you deleted something ages ago, but they’ll find it just like that.” Spiller snapped his fingers, and Searle flinched.

Timing it nicely, Collins jumped in again: “Do you ever go birdwatching or walking in the old quarry in Embervale?”

“Not really, no.”

Collins looked puzzled. “Which is it, not really or no?”

“No, I don’t go there.”

“You can’t expect me to believe that,” Collins said. “It’s a nature reserve. It’s the obvious place for a birdwatcher to go.”

“Well, I might’ve been there a long time ago, but not for ages. I don’t like it.”

Spiller tutted. “If that’s true, how do you account for the leaf in your overalls? It comes from the toadflax-leaved St-John’s wort. Not a common plant, but it grows in the old quarry.”

Searle had the temerity to shrug. “I don’t know about a leaf. I get all sorts of muck on my overalls. I work on farms and gardens. There’s all kinds of weeds and such to deal with. It must’ve been in somebody’s garden or by one of the hedges on the farm.”

Spiller and Collins exchanged a look, and the unspoken message passed between them: Enough beating around the bush. Time to get serious.

Sitting a little more upright, Spiller said, “Mr Searle, you killed Henry Doubleday, didn’t you?”

“No. I told you before. I wouldn’t have done anything to Mr Doubleday. He was a good bloke. He gave me a job when no other bugger would.”

“Why’s that?” Collins said. “Why wouldn’t anybody else employ you?”

“You know why.” Searle bowed his head and lowered his gaze. “On account of the shoplifting.”

“But that’s not true,” Spiller stated.

Searle looked up, but he didn’t speak.

“This won’t do,” Spiller went on. “You were already working for Henry when you were arrested for shoplifting.”

“Yeah, well, what I meant was, he could’ve given me the sack, but he didn’t. He reckoned people ought to have a second chance.”

Collins cleared his throat. “And a third, and a fourth. You never seem to learn, do you, Mr Searle? Three times you were charged and taken to court. Three.”

“I was having trouble looking after my dad. It was stress, the doctor said. I used to get all dizzy, like, and I didn’t know what I was doing. It was the same with that car. I reckon it was hearing about Mr Doubleday—it set me off.”

“Oh dear,” Spiller said. “I’m sorry to hear that. But you seem okay now, is that right?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“So you took a car from Mr Higgs, a very expensive car at that, because you were upset about the death of your employer, is that what you’re claiming?”

“Yeah. No. Not exactly.”

Spiller feigned a moment of confusion. “What then? Why did you steal a car and run away?”

“I panicked. I heard about Mr Doubleday, and I… I knew you’d blame me. I knew it wouldn’t take you long to see I’ve been in trouble, and then you’d come straight to me. And I was right, wasn’t I?” He held out his hands and let them flop back to the table. “Here I am.”

“Here you are,” Spiller said. “And with good reason. But before you stole Mr Higgs’ car, you started a bonfire in his garden. What were you burning?”

“Nothing.”

“Remember, we have your clothes, Mr Searle. We’ll soon know if you’ve been⁠—”

“It was garden rubbish,” Searle interrupted. “I’d forgotten all about it, but there were a few weeds and that. I was burning them up.”

“There was paper in the fire.”

Searle nodded. “I used a bit of paper to start it. Old newspaper. It was in the shed.”

“So let me get this right,” Spiller said. “You were panicking, and you wanted to run away, but before you did that, you stopped to burn a few weeds.”

“No. I started the fire the day before. With the green stuff, you stack it up, let it smoulder. Once you get a bit of heat in there, it can go for days.”

Spiller raised his eyebrows as though impressed. “The day before? That means you started the fire on Monday—a bank holiday. Do you normally work on public holidays?”

“No, but Mr Higgs called me up about the graffiti, so I went over to clean it up. He offered me cash, so I went as soon as I could. But listen, I—” He broke off and looked bewildered, scratching at the stubble on his cheeks with both hands before wiping his hands over his face.

“Are you all right?” Spiller asked.

“Yeah. But I want to say something. When you told me Henry was… he was dead, I couldn’t believe it. Now, you’re trying to blame me for it, but I didn’t do it.”

A spark flared in Spiller’s mind. An inconsistency: that’s what this game was all about.

Spiller raised his hand. “Let me stop you there, Roy. You just said that we told you about Henry’s death, yes?”

Searle nodded, his gaze wary.

“But you also said you were worried about being blamed, and that’s why you ran away,” Spiller went on. “Both can’t be true. We didn’t speak to you until after you’d crashed Mr Higgs’ car.”

“Yeah, but…” Searle ran his tongue over his lips. “You see, I didn’t know he was dead, but I knew he was missing. Mrs Doubleday told me when I went to work. And then I saw all the police cars and that, so I put two and two together. Like I said, I wasn’t thinking straight, but I never hurt Mr Doubleday. I ain’t done nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say you’ve done nothing,” Spiller replied. “Taking a vehicle without the owner’s consent is going to land you in trouble, but what you did to Julie Robbins? Well, that’s much more serious. It’s in a different league. There’s a whole string of offences we can charge you with for that. Isn’t that right, DS Collins?”

“It is, sir. I can think of three or four off the top of my head, but we’ll see what the CPS say.”

Spiller nodded wisely. For Searle’s benefit, he said, “That’s the Crown Prosecution Service. They’ll determine which charges you’ll face when you go to court. And you will be going to court, Mr Searle, even if you try to claim diminished responsibility. You’ve committed a number of serious crimes, and you’ll be sentenced accordingly. This is not something you can wriggle out of, not this time.”

Searle stared back at him in silence, stony faced.

So that’s the way you want to play it, Spiller thought. We’ll soon see about that.

“You’ve been working for Mr Higgs for a while, so you knew all about Julie, didn’t you?”

Searle’s expression went blank as though he was about to deny all knowledge, so Spiller added, “You both work for Mr Higgs, and you both live in Embervale, so you must’ve been aware of her. You do know Julie, don’t you, Roy?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“What does that mean?” Collins demanded. “How can you sort of know someone?”

Searle raised his hands. “Take it easy. I know her name, that’s all. She does the cleaning and that for Mr Higgs. Sometimes I see her through the window.”

“Is that what happened yesterday?” Spiller asked. “You saw Julie and decided to go in and grab her.”

“No, it wasn’t like that.” Searle ran a hand over his mouth. “Can I have a glass of water?”

Spiller nodded. “Soon. But tell me first what happened with Julie.”

“I don’t know. I…”

“You don’t know?” Spiller stared at Searle. “Forgive me if I sound incredulous, Roy, but you know exactly what happened. And so does Julie—she gave us a full and clear account.”

Searle chewed on his bottom lip.

“I can see that’s a surprise to you, Roy,” Spiller went on. “Did you think Julie was too timid to speak to us? Or maybe you thought you’d put the fear of God into her, is that it? Did you threaten her with all kinds of punishment if she dared to speak up, Roy?”

“No. I… I already told you, I wasn’t myself.” Searle shook his head in sorrow. “I wanted the car keys, that’s all. I didn’t hurt her. I never laid a finger on her.”

“So she just popped into the shed of her own accord,” Collins said.

“No.” Searle hesitated. “I told her somebody bad was coming to the house. I told her she had to get out of the house and hide. She came with me, and she walked into that shed.”

“And having terrified a vulnerable young woman out of her wits, you locked her in,” Spiller stated.

Searle nodded.

“What’s that, Roy?” Collins said. “Are you nodding to say yes?”

“Yes. I locked her in. It was the only way to keep her from making a fuss.”

Now we’re getting somewhere, Spiller thought. He opened the cardboard file and flicked through a few sheets of paper until he found what he was looking for. Looking up, he said, “You worked for Henry for just over five years. But you weren’t very well paid as a farm labourer, were you?”

Searle blinked, frowning. “I didn’t get a lot, but it was all right. I was glad to have it.”

“I bet you had to work hard for it,” Spiller suggested.

“Oh yeah. It was hard work right enough.”

“Rather you than me,” Collins said. “All that shovelling and lifting, outside in all weathers, all year round.”

Searle bowed his head in acknowledgement.

“Could you respond verbally for the recording, please?” Spiller asked.

“Yeah, only it wasn’t really a question, was it?”

And there it is, Spiller thought. He’s just tipped his hand. Inadvertently or not, Searle had just shown he wasn’t as stupid as he made out. They’d pushed him until he’d challenged them openly. He knew the game and was ready to play.

Spiller was itching to glance at Collins to see if they were on the same page, but he daren’t risk giving anything away, not when Searle’s sharp eyes were so intently focused on him.

“Let me rephrase,” Collins said. “You worked hard for Henry, but you weren’t paid much for it, so that was enough to make you feel resentful, wasn’t it?”

Searle’s eyes dulled. “I don’t really understand. I’m sorry, but all these long words…” he offered an apologetic shrug. “I was never any good at school.”

“We’ll look into that,” Spiller replied.

“What do you mean?”

Spiller smiled. “We’ll have a look at your school records. We’re looking into every aspect of your life, Mr Searle. We have a team of police officers upstairs doing just that. By the end of today, we’ll know all there is to know about you, Mr Searle. I’m running a murder investigation. There isn’t much I can’t do.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t done anything.”

“Then you’d better answer my question,” Collins said. “Did you resent the low wages paid to you by Henry Doubleday?”

“No.”

Spiller shook his head in disbelief. “Come on, Roy. It is all right if I call you Roy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I suppose so, but I’ve given you my answer. I liked Mr Doubleday. He was a good man.”

“That didn’t stop you from hitting him,” Collins shot back. “You held a grudge, Roy. He paid you next to nothing, and you hated him for it.”

Without giving Searle a chance to respond, Spiller said, “He lorded it over you, didn’t he? Even now, you refer to him as Mr Doubleday. You weren’t allowed to call him Henry, were you? He was the master, and you were just the bloke who shovelled up the muck.”

“No.” Searle shook his head rapidly. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

“I think not,” Spiller stated. “How often did you work at Henry’s farm?”

“Five days a week, just in the mornings. I do a few hours, then I go home.”

“You don’t go back in the evening?” Spiller asked.

“No. Why would I?”

Spiller furrowed his brow as though thinking. “Feed the llamas, round them up into a barn, clean the yard.”

“No. I do everything in the morning, then the animals fend for themselves. There was always more work when we had the beef cattle, but that was only once in a while. It’s only a small farm. If there was a problem during the day, Mr Doubleday sorted it out. I don’t know what’ll happen to the place now.”

“His wife might keep it going,” Spiller suggested.

Searle looked doubtful.

According to Anisha, Jean Doubleday thought little of Searle, and that gave Spiller another thread on which to pull. “Did you get on with Mrs Doubleday, Roy?”

“I didn’t see her much. She used to go off in that Jeep of hers.”

“You haven’t answered the question,” Spiller pointed out. “Do you get on well with Mrs Doubleday or not?”

Searle pulled a face. “She had no time for me or for the farm. She owns the place, but you wouldn’t know it. She doesn’t have hardly anything to do with it.”

“Really?” Recalling Jean’s healthy complexion, Spiller said, “She looks like an outdoorsy sort of person to me.”

“She’s got a horse she takes out, and she goes to Foxlake.” Searle spoke the last few words with undisguised contempt.

“The leisure park?” Spiller asked. “What does she do there?”

Searle shrugged. “There’s all sorts. Swimming, tennis, I dunno.”

Changing tack, Spiller said, “What about Henry’s son, Liam, did you get on with him?”

Searle’s dismissive scowl spoke volumes. “I haven’t laid eyes on him for years, and I don’t want to.”

“Why’s that?”

“They didn’t get on, him and Mr Doubleday. The kid was a waste of space. He wouldn’t know one end of a cow from t’other.”

“We’re not all sons of the soil,” Spiller stated. “But Liam might have to learn fast. He’s not going to leave his old mum running the farm, is he? He might be your new boss.”

“As if.” Searle let out a derisive chuckle. “People like him… they don’t make farmers.”

“How would you know?” Collins asked. “You said you haven’t seen him for years.”

“Well, it’s common knowledge. He’s…” Searle’s lips curled into a sneer. “He lives with a man. He’s one of those types.”

“You mean he’s gay,” Collins suggested.

“That’s what they call it these days, isn’t it? Mr Doubleday didn’t agree with all that. He didn’t want anything to do with that son of his. They didn’t speak.”

“That’s a pity,” Spiller said. “But let’s get back to Henry. When did you last see him?”

“Friday morning. It would’ve been about twelve. It was just before I went home for my dinner.”

“How did he seem?”

Searle puffed out his cheeks, his stare seeming wilfully vacant.

Spiller let the silence hang in the air, until finally, Searle said, “I don’t know, do I? I’m not a mind reader.”

“No, but you can give us your impression.”

“He looked all right to me. He didn’t say much, but that’s how he is… how he was.”

“What did you talk about?” Collins asked.

“The animals. He asked if they were all okay. One of the llamas had been looking a bit rough, but I told him it had perked up, so there was nothing to worry about.”

“The big barn,” Spiller said. “What do you do in there?”

“Not much. We keep most of the machines in there. I’m mainly out in the fields.”

“And the yard,” Spiller suggested.

“Yeah.”

Spiller sat back, making an effort to look relaxed as though he were happy to take all day. He stared at Searle steadily for a full thirty seconds, and it seemed to work. Searle started to fidget, shifting his position, his fingers twitching.

Making his tone quietly authoritative, Spiller said, “You cleaned that yard very thoroughly, Roy. Part of it, anyway. You did the same in the big barn. You cleaned a large patch of the floor. Why did you do that?”

Searle shook his head, and Spiller made a show of exchanging a look with Collins.

“Well, well,” Spiller said. “What do you think of that, DS Collins?”

Collins focused his attention on Searle as he replied. “It’s very disappointing, sir. I thought we’d made it plain to Mr Searle that he has to answer verbally.”

“As did I. I’m sure Mr Searle can do better than that, but perhaps he thinks this is a game. Perhaps he thinks he can mess us about. Is that right, Mr Searle?”

The two policemen stared at Searle expectantly.

“No, I just forgot,” Searle protested. “I didn’t mean nothing by it. I’ll try and remember—I have to say everything out loud.”

“Yes please,” Spiller replied. “So why did you clean the farmyard and the barn on Monday?”

“I didn’t, not that day. I wasn’t even there. It was a bank holiday. I had the day off.”

“Not that day,” Spiller parroted. “So when did you clean it?”

“The week before. Last Monday. I gave it a scrape, hosed it down a bit, but it wasn’t too bad. It didn’t take long.” Searle scrunched up his features as though perplexed. “I know what you mean though. It was clean yesterday. I saw it when I went to work, but I don’t know who did it and I don’t know why.”

“That’s not true though, is it?” Spiller said. “You cleaned the yard because that’s where you killed Henry.”

“No, I never. I didn’t touch… I didn’t hurt him. Never.”

Spiller latched on to that self-correction and leaned forward. “So it was an accident. Is that what you’re saying?”

“No. I got confused. It’s all these questions, I can’t keep up. But if somebody killed him like you say, it wasn’t me. I don’t know anything about it.”

“There’s a drum of a chemical called Maxi-Clean at the farm,” Spiller said. “We’ve found it on the overalls we took from your house.”

“You’ve been to my house?”

“Naturally. We had a search warrant. We’ve been through the whole place with a fine-toothed comb.”

“But my dad… He wouldn’t like that. He’s not well.”

“Your father was looked after,” Spiller replied. “Though I’m not sure how he’ll cope when you get sent to prison for twenty years or so.”

Searle’s shoulders slumped, his earlier confidence apparently waning.

“Back to the Maxi-Clean on your overalls,” Spiller said. “How do you account for that?”

“I told you, I cleaned the yard last week. I used a bit of that stuff when I hosed it down. I wouldn’t have bothered, but it’s how Mr Doubleday liked it.”

“You used more than a bit,” Collins pointed out. “The place reeked of the stuff.”

“That wasn’t me. I hardly took any. Mr Doubleday didn’t like waste.”

“But you knew he was dead,” Spiller said. “So you sloshed the stuff all over.”

“No. How many times…?”

“As many as it takes,” Spiller replied. “You thought you could wash away any evidence, so you went overboard. You finished off the whole drum of Maxi-Clean and went to town.”

Searle almost laughed. “What are you on about? It was three-quarters full, maybe more.”

“Not when we found it,” Spiller stated. “When you use the Maxi-Clean, do you wear gloves?”

“Yeah. You have to. Health and safety.”

“Where are they?”

“The gloves? They’ll be where I left them. There’s a big old toolbox in the barn—like a metal chest of drawers. I keep them in there. Those gloves are heavy-duty. Expensive. Mr Doubleday said I had to look after them.”

“We’ve been through the tool cabinet,” Collins said. “The gloves weren’t there.”

“Did you check the bottom drawer?”

Spiller nodded. “We did. It was empty. So I ask you again, Roy, where are the gloves?”

Searle leaned forward. “And I’ll say it again, I left them in the toolbox. Bottom drawer. If they’re not there, I don’t bloody well know where they are.”

“Mind your language,” Spiller shot back. “This recording could be played back in court.”

Searle muttered something under his breath.

“What was that, Roy?” Collins asked. “Speak up, please.”

“I said, this is madness. It’s plain wrong.”

“Oh, there’s something wrong here,” Spiller replied. “Very wrong. People who’ve done nothing—innocent people—they don’t steal cars and try to run away. They don’t force young women into sheds and lock them up. So I don’t buy any of this nonsense about you panicking or getting confused. It’s a pack of lies, isn’t it Roy? The only truth here is that you killed your employer, Henry Doubleday, a man who’d been good to you. You killed him, shoved him in his car and drove up to a remote lane where you dumped him by the side of the road.”

“No.” Searle’s expression crumpled. “That ain’t right.” His voice faltered, growing ever more faint as he went on, almost as if he was unaware of where he was and who was listening. “They didn’t ought to have left him like that. It ain’t right at all. The poor old chap…”

Searle seemed to be blinking back tears, and Spiller didn’t know whether to hand him a tissue or stand up and give him a round of applause.

Give the man an Oscar, Spiller thought, and glancing at Collins, he saw that his colleague was similarly unmoved.

For a few seconds nobody spoke, then Collins broke the silence.

“Do you want some water, Roy? A cup of tea?”

Searle nodded. “Tea, please. Milk and sugar.”

Collins sent an inquiring look to his boss.

“We’ll take a break for a few minutes,” Spiller said. “Someone will get you a drink, and you can have a comfort break.”

“A what?” Searle looked genuinely puzzled.

“He means you can go to the loo,” Collins explained. “Freshen yourself up.”

“Right.” Searle hesitated. “What you said before about a solicitor. Can I still do that?”

“Of course,” Spiller replied. “It’s your right to have a solicitor present whenever we talk to you.”

“Okay, then I’d like to take you up on it, please. I’d like a solicitor.”

Spiller hid his frustration behind a tight smile. The man was playing for time, doing his best to stall the process. Perhaps Searle thought he’d lost round one and was determined to do better in round two. Either way, there was nothing Spiller could do about it.

“Do you have a solicitor you’d like to call?” Spiller asked.

“No. Before, when I had that trouble, there was a what-do-you-call-it… a duty solicitor.”

“That’s right. I can arrange that for you, but it might take some time, and while you wait, you will remain in custody. Is that all clear to you?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Spiller terminated the interview, and as soon as Collins had stopped the recording, the two policemen exited the room, leaving Searle sitting alone, staring into space.

Spiller and Collins marched along the corridor as if anxious to put some distance between themselves and Roy Searle.

Before leaving the custody suite, Spiller spoke to the custody sergeant, making arrangements for a solicitor to call on Searle. That done, they made for the stairs, heading back to their desks.

Along the way, Collins said, “We never got him his tea.”

“I know,” Spiller replied. “He can wait until they do the rounds. Leave him to stew in his cell for a while. Give him a taste of his own medicine.”

“Fair enough. I didn’t know you were into birdwatching, Guv. You kept that quiet.”

“That’s because I’m not. I heard about the cirl bunting on the news. They’re endangered in this country, but we get them in Devon. A few years ago, there was a campaign to look out for them.”

“Must’ve been on Radio 4,” Collins muttered.

“Yes, it was.” Spiller feigned surprise. “Did it not get a mention on TalkSPORT?”

“No, it did not. But what gets me is how you remembered the Latin name. All that stuff goes over my head.”

“I’m good with words,” Spiller replied. “Anyway, Searle’s lack of birding credibility aside, what do you make of him?”

Collins thought for a second. “He’s either very stupid, or he’s smart enough to know we haven’t got enough to charge him with murder.”

“Agreed. He’s been here before, and he knows about the custody clock. He must also know we’re going to get him for unlawful imprisonment and for taking and driving away. But do you know what gets under my skin? He never once asked about Julie. He has no remorse whatsoever for what he put that young woman through. She was in the way of his plans, so he chucked her in the shed like she was no more than a dumb animal.”

Colins nodded. “Sociopathic tendencies, do you reckon?”

“I prefer the term evil sod, but one thing I do know. Anybody who can treat another human being like that and show no remorse is capable of murder. Unfortunately, there’s a fly in the ointment.”

Collins sent him a sideways glance. “The gloves?”

“That’s right, Collins. If he’s disposed of the gloves, why did he tell us where they were kept?”

“I wondered about that, but it’s a bluff, isn’t it? He wanted it on the record so his brief can bring it up in court, sow a seed of doubt.”

“That’s one possible explanation, and if that’s what he’s up to, I don’t like it. To all outward appearances, we’ve got a man who doesn’t know what a comfort break is, a man who tries to walk out of a shop with security-tagged meat in his pockets, and that’s all a jury will see. He’s not half as daft as he makes out, and there’s no way he’s going to confess. But we’ll carry on as before, gathering evidence, building a case. Bit by bit, we’ll get him.”

CHAPTER 52

After Marjorie had left, Alan cleared the table while Dan sat for a moment, thinking.

“That was a turn up,” Alan said. “Marjorie certainly knows how to stir the pot.”

His train of thought abruptly derailed, Dan looked at the teapot in Alan’s hand and was momentarily confused.

“I’m talking about Hugh and Penny Robbins,” Alan went on. “I wonder what Kayleigh thinks about her mum stepping out with another man. Do you think she knows?”

“I have no idea,” Dan replied. “But that’s the second time Penny’s name has come up this morning.” He hesitated. “When I went to see Sam, Kayleigh was there. She’s pregnant.”

“Kayleigh?”

“Yes. She has a boyfriend, apparently, but it looks as though her pregnancy was unplanned. Kayleigh isn’t coping too well. She ran out of the room, and when Sam found her, she said the poor thing was distraught.”

Alan was an open book at the best of times, and Dan could see his thoughts clicking into place, one by one.

“So Kayleigh is the nocturnal visitor to the graveyard?”

“She might be. The place is significant for her. Kayleigh’s older sister died six years ago, and she was buried in the graveyard. She was only thirteen.”

“Oh no.”

The silence in the kitchen was complete. Bereft, Alan looked at the teapot as though he’d forgotten why he was holding it. Turning his back on Dan, he placed the pot down and gripped the counter with both hands as if to steady himself.

Maybe I shouldn’t have told him, Dan thought. It was always distressing to hear of a young life taken far too soon, but he ought to have known that Alan would take it especially hard: deep down, he was still a teacher.

“Sorry to spring that on you,” Dan said. “I knew you’d find out sooner otherwise later, so…”

Alan cleared his throat and turned back to face him. “It’s all right. It took me by surprise, that’s all. I was thinking about Kayleigh’s family and what they must’ve been through, what they must still be living with.”

“It must be very hard for them. And since Penny seems to have been targeted by Hugh, we’ll have to tread very carefully if we’re going to go after him. I suspect that Hugh is one of those predatory people who sniff out vulnerable people. He tells them what they want to hear, and then he takes advantage of them. We can’t have that. But there’s a bigger problem. If Marjorie is right about Roy Searle, Henry’s murderer is walking free. And while the police have Searle, they’re not going to go looking for the real culprit.”

Dan watched Alan, waiting for his reaction, but Alan said nothing.

“Aren’t you going to tell me to leave it to the police?” Dan asked.

“Not this time. I say we go for it. We know this village, and we’re in the right place to kick over a few stones and see what’s lurking beneath. So long as we don’t hamper the police, what harm can it do?”

“Good, because I know exactly where we’re going to start.”

“I thought you might,” Alan said. “You have that look in your eye, like a gun dog that’s just caught the scent of a pheasant.”

“I’m not sure how to take that.”

“As a compliment, but are you going to share the plan? Because if not, I’ve got some washing up to do.”

“All right,” Dan replied. “When it comes to Henry’s murder, what’s the one clue that nobody’s talking about?”

“Apart from the burnt paper?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know,” Alan admitted. “Enlighten me.”

“On the night Henry was killed, we were in the pub when Simon Bellamy arrived. He was looking freshly scrubbed, and he had a scratch on his head.”

“A scratch he didn’t want us to see,” Alan replied. “You’re right. With one thing and another, I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Me too, but it’s time to put that right. When you’re ready, we need to talk to Simon Bellamy.”

* * *

Chudleigh Town Hall was close to a small Co-op supermarket, so Dan had often driven past the place when he’d been shopping for essential groceries. But he’d never walked up to the hall’s front door until today.

The sturdy building of grey stone was bathed in the afternoon sun, its sash windows catching the light. At first sight it seemed like a welcoming place, but Dan halted when he saw the pair of police cars parked on the paved area nearby.

Following Dan’s gaze, Alan said, “It’s all right. There’s often a couple of police vehicles there. It’s somewhere to keep them, I suppose. There’s no police station in Chudleigh—not now.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Dan replied. “For a minute, I thought we were too late.”

Alan raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think Simon Bellamy is dangerous, do you?”

“I really don’t know.”

Alan checked his watch. “The meeting should be finishing soon, but we don’t have to go in. There’s still time for a change of plan.”

“We’re not doing anything wrong, Alan. We’re waiting until the end. It’s not like we’re going to barge in while they’re in the middle of their prayers.”

“I should hope not, but even so…” He left his sentence unfinished as he glanced up and down the street as though expecting trouble to arrive at any moment.

“Relax,” Dan said. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I’m not so sure. We could try another way of speaking to Bellamy.”

“Such as what? We don’t have a number for him, and we can’t go bothering the Southgates. This is the easiest way, and it was your idea. You’re the one who found his schedule online.”

“Yes, and I wish I hadn’t. Let’s walk away before it’s too late. There’s a nice cafe along the road. They make a good cup of coffee.”

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Dan replied.

Alan brightened considerably. “Let’s go. My treat.”

“No, I meant we could offer to take Bellamy for coffee, butter him up with a slice of cake.”

“Oh, I see. That’s a reasonable compromise, I suppose, but it’s an awful metaphor.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Dan muttered. “Shall we wait in the lobby or are you okay out here?”

“Here is fine. There’s less likely to be a scene.”

I’m not going to cause a scene, Dan thought, but he kept his protest to himself. Sometimes it was best to let Alan have the last word.

“It sounds as though someone’s coming out,” Alan said. “This might be them.”

“You’re right. Battle stations.”

Alan cast him an admonishing look, then he stepped away from the doorway, waiting, his hands behind his back.

Dan joined him, and it wasn’t long before a small group of people exited the hall. Dan had expected all the attendees at the prayer meeting to be elderly, not least because it was held during the afternoon when many people would be at work, but there were adults of all ages. The only unifying characteristic was that they looked happy, chatting quietly among themselves as they made their way out into the sunshine.

One of the older gentlemen loitered on the pavement, turning his face upward to enjoy the warmth of the sun. After a moment, he noticed Dan and Alan. “Lovely afternoon,” he said. “Set fair for the rest of the week too.”

“Yes, it’s turning out to be a fine spring,” Alan replied.

“We’ll see. There can still be a frost.”

Alan seemed to look at the man anew. “Excuse me, but don’t I know you?”

The man chuckled. “That’s hard to say.”

“Sorry. What I meant to say was that I recognise you from the village. I live in Embervale.”

“Oh, in that case, you might be right. I’ve lived there for longer than I care to remember.”

Smiling, Alan made the introductions.

“Oh, that name rings a bell.” The man peered at Dan. “From The Old Shop? The private eye chap?”

“I’m a private investigator, yes,” Dan said. “And I live in The Old Shop. I’ve been there a few years now.”

“Ah, so you’re still new to the place. I used to buy my sweeties in that shop, ha’penny a bag. Seems like it was yesterday. I can remember reaching up to the counter, and the sound of the bell when you opened the door.”

“You should pop in one day,” Dan suggested. “See how it’s changed. I think the shop was in my front room, wasn’t it?”

“I reckon so. I suppose it’d seem very small now, but it was big enough for us. We didn’t need a blooming great supermarket. When my mum went shopping, she bought what we needed and carried it home in a basket.”

“Sounds idyllic,” Alan said.

The man simply nodded and gazed across the street at the Co-op.

“Are you going shopping?” Alan asked. “If you need a hand carrying anything back to your car, we’d be happy to help.”

“Bless you, but it’s all right. I’ve got a friend helping me out. He gave me a lift, as it happens. My old car hardly sees the light of day these days. I don’t like to drive, so I haven’t been to one of these prayer meetings for a very long time. It was Hugh’s idea. Get out of the village for a while, he said. I’ll get the shopping while you look after your… what did he call it? Mental wellbeing, that was it.”

Dan’s jaw tightened. “Hugh. So you’re Mr Marshall, is that right?”

“It is, but folks call me Charlie.”

Dan and Alan exchanged a look, but Charlie didn’t miss it.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Dan replied. “Hugh’s doing your shopping for you, is he?”

Charlie nodded slowly.

“And who’s paying for it?” Dan said.

“None of your business, but it’s for both of us, so I can’t expect him to pay for it all.”

Charlie’s voice had risen, his tone becoming indignant.

“It must seem like we’re being very nosy,” Alan said with a conciliatory smile. “We don’t mean to upset you, but you’re a neighbour, and we just wanted to check you’re okay.”

Dan nodded. “That’s right. You can’t be too careful. So I wonder, did you by any chance give Hugh your bank card?”

Charlie narrowed his eyes. “What are you getting at? Hugh lives under my roof. I can trust him to get a bit of shopping. He gives me the receipt.”

“I don’t doubt he gives you a receipt,” Dan replied. “But what if he bought two lots of shopping and kept the other receipt to himself? Or if he used the card to withdraw cash? You wouldn’t find out until you next check your bank statement, and how often do you do that?”

Doubt clouded Charlie’s expression, but Dan took no pleasure in seeing the sudden change in his demeanour. It was as though the light in Charlie’s eyes had suddenly blinked out, but this had to be done. It looked as though Marjorie’s predictions had been proved right; Charlie needed saving from himself.

“Is everything all right, Charlie?”

The voice had come from the village hall doorway, and all three of them turned to see Simon Bellamy on the threshold, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

“Yes thank you,” Charlie replied. “I was just chatting to these two chaps. They’re from Embervale too.”

“Oh yes, we’ve already met.” Bellamy focused his austere gaze on Dan and Alan. “If you’ve come for our prayer meeting, you’re rather late. But I’d never turn anyone away if they were searching for solace or even redemption. Is that why you’re here?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Dan replied. “I don’t think we’re in need of either.”

Bellamy’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We can all benefit from a few moments of reflection. The lessons from scripture are for everyone, but I have a particular reason, Mr Corrigan, for recommending them to⁠—”

Bellamy broke off suddenly, his gaze flitting sideways. “Who’s that?”

“Ah, this is the friend I was telling you about,” Charlie said. “Mr Bellamy, this is Hugh.”

Dan and Alan watched as Hugh sauntered across the road bearing two large bags bulging with groceries. Hugh nodded and smiled as he joined them, and Dan noticed the bandage around Hugh’s right hand.

“Afternoon, gents,” Hugh said. “A lovely day, isn’t it?” To Charlie, he added, “Sorry to keep you waiting, but they had a few special offers that were too good to miss.”

“You’ve certainly got a big haul,” Dan replied. “That’s just for the two of you, is it?”

“Bog off,” Hugh said, then he grinned. “Buy one, get one for free. BOGOFF.”

“Never mind all that,” Bellamy spluttered, pointing at Hugh. “It was you, wasn’t it? The other day, you almost ran me down.”

“What? I haven’t got a car,” Hugh protested. “We drove here in Charlie’s old car but⁠—”

“Oh yes, I know all about the old car. A red MG.”

“No,” Charlie replied. “It’s a Vauxhall Corsa. Silver.”

Bellamy stared at Charlie as if suspecting him of deceit.

“It’s the only car I got,” Charlie went on. “Come and look if you don’t believe me. It’s in the car park.”

Dan made a downward motion with his hands. “Calm down a minute, Mr Bellamy. This is⁠—”

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down,” Bellamy interrupted. “I’ve had more than enough of you.” He rummaged furiously in his shoulder bag then lifted something out, thrusting it toward Dan. “This, I presume, is your handiwork.”

There, dangling by its strap from Bellamy’s fist was Dan’s wildlife camera.

“Ah, I can explain that,” Dan replied. “But there’s more at stake here than a silly camera.”

Hugh moved closer to Charlie. “Come on, Mr Marshall, we should go. I can see you’re getting upset. Let’s get you home.”

He made to move away, but Bellamy lunged forward and grabbed Hugh by the sleeve. “Oh no you don’t. I saw you. You practically ran me down, then you got out of the car and looked back. I know it was you.”

“Are you sure about that?” Dan asked.

“Yes. How many times do I have to say it?”

Hugh set down his bags of shopping and pulled himself free from Bellamy’s grip, muttering a curse.

Hugh looked as though he was about to give Bellamy a piece of his mind, but Dan raised a hand to stop him.

Focusing on Bellamy, Dan said, “When was this?”

“The other night when I was out for a run. It would’ve been Monday.”

“What time on Monday? And please, be as specific as possible.”

Bellamy seemed to have caught the urgency in Dan’s tone, and his eyes narrowed. “It was around twenty past eight, is that accurate enough for you?”

“That depends on two things. Did you actually fall, and does your Garmin watch have incident detection?”

Bellamy nodded. “Yes to both questions. When this maniac almost hit me, I fell headlong into the road. I picked myself up as quickly as I could, but the alert had been triggered, and I didn’t manage to stop it in time. I had my phone with me, so it automatically sent a text.” Turning to Hugh, he added, “The message included my exact location, so I can prove where and when all this happened.”

“Excellent,” Dan said. “Is that how you got the scratch on your head? You fell when a red MG passed too close.”

“Yes.”

“But we saw you in the pub that night,” Alan said. “You weren’t in your running gear.”

Bellamy took a steadying breath, and when he spoke, his voice was tight with restrained emotion. “After almost getting killed, I was in no state to carry on, so I jogged back to the village as best as I could. I was filthy, covered in dirt from the road, so I poured the last of my water over my head and changed back into my clothes. They were in the car which was parked near the church.”

“In the pub, you were wearing walking boots.”

“Yes. I keep them in the car. I just grabbed them, I don’t know why. I wasn’t thinking straight. That’s why I went to the pub. I’m not proud to admit it, but I needed a drink. I was in shock.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dan stated. “Tell me, do you know a man named Roy Searle?”

“I know the name. I heard the police had arrested him for what happened to Henry, but I don’t think I ever…” Bellamy paused. “Hang on, Greg and I visited an elderly man named Searle, and I saw his son. I think his name was Roy.”

“And is there any chance that he was the man you saw in the car?” Dan asked.

“Definitely not. Mr Searle’s son was short and stocky, I’d know him if I saw him again.”

“That is interesting,” Dan said. “Are you aware that Henry Doubleday had a red MG?”

The blood drained from Bellamy’s face. “On the news they said Henry was found near a car, but…”

“The police didn’t release the make and model,” Alan said. “But we heard Henry’s MG going past the pub on Monday night, about five minutes before you saw it.”

Dan nodded in affirmation. “And when we told DI Spiller about it, he as good as told us we were right.”

Alan looked as though he was about to butt in to keep Dan on the straight and narrow. Strictly speaking, Spiller had said no such thing, but Dan wasn’t about to be derailed, and he swept on regardless.

“In other words, Mr Bellamy, on Monday night, you had a close encounter with a murderer.”

“What?” Bellamy demanded.

“It’s true,” Dan replied. “Tell me, was the car’s top up or down?”

“Up.”

Dan nodded. “That’s strange for a fine evening, isn’t it? Henry liked to go for a spin when the weather was good, so why would he have the top up?”

“Because someone didn’t want to be seen,” Bellamy murmured, his stern gaze intensifying as it settled on Hugh. “The driver must’ve been the man who killed Henry. And there’s the culprit.” He raised a hand to point squarely at Hugh’s chest.

“Hang on a minute,” Hugh began, his voice rising. “Are you saying I killed someone? Bloody hell, mate, you’re insane. I’ve never even been in an MG, and I’ve never seen this bloke until just now. How can anybody seriously believe I ran him over?”

Bellamy thrust the wildlife camera into Dan’s hands, and took a step closer to Hugh, a gleam of righteous indignation in his eyes.

Hugh stood his ground, squaring his shoulders. But before either party could speak, Dan intervened, pushing into the space between the two men and guiding Hugh back. Alan followed Dan’s example, doing the same with Bellamy.

“This is no way to behave,” Alan stated. “We’ll have to go to the police with this. There’s no other option.”

“Well, maybe one,” Dan replied. “There could be an easy way to settle this right now.” Focusing on Hugh, he said, “Where were you on Monday night?”

Hugh’s lips were pressed tight shut, his jaw clenched.

In the tense silence, Charlie piped up, “He was with a woman. I saw him out of the window.”

Dan was loath to take his eyes off Hugh, but he risked a fleeting glance at Charlie. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Monday night, I saw him going home with her. It was what’s-her-name. Penny. Penny Robbins.”

All four men stared at Charlie, but from the corner of his eye, Dan glimpsed a sudden movement. One man had reacted physically to the mention of Penny’s name almost as though he’d been suddenly splashed by icy water. There hadn’t been much to it—a muted gasp, a tightening of the posture, a widening of the eyes—but it was there. And Dan looked anew at the man whose body had just betrayed his connection to Penny Robbins: Simon Bellamy.

CHAPTER 53

The road stopped short of the nature reserve in Embervale, so Spiller told Collins to park behind a police van, and they set out to cover the rest of the way on foot.

“Not a long walk from Searle’s house but he took his van,” Spiller remarked. “Makes you wonder why.”

“It does,” Collins replied. “Then again, he strikes me as a lazy sod. He probably couldn’t be bothered to walk.”

“Use your imagination, Collins. You can hide a multitude of sins in a van. Searle could’ve got changed and cleaned up in the back and no one would’ve seen him. And on the night of Henry’s murder Searle’s van was here; we know that from his phone.”

“Well, we know his phone was here.”

“True,” Spiller admitted. “But his phone says he left home at ten past seven, and that fits with what his dad told us. He drove here, and his phone stayed put until ten to nine when he set off for home. Again, that matches the time Searle’s dad gave us. Roy was carrying his phone, but he left it here because he was up to no good, and he didn’t want anybody knowing about it.”

Reluctantly, Collins nodded. “But does that give him enough time to get to Henry’s farm? It’s a good couple of miles away, and he’s not exactly an Olympic sprinter, is he?”

“Maybe there’s a shortcut across the fields. Anyway, he wouldn’t need long. He killed Henry, put him on the MG, poured chemicals all over the place and drove off in Henry’s car. He dumped the body, legged it through the nature reserve and jumped in his van. If he was quick, he could change in the back and then drive home.”

“It could work, but where’s the evidence?” Collins said.

“God help us,” Spiller muttered. “You’re starting to sound like me.”

They shared a wry smile, but it didn’t last long.

Ahead of them, a lone uniformed constable regarded them from beneath lowered eyebrows. He stood in the entrance to the nature reserve, and from his body language, he was prepared to turn away all unwelcome visitors.

Spiller adopted a businesslike demeanour, and a glance at Collins revealed that he was doing the same.

Good lad, Spiller thought. That’s the way.

The constable remained silently watchful as they approached. He was in his thirties, tall and well built, but Spiller didn’t recognise him, so he’d probably been drafted in from elsewhere.

Sure enough, there was no spark of recognition in the officer’s eyes. His head erect, he eyed them in turn and said, “Can I help you, gents?”

Spiller and Collins showed their warrant cards and gave their ranks and station.

“Morning, Inspector, Sergeant,” the constable said. “I was told to expect you. You can go right through. I’ll just make a note.”

“Many sightseers?” Spiller asked as the constable recorded their visit on his clipboard.

“No, sir. A handful of dog walkers wanting to know why they can’t go to their usual spot, but apart from that, no one.”

“Which nick are you from?” Spiller asked.

“Plymouth, sir. Never a dull moment, unlike around here, eh?”

Spiller frowned. He didn’t much care for the constable’s tone, nor for the smirk on his lips.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Spiller said. “Make the most of the peace and quiet.”

The constable winced.

“Oh dear, I used the Q word, didn’t I?” Spiller went on. “Tempting fate. Sorry about that.”

Looking anything but sorry, Spiller marched through the entrance, Collins following close behind.

As Collins passed the constable, he clapped him on the shoulder and tipped him a wink. “It’s only a superstition, mate. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“Yes, Detective Sergeant,” the constable intoned. “Have a nice day.”

Collins caught up with Spiller and said, “Are you all right, Guv? It’s not like you to wind up the uniforms.”

“I’m fine, but I don’t know… That young man was a hair’s breadth from insubordination. You could see what he was thinking—we have it easy in Exeter. Nothing ever happens, so we sit on our backsides all day.”

“Maybe,” Collins replied. “But maybe he was just bored.”

Spiller didn’t reply although he knew perfectly well what was getting his goat: Roy Searle. As soon as his solicitor had arrived, Searle had changed his attitude, looking smug as he replied to every question with “No comment.”

It was enough to test the patience of a saint.

We can’t let him get away with murder, Spiller thought. But we need more than a bit of leaf and a mud stain.

Searle might be sly, but he was far from being a master criminal. He would’ve made a mistake, left a trace, disregarded a vital piece of evidence. All that remained was to find it.

Spiller and Collins followed the path until they reached a straggly copse of trees. Here, a cordon of police tape had been set up, but it wasn’t the only area of activity. In the rest of the nature reserve, a full fingertip search was underway. A line of uniformed officers walked in unison, their eyes on the ground, prodding at the sparse undergrowth.

“A lot of boots on the ground,” Collins said. “You must’ve called in a few favours.”

“No, Collins, I made a case for pulling out all the stops, and the DCS agreed. Unless we find something soon, we haven’t got enough to bring a murder charge against Searle, it’s as simple as that.”

“Yeah, of course. It was just banter, Guv. I didn’t mean anything.”

Spiller looked away and let out a slow breath. “I know, Collins. I know.”

The uniformed officer stationed at the cordon seemed to be expecting them, no doubt having been alerted by his colleague at the entrance. When he lifted the tape and ushered them through, Spiller made a point of thanking him.

“Plymouth?” Spiller asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Spiller nodded toward the officers carrying out the painstaking search of the reserve. “You’re all getting stuck in. Much appreciated.”

“Well, a murder’s a murder, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter where it is. We’re all on the same team.”

“That, we are,” Spiller replied. “How far can we go before we upset the SOCOs?”

“You’re fine as far as the other side of the trees, sir. After that, they’ve set up an inner cordon. They’re busy doing their stuff.”

“Thanks. Come on, Collins, let’s see what we can see.”

Spiller led the way through the trees and surveyed the strange landscape on the other side. A cleft in the rocks had created a secret hideaway, screened from prying eyes by the trees. A team of SOCOs were hard at work, photographing, collecting and bagging items from the ground, though Spiller was too far away to see what they’d found.

“Now we’re talking,” Collins said. “If I had to get rid of a weapon or some bloodstained clothes, this is where I’d do it. I’d be out of sight, even if somebody walked along the path.”

“Let’s wait and see, Collins. Let’s wait and see.”

Spiller spotted Nicola Haig and waved to attract her attention. She looked in his direction then raised a finger to indicate she needed a minute. She went to speak with one of her colleagues, and they seemed to be having an important conversation, their heads close together.

“Nicola’s cracking the whip,” Collins said. “If there’s something here, they’ll find it.”

“Let’s hope so. We’re due a bit of good luck.”

Nicola nodded to her colleague and then picked her way carefully over the uneven ground to meet Spiller and Collins.

Pulling down her face mask, Nicola breathed a sigh of relief.

“You’ve been hard at work,” Spiller said.

Nicola nodded. “Well, you know, another day at the office.”

“Anything good? Anything useful?”

“Possibly,” Nicola replied. “We’ve found a lot of litter, and some of it might hold fingerprints or traces of DNA. We’ve got drink cans, beer bottles and cigarette stubs, but they’ve been outside, exposed to the elements, and they could’ve been here for a long time. Some pieces look more promising than others, but it’s going to take a while to sift the wheat from the chaff.”

Spiller nodded. “You’ll do your best, I know, but I’m assuming you haven’t turned up any clothing or Henry Doubleday’s phone or, dare I say it, a weapon.”

“I’m afraid not. But about that phone—you haven’t managed to trace it to here, have you?”

“Sadly, no,” Spiller replied. “Collins has been through Henry’s phone records, but they gave us nothing worthwhile.”

“Tell me about it,” Collins grumbled. “He was somewhere on his farm when he last used it, and that was just after six on the night he was killed. He sent a text to a number registered to a Simon Bellamy, but there doesn’t seem to have been a reply. After that, the phone went dead. It was an old phone, and that makes it harder to track. Plus, the battery and sim could’ve been removed in seconds.”

Nicola hoisted a smile into place. “Hope springs eternal. There’s always a chance we’ll find the murder weapon.”

“That would make my day,” Spiller said. “We’re not far from where Henry was left, and no-one wants to be seen carrying a bloodstained spanner or whatever. As young Collins was just saying, if the killer came through here, this would make a good spot to dump the weapon.”

“I can see that, but I can’t make any promises, Tim. We’ll keep looking as long as we can. That’s all we can do.”

As if on cue, one of the SOCOs started striding toward Nicola, a transparent evidence bag in his hand.

“Hello, this could be something,” Collins said.

Spiller made a noncommittal noise, but a faint flicker of anticipation lit his heart.

“Give me a sec,” Nicola said, and she went to meet her colleague.

Spiller watched while she held a brief conversation with the SOCO. She nodded several times, concentrating on what was being said, then she lifted her gaze, and her eyes found Spiller.

To Collins, Spiller said, “You know what? You might be right.”

The evidence bag changed hands, Nicola lifting it to inspect its contents, then the SOCO returned to his work.

Spiller and Collins watched in silence as Nicola marched back to rejoin them.

“Travis has found something interesting,” Nicola began. “Whether it’s significant is another question entirely.”

“Travis scores again,” Collins said. “What is it this time?”

“A feather. At least, a piece of one.”

Spiller tried not to let his disappointment show. “That will have come from a bird, won’t it? There must be all kinds of wildlife in here. It is a nature reserve, after all.”

“Yes, but look at that colour,” Nicola said. “It’s bright red, and I’m certain that it can’t be natural. It must’ve been dyed, and it’s very clean, as though it hasn’t been on the ground for long. The soil here is dry at the moment, and most of the litter has a layer of dust and grime, but Travis said this feather was clean when he found it. It caught the light and stood out, he said.”

Nicola lifted the bag again and peered intently at the small red scrap Spiller could barely make out.

“Yes, the edges are very precise,” Nicola went on. “We’ll check when we get it under a microscope, but even to the naked eye, I can see that it’s been cut very carefully or shaped somehow.”

“What for, fly fishing?” Spiller asked.

“It’s possible. I don’t know much about fishing, but this piece looks too large for an artificial fly, and it’s quite sturdy. Travis thinks it came from a flight feather, probably from a larger bird like a goose.”

“I must meet this Travis,” Spiller said. “He’s a font of all knowledge. But what does he think? Where has it come from? Are we looking at a feather duster, a quill pen?”

“I don’t think so, Tim, but I can’t be sure,” Nicola replied. “If I had to guess—and you know how much I hate that—it could’ve come from an item of clothing—something that was decorated with a feather, perhaps.”

“Like what, a feather in someone’s cap or one of those Tyrolean hats?”

“That’s the sort of thing I had in mind. Maybe not the Tyrolean style—you don’t see those very much—but we’re out in the countryside, and I’ve seen ramblers with bright feathers in their hatbands.”

Ramblers, Spiller thought. How many of them have been through here in the last couple of days?

He exchanged a look with Collins and saw that the younger man was equally deflated.

Spiller thrust his hands into his pockets and gazed around the scene, hoping for another discovery, preferably something that might not have come from a passerby.

As if sensing his mood, Nicola said, “Tim, this is very much a work in progress—you know that. We’re going flat out, but we can’t work miracles.”

“I know, Nicola. We’ll let you get back to it.”

Nicola donned her face mask, and her voice was slightly muffled as she said, “See you later, Tim. If there are any developments, you’ll be the first to know. Bye.”

With that, Nicola returned to the fray.

Spiller stayed where he was for a second, thinking.

To Collins, he said, “Did anybody spot a feathered hat in Searle’s house?”

“Not that I can remember. I’ll check later.”

“Okay. In the meantime, call Anisha for me. Ask her to find out whether Henry had a hat with a red feather. If he did, we need to know if it’s still at home, because if it isn’t…”

“It’ll give us something to hunt for,” Collins replied, already taking out his phone.

He listened while Collins made the call, knowing that whatever the outcome, the feather was never going to make or break the case; hats were not unique.

Collins ended the call, frowning. “Anisha asked Jean Doubleday while I was on the line. She said Henry didn’t have a hat with a feather but she does, only the feathers aren’t red; they’re green. And her hat is hanging on a hook by her coat just like it should be. Anisha doesn’t think there were any feathers missing. But you never know, someone else might have⁠—”

“Forget it,” Spiller interrupted. “I know a dead end when I see one, Collins. We may as well head back to the station. There’s nothing we can do here.”

But as Spiller turned away, the uniformed officer by the cordon marched toward him, his hand on his personal radio.

“Excuse me, sir. I’ve just had a call. There’s a man at the entrance asking to see you. Name of Dan Corrigan. Says you know him.”

“Oh, I know him all right.”

Collins grunted in disapproval. “Do you want me to go and deal with him, Guv? I’ll soon get rid of him.”

Spiller allowed himself a smile at the prospect of Corrigan being given his marching orders, but he relented. “No, we were heading back out anyway, so we can stop for a minute and see what he has to say.”

“Ah, is he an informant?” the officer asked.

“No, he’s a damned nuisance,” Spiller replied. “But he seems to be a cross I have to bear, so I may as well get this over with.”

Spiller started walking and Collins fell in beside him.

“Maybe he’ll know somebody with a feathered hat,” Collins said. “He seems like the type to take an interest in what people wear. He’s always on the lookout, seeing what people are up to and storing it away. He’s a busybody, that’s what he is.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” Spiller replied. “But for the moment, at least, he’s our busybody.”

CHAPTER 54

Spiller and Collins arrived back at the nature reserve’s entrance to find the constable regarding them with a jaundiced eye, his arms folded. He looked very much as though he’d like to say, I told you so. Spiller had uttered the fatal word ‘quiet’, and in a matter of minutes, some kind of oddball had turned up demanding to see the detective inspector in charge and refusing to go away.

Corrigan was some distance away, pacing back and forth across the road as though determined to wear a groove in the tarmac. He caught sight of Spiller and stopped, but he didn’t approach. No doubt the constable had warned him to keep his distance.

Spiller felt a twinge of sympathy for his uniformed colleague. Meeting Corrigan for the first time, especially when the man was in one of his high-handed moods, was enough to put a dent in anyone’s day.

“Thanks for letting me know about our unexpected visitor,” Spiller said to the constable. “Some might have shooed him away, but you knew better. That was a good call.”

“Thank you, sir.” The constable hesitated. “To be honest, I’ve been keeping my eye on him. He hasn’t stopped pacing since I told him to back off, and from what he said, he seems to know more about this case than he ought to.”

Spiller nodded wisely. “That doesn’t entirely surprise me, but you’re right to mention it. Anyway, we’ll take him off your hands.” He rewarded the constable with a knowing smile, then strode across the road, his eyes on Corrigan.

At Spiller’s side, Collins said, “I wonder what it is this time. My money’s on another pet theory.”

“Whatever it is, someone or something has lit a firework under him.”

Collins made an affirmative noise. Anyone could see that Corrigan was like a spring wound tight to its limit. Even standing still, he fizzed with energy, his eyes alight with a manic spark.

“Mr Corrigan,” Spiller began as he joined him, “how did you know I was here?”

Corrigan brushed the question aside. “I called your station, said I had vital information about the murder of Henry Doubleday.”

“Then that information should’ve been given to the officer who⁠—”

“I didn’t have time for all that,” Corrigan interrupted. “I needed to see you right away, and when I told them I was in Embervale, they sent me here.” Corrigan flexed his fingers in the air as though he’d like to grab someone by the lapels. “Can we talk now? Because this is important.”

Spiller silently counted to three, making the man wait, then he said, “What can I do for you, Mr Corrigan?”

“It’s more a question of what I can do for you,” Corrigan replied. “Roy Searle did not murder Henry Doubleday.”

“Is that so?” Spiller asked. “And you know this, how?”

“I’ve found a witness who saw Henry’s car being driven out of the village on the night Henry was killed, and he’s sure the driver was not Roy Searle.”

Spiller didn’t speak, he merely gestured for Corrigan to go on. The man didn’t need much encouragement, and as he rattled off an explanation, Spiller listened without interrupting. It was a strange story, but Corrigan had an eye for detail, and he painted a vivid picture of the unlikely confrontation between a deacon of the church and a chancer known only as Hugh.

When Corrigan finished, Spiller said, “So let me get this straight. A deacon named Simon Bellamy witnessed Henry’s car being driven by this Hugh character on the night of Henry’s murder. But Hugh claims he was with a local woman at the time—Penny Robbins.”

“Not exactly. Hugh didn’t give me Penny’s name; that came from Charlie Marshall. Hugh is staying with him.”

“So you said. But that arrangement only began later, didn’t it?”

Corrigan nodded. “At the time, Charlie only saw Hugh through the window. He seemed to think Hugh and Penny were together, although Penny is married.”

“So what happened to end this argument in the street?” Spiller asked. “Given your track record, I’m surprised you didn’t try a citizens’ arrest.”

“The thought crossed my mind, but we decided it would be best to bring the information straight to you and see what you made of it.”

Spiller’s eyebrows jumped upward. Here was a turn up for the books. But tempting as it was to have some fun with Corrigan, he simply said, “By we, I presume you mean you and Alan Hargreaves.”

“That’s right. Hugh wasn’t going to cooperate. He swore that he wasn’t the driver Mr Bellamy saw, and we had no way of knowing whether he was lying, so there was nothing we could do.”

“And nobody knows Hugh’s surname, even the gentleman who’s putting him up?”

“That’s right. No one ever thinks to ask. He targets older people living on their own, then he charms his way in. We think he’s been helping himself to Charlie’s cash, but we don’t know that for sure. According to Charlie, Hugh can do no wrong.”

Spiller looked to Collins and received a minute shrug in return.

My thoughts exactly, Spiller decided. Corrigan’s account had all the makings of a cock and bull story, but if there was even the remotest possibility that he and Hargreaves had stumbled on an eyewitness, it was worth checking out.

“Leave it with us,” Spiller said. “If you have an address for Mr Marshall, that would be helpful.”

Corrigan was already reaching for his phone. “Alan gave it to me earlier. I’ll text it to you. And if you don’t find Hugh there, you could try the pub this evening. I’ve seen Hugh in there. Oh, and the other place you might find him is at Marjorie Treave’s house. It’s⁠—”

Spiller raised a finger to stop him short. “Oh, I remember the way to that particular house, Mr Corrigan, and with good reason.”

“Yes, of course. That was a few years ago, but…” Corrigan seemed uncharacteristically stumped for words. “It was a good job you turned up when you did.”

“Think nothing of it,” Spiller replied. “The other party we need to speak to is this deacon, Mr Bellamy.”

Corrigan turned his attention to his phone’s screen. “I persuaded him to give me his phone number, but he wouldn’t tell me his address. He refused point-blank.”

“Fancy that,” Spiller mused as he took out his own phone. Corrigan’s text appeared, and he scanned the addresses and numbers.

“We’ll see what we can find out.” Spiller hesitated, unsure whether to ask the question he had in mind. Conversations with Corrigan were akin to unarmed combat, and it wasn’t always easy to tell who had the upper hand.

But Spiller’s curiosity got the better of him, and he added, “Before we head off, there’s one thing I’d like to check. Do you know of anyone around here who wears a hat with a feather in it?”

“It’s not uncommon. I think Alan has one somewhere, but he never wears it, thank goodness. We get quite a few ramblers in the pub, and they go in for that kind of thing.”

“This particular feather would be bright red. Quite distinctive and not from a wild bird.”

Corrigan narrowed his eyes. “You’ve found a red feather. Where?” He pointed back toward the old quarry. “Was it in there?”

“I’m not going to discuss that, Mr Corrigan. Does a red feather ring a bell or does it not?”

To give him his due, Corrigan seemed to be giving the matter serious thought, his brow furrowed in concentration. Finally, he said, “Sorry, I can’t recall having seen a red feather. I know the one in Alan’s hat is from a pheasant’s tail because he insisted on telling me, but…”

Corrigan’s voice faltered, and then his eyes grew brighter.

“Tell me,” Spiller prompted. “What’ve you just remembered?”

“This might be nothing, but I saw a dog walker the other night, and I’m pretty sure she had a feather in her hat. It could’ve been red, but it was quite dark, and it’s often hard to tell colours under the streetlights, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Spiller replied. “Any idea of the lady’s name?”

“No, she wasn’t familiar, but we said good evening to each other, and she sounded local.”

Collins had already begun making notes on his phone. Without looking up, he asked, “When was this?”

“Last night, not long after dark. I passed her on Fore Street. I was on the way to the pub.”

“So between your house and The Wild Boar,” Spiller suggested.

“No, I was coming the other way. I’d been for a walk.”

Corrigan’s fleeting smile betrayed a moment of nervousness, and Spiller studied him in silence. What had Corrigan been up to this time?

Before Spiller could ask, Corrigan said, “Might I have passed a suspect? Or was she a witness, perhaps?”

Spiller raised an eyebrow. “I’m not at liberty to say. But I’m wondering where you’d been on this walk, Mr Corrigan.”

“To the church. I’d been looking around. As I told you before⁠—”

“Someone has been loitering in the churchyard,” Spiller interrupted. “Let’s not go over all that again, but I do have another question for you. Have you ever met Mrs Doubleday?”

Corrigan shook his head. “I suppose she might’ve been the woman I passed. The dog was a collie, and it didn’t seem to like being on the lead, so maybe it was a working dog. I heard a dog when we called at Seven Springs Farm, but I never saw it. I suppose it would make sense, a collie on a farm. Maybe the llamas need rounding up from time to time.”

“Unlikely,” Collins replied. “They’d run a mile at the sight of a dog. They’re not sheep, Mr Corrigan, they’re more closely related to camels.”

Spiller sent his colleague a questioning glance, and Collins added, “I looked it up.”

“Right,” Spiller said. “Well this is all very interesting, but it’s about time we moved on. Goodbye for now, Mr Corrigan. Thanks for coming to us with your information. I advise you to stay away from Mr Bellamy and Hugh for the time being. You can rest easy knowing that we’ll talk to them right away.”

Corrigan nodded. “Thank you. That’s a relief.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Spiller replied. To Collins, he added, “We’ve got work to do, thanks to Mr Corrigan, so let’s get cracking.”

CHAPTER 55

Back at The Old Shop, Dan went straight to his home office where he’d left Alan working on the wildlife camera.

Alan had taken the swivel chair, and he turned around as Dan entered the room, gazing at him expectantly.

“Did you find DI Spiller?”

“I did, and he’s going to talk to Bellamy, and to Hugh if he can find him.”

“That is good news, but how did Spiller take it when you told him he’d been barking up the wrong tree?”

“Much as you’d expect. Nobody likes being proved wrong, but he actually listened. I think he was secretly pleased to have a new eyewitness, even though it scuppers his chances of pinning the murder on Searle.” Dan paused. “He asked me the strangest question. He wanted to know if I’ve come across anyone with a feathered hat.”

“How odd. I’ve got one. Am I a suspect?”

Dan laughed. “Not yet. I did tell him about your hat, but you needn’t worry. The feather he’s looking for is bright red.”

“Lots of birds have a red patch.”

“He’d thought of that already. He said it hadn’t come from a wild bird, but he wouldn’t say why it’s important. Still, talking of wildlife…” He nodded toward the desk where the camera was connected to Dan’s desktop computer. “How are you getting on?”

“Not bad. Nothing groundbreaking so far, but there is one thing I want to show you. Pull up a seat.”

Dan grabbed the only other chair in the room, a folding wooden contraption he’d found stuffed in the cupboard under the stairs when he moved in. He placed it next to Alan and sat down with exaggerated care.

“Are you all right?” Alan asked. “You look worried.”

“I’m fine, but I ought to get a proper chair for visitors. I think this one has woodworm. It could collapse at any moment.”

“I’d throw it out if I were you, but do you really need another chair in here? You never have any visitors. You meet clients at home or where they work.”

“It’s better to be prepared,” Dan insisted. “I never know who might turn up. I wasn’t expecting to take on Greg as a client, and I had to talk to him in the kitchen.”

“I suppose you’re right. It doesn’t look professional.”

Dan allowed himself a sanguine smile. “Mind you, with things the way they are, I don’t know whether I can afford to splash out on furniture. I’m happy to help Greg for free, but it won’t pay the bills.”

“I suppose not. Maybe I could⁠—”

“No, you could not,” Dan interrupted. “I won’t take a penny from you, not even as a loan. You already do more than you should. I’m grateful, but we’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”

Alan didn’t look happy, but he nodded.

Changing the subject, Dan leaned forward to study the grainy monochrome image on the computer’s screen. “So, what have you got?”

“Watch this.”

Alan clicked the mouse and set the footage running. At first, Dan saw nothing except the outline of headstones, but then a pair of bright lights appeared near the ground at some distance from the camera. As Dan watched, the lights grew closer, bobbing up and down as they went. They blinked, and a moment later a furry shape ambled into view, its long snout and distinctive black and white coat making it instantly recognisable.

“You see?” Alan said. “A badger. I told you there’d be one.”

Dan didn’t bother to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Is that it? A badger?”

“There were a couple of things flitting past earlier, but I think they were bats. That’s all I’ve got so far. It took me a while to figure out the camera.”

“I left you the instructions.”

Alan plucked a sheet of paper from the desk. “Yes, and they were badly translated from Chinese or something. What are ‘warm tips’, do you think? Like hot tips but not quite as good? And what about ‘kindly reminders’?”

“How long did you spend critiquing the instruction leaflet, Alan? Was it the whole time while I was away or just most of it?”

Alan humphed, ready to argue his case, but Dan pointed to the screen where a folder was open to reveal a short list of files. Speaking quickly, he said, “Anyway, you’ve got it going now. Let’s see what else we’ve picked up.”

“That’s what I was about to suggest.” Alan selected a file, but the short clip had been triggered by a large moth that had fluttered back and forth across the camera’s field of view for reasons of its own.

The next clip was blank, as was the one after it.

“How much did you pay for this camera?” Alan asked.

“Er, not very much. I wasn’t sure whether I’d use it again.”

“Buy cheap, buy twice.”

Dan bit back his reply, instead saying, “Let’s try the next clip. Do you know how to increase the playback speed?”

“Yes, I think I can figure it out. Here we go.” Alan set the next clip playing, and the badger made its return, ambling rapidly away.

“The next one might be better,” Alan said.

Dan didn’t reply. He was fully expecting the moth to put in a repeat performance of its wild dance. But the clip offered only a view of the gravestones. He was about to ask Alan to speed it up again, but something caught his eye.

“Stop,” Dan said. “Rewind it a few seconds.”

“Why? I didn’t see anything.”

“I did. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the camera. We’ve been concentrating on the centre of the frame, and we haven’t paid enough attention to the edges.”

“Okay.” Alan took the footage back, and this time, they both saw it. A dark shape had edged into the right-hand side of the frame: the partial silhouette of a person, their back to the camera. They were only visible for a split second, so Alan paused the footage and rewound it slowly, pausing the playback to give the best view. Even so, they could only make out the left half of the figure’s outline.

Dressed in shapeless clothing and wearing something that might’ve been a hoodie, the person was quite tall, but Dan could discern little else.

“Does that look like Kayleigh to you?” Alan asked.

Dan studied the image, willing it to resolve into someone he could recognise, but it didn’t help. “It could be anybody, but it’s not Julie Robbins. Julie isn’t that tall.”

“It could be a man,” Alan said. “Look at his shoulder. It’s too broad to be a woman, isn’t it?”

“I’m not so sure. Kayleigh is the other prime candidate, and she is quite tall. She could be wearing a few layers to keep the cold out. That would bulk up her outline.”

“I suppose you’re right, but this is hardly conclusive, is it? What a shame.”

Dan nodded, but something was bothering him, something that didn’t add up. What was it?

“Is there another clip?” he asked.

“No, that was the last one.”

“Right.” Dan stared into the middle distance, and he realised what he’d expected to see. Leaning closer to the screen, he counted the number of files.

“What’s up?” Alan asked. “Don’t you trust me to⁠—”

“Oh, I trust you,” Dan interrupted. “But there’s something missing. Why didn’t we see Simon Bellamy? He must’ve removed the camera, so why don’t we see him do it? And when did he find it? It was hard to spot in the dark.”

“Maybe he found it this morning. The camera only works at night, doesn’t it?”

“No. I set it to record whenever there’s movement in front of it. So why is there no recording of him?”

“Could he have deleted the clip?”

“That’s the obvious explanation, but why would he have done that unless there was something he didn’t want us to see?”

“I don’t know, but if he’d been caught doing something wrong, wouldn’t he have destroyed the camera?”

“No, because he guessed it was me who put it there. He knew that if my camera went missing, I’d be more curious than ever.”

“Well, his plan backfired. He ought to have triggered another recording, pretending to discover the camera, then we wouldn’t have been suspicious.”

Dan shook his head. “He was angry about this, so as soon as he saw the camera he tore it down. He didn’t know what it had recorded until later. He probably took it home, and by the time he’d deleted the clips it would’ve been hard to go back to the church and stage a fake discovery. It would’ve been difficult to put the camera back in exactly the right place, especially if… Hang on. Let me see.”

Dan picked up the camera to study the strap. And there it was, the clue that told a story. He showed it to Alan. “Look, the fastening has been broken. There should be a little plastic lug to clip the strap in place, but it’s been snapped off. Bellamy pulled it down too quickly, and then he couldn’t put it back properly.”

“Yes, it looks like you’re right.”

“There’s no doubt in my mind. We know he has a temper, and he was still angry when he confronted me in the street.”

“Isn’t that understandable? Bellamy took down the camera because you had no business putting it there. He deleted the footage of him because it was a violation of his privacy.”

“Then why didn’t he just say so? No, Bellamy has been up to no good, and he doesn’t want us to know about it, so he deleted all the incriminating evidence including the clip of him finding the camera. Maybe someone else was there at the time, someone he didn’t want us to see?”

Alan didn’t reply, but his expression said he wasn’t convinced.

“Simon Bellamy is smarter than I thought,” Dan went on. “He’s hiding something, and whatever it is, it could be connected to Henry’s murder.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it? He’s come forward as a witness. He saw Henry’s car and identified Hugh as the driver.”

“And that was very convenient for Mr Bellamy,” Dan said. “He took one look at Hugh, saw his height and his beard, then he pointed the finger, neatly framing Hugh while putting himself in the clear.”

“What about all that business with his watch?”

Dan nodded thoughtfully. “The incident detection. It places him in the lane where the MG was found, but it doesn’t prove he was knocked down. I have the same feature on my watch, and a sudden movement toward the ground can set it off. It’s happened to me a few times, but it gives you a few seconds to cancel the alert before it sends a message.”

“So why didn’t he do that?”

“Simple,” Dan replied. “He had his hands full.”

Alan’s eyes went wide.

“Bellamy fumbled the body while he was getting it out of the car,” Dan went on. “The weight pulled his arm down sharply, triggering his watch, but he didn’t have time to cancel the alert because he was busy dragging Henry across the road.”

“But the alert created a trail of evidence,” Alan said. “If he was guilty, he would’ve deleted the message afterwards, but he told us that it was still on his phone along with the GPS coordinates.”

“There was no point deleting it from his phone,” Dan said. “Message logs are kept by the network providers, and the police can request those records. So Bellamy was clever. He realised he could use the text message, playing it to his advantage. He was going to run back to the village anyway, and if he was seen, it really didn’t matter. He was an innocent bystander. All he needed was a vague description of a driver.”

“Cue the arrival of Hugh.”

“Exactly. And think about this. Bellamy claimed that after almost running him over, the driver got out to ask whether he was all right. Normally, that would be perfectly understandable. But if you were driving along with a dead body in the car, would you stop to check on a passerby? Would you show your face to a potential witness?”

Alan shook his head firmly. “No, but somehow, I never doubted Bellamy’s story. He was so believable.”

“He was, and he answered all my questions. He explained away the wound on his head, his change of clothes, his wet hair, everything right down to his boots. It was as though he had the story down pat, every loose end tied up with a neat bow. And we swallowed it.”

“Something of a mixed metaphor,” Alan pointed out. “But what about motive? Why on earth would Bellamy murder Henry?”

“That, I do not know, but I’m beginning to question everything Bellamy has said, right from the moment we met him. Remember that strange, night-time run? Did it ring true or was he concealing something?”

“It was a bit odd. I said so at the time.”

“You did. You didn’t like the way Bellamy refused to show us the records from his Garmin watch. You said, ‘The GPS doesn’t lie.’ I should’ve listened to you.”

Alan remained silent for a second, then he said, “If Bellamy’s been lying, it will all come out. The police are going to question him. They’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“Will they?” Dan delivered a meaningful look.

“You think we should go and talk to him,” Alan stated. “Is that a good idea? Our last meeting didn’t go too well.”

“It’s a very bad idea, especially since Spiller told me to stay away from Bellamy altogether. You can sit this one out if you want to, but I have to do this. Bellamy tried to pull the wool over my eyes, and I’m not going to let him get away with it.”

“I’ll come with you,” Alan said. “But how do we find him? We still don’t have his address.”

“But I do have his number.”

Dan took out his phone and found Bellamy in his contacts. When he called he was diverted straight to voicemail, so Dan left a message, his tone making it clear he was in deadly earnest:

“Mr Bellamy, this is Dan Corrigan. We know exactly what you’ve done. If you’d like a chance to explain, call me. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll have no choice but to talk to the police.”

He hung up. “That ought to do it.”

Alan puffed out his cheeks. “I hope so, because if you’re wrong he could be the one going to the police, and your message is going to sound like harassment or worse.”

“I’m not wrong,” Dan stated. But he was taking a risk and if Bellamy was as smart as he seemed, he might consider attack to be the best form of defence. Only time would tell.

CHAPTER 56

Spiller and Collins drove the short distance to the address Corrigan had provided for Charlie Marshall. As they strode up to the front door, Spiller noted the neatness of the garden and observed that the house had been similarly well maintained. He guessed that the owner was a careful man, an intuition reinforced when their knock on the door was answered by an elderly man wearing an apron.

“Mr Marshall?” Spiller asked.

“Yes,” the man replied slowly, clutching a tea towel to his chest as though it might protect him from some imagined evil.

“Mr Marshall, there’s nothing for you to worry about, but we’re police officers. I’m Detective Inspector Spiller and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Collins.”

Both policemen showed their warrant cards and Marshall looked at each of them in turn.

“We’d like to have a chat with you,” Spiller went on. “It won’t take long. Shall we step inside for a minute?”

Marshall hesitated, but then he opened the door wider and stepped back.

“Wipe your feet on the mat,” he said. “And shut the door after you.”

He set off along the hallway, and having dutifully wiped their feet, Spiller and Collins set off after him.

Marshall disappeared into the front room, and they heard him say something in a low voice. The reply came from someone trying to keep their voice down, but it was loud enough to be heard in the hallway:

“You didn’t let them in, did you? You remember what I told you about the police, don’t you?”

“Well, they’re here now,” Marshall protested, and as if to prove the point, Spiller and Collins stepped into the room.

Spiller looked down at the man sitting on the sofa. The TV was on, showing a quiz show, and the man had a can of lager in his right hand which was bound with a slightly grubby bandage. By his left side was a large bag of crisps. He looked as though he’d had his feet up on a footstool, but he was on the edge of the sofa now, and when he saw Spiller and Collins, he sat up very straight indeed.

“You must be Hugh,” Spiller said. “And what have you told Mr Marshall about the police? Nothing defamatory I hope.”

The man composed himself and set his can of lager on a side table. Smiling, he said, “Yes, I’m Hugh, and I’ve warned Charlie about cold callers, that’s all I meant. I said he should always ask for ID.”

“Ah well, I did that,” Marshall said. “These gentlemen are detectives.”

“Right.” Hugh stood, brushing his hand on the leg of his jeans before offering it for a shake. “Nice to meet you, Mr…”

“Detective Inspector Spiller. Do you have a surname, Hugh?”

“Of course. It’s Barrat. One T.”

“And you’re Mr Marshall’s lodger, is that right?”

“Yes. I suppose this is about that trouble the other day in Chudleigh.”

Spiller nodded. “An accusation has been made, and we have to follow it up. These things are a formality, but they have to be done, I’m sure you understand.”

“I suppose so, but there’s not much to say. The guy was wrong. I mean, I was sorry to hear that somebody had been killed, of course I was, but I wasn’t anywhere near the nature reserve.”

“How do you know that’s where Mr Doubleday was found?”

Barrat held out his hands. “It was on the telly. Charlie recognised the place. He said it used to be a quarry.”

“That’s right,” Marshall put in. “And I told Mr Bellamy he was wrong. He can’t have seen Hugh on Monday evening. I saw him myself when I looked out of the window. He was walking along the road with a lady friend.”

“What time was this?” Spiller asked.

Barrat started to reply, but Spiller cut him off with a raised hand. “Let Mr Marshall answer, please.”

“It was just after six. About ten past.”

“And who was he with?”

“A lady.” Marshall’s gaze slid to Barrat and back. “I don’t know her name. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Barrat said. “You can tell them.”

“But I thought…”

Barrat moved half a step closer to Marshall. “It’s fine, Charlie. Go ahead. It might actually help me.”

“Well, it was Penny Robbins. They were walking along the street together. I saw them clear as day.”

“Thank you, Charlie.” To Spiller, Barrat said, “There you go. I was with someone the whole evening. What more can I say?”

“That remains to be seen,” Spiller replied. “Have you hurt your hand, Mr Barrat?”

Barrat cradled his right hand with his left. “Yeah, I burned it when I was cooking over my campfire.”

“I see,” Spiller replied. “Maybe we should get that looked at.”

“There’s no need. It’s nothing really. It’s almost better.”

Spiller nodded as if he accepted this, but he stored the fact of Barrat’s injury away for later.

“Are we done?” Barrat went on. “You’ve heard what Charlie has to say. I haven’t done anything wrong, so there’s nothing more to say.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Spiller replied. “We’d like to hear your side of the story, and it’s important to get everything recorded properly, so there’s a great deal to say, but it’s best if we talk at the police station.”

“What?” Hugh Barrat pulled a face as if he’d never heard anything so ridiculous. “Some random bloke points me out for no reason whatsoever, and you want to drag me off for an interrogation? You must be joking.”

Spiller hardened his expression. “Mr Barrat, we’re conducting a murder investigation, and we have a reliable eyewitness who claims you were at the exact spot where a body was found. He also says you were driving the victim’s car. That’s enough for me to make an arrest, but we’d prefer it if you’d come willingly for an interview.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll arrest you, and the process will take longer. You’ll spend some time in a cell while we go through the paperwork. On the other hand, we could drive you to the station, get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible, and then we’ll arrange for you to be brought back here.”

“I can’t go now,” Barrat replied. “Charlie needs someone here to look after him. I’m also his carer.”

Spiller turned to Marshall. “Is that right, sir? Do you need Mr Barrat to stay with you?”

“No, I do not.” Marshall puffed out his chest. “I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for long enough.”

Barrat’s eyes filled with pity as he gazed at the older man. “Charlie, you’re very brave to say so, but you know it isn’t true. Just the other day, you fell. What if I hadn’t been here to pick you up?”

“That was nothing. I’m all right.”

“But I can’t go out now,” Barrat insisted. “I was going to catch up with the housework. There are the dishes to wash and⁠—”

“Done ‘em,” Marshall interrupted. Plucking at his apron, he added, “I’m not wearing this thing for the good of my health, you know.”

Barrat chuckled as though this was the kind of good-natured banter they regularly enjoyed.

“Mr Marshall will be fine,” Spiller said. “I’m going to ask one of my colleagues to come and keep him company while we’re at the station.”

Marshall started to protest, but Spiller said, “Mr Marshall, I know you don’t need looking after, but I want someone to come over and have a chat with you. There are a few things I’d like to know, and you’ll be helping us with our inquiries. Will that be okay, sir?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Marshall looked to Barrat and received a shake of the head in reply.

“Mr Marshall, is there any reason why you might not want to talk to the police?” Spiller asked, making his tone genial. “You haven’t broken any laws have you?”

“Me? No. Never. I’ve been a law-abiding citizen all my life. Not so much as a parking ticket.”

“Glad to hear it,” Spiller replied. “I’ll make a call right away, and someone will be here soon. They’ll have a chat, and they can make you a cup of tea.”

“I can make my own tea, and I still don’t know what all this is about, but… I don’t mind. If it’s important, somebody can come.”

“Thank you. Much appreciated.” Spiller gestured to the door. “Mr Barrat, shall we go?”

Barrat shrugged as if he didn’t care either way. “All right, I’ll come with you. It’s a complete waste of time but have it your way.”

“Good. DS Collins, escort Mr Barrat to the car, would you?”

“Yes, sir. Mr Barrat…” Collins smiled while squaring his shoulders, looking very much as if he’d like to drag Barrat bodily into the street.

“I’m coming,” Barrat muttered, his tone sullen. He exited the room, closely followed by Collins, and a moment later, the front door opened and closed.

Spiller lingered in the room, watching Mr Marshall carefully. The old man didn’t meet his gaze, but he let out a soft sigh.

He’s relieved, Spiller decided. Glad to see the back of Mr Barrat.

“Mr Marshall, I hope you don’t mind me making an observation,” Spiller said. “But to my mind, you seem as though you keep yourself fit and healthy.”

Marshall looked up, his expression brighter. “It’s the gardening that does it. I’m out there the whole year round. It keeps me active.”

“So do you really need Mr Barrat’s help?”

“Not really. I get a bit tired sometimes, but a sit down and a cup of tea generally sets me right.”

“You’re sharp as a tack, I can see that. So you understand the importance of telling the truth.”

Marshall looked affronted. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m not questioning your honesty, sir, but sometimes, one person can put pressure on another, asking them to say something that isn’t true, maybe dressing it up as a white lie.”

“Not me. Speak the truth and shame the devil, that’s what my old dad used to say, and he was not wrong.”

“Okay, so when you say you saw Mr Barrat with a friend on Monday evening, that’s the truth as you see it, is it?”

“Yes.”

“And he didn’t ask you to say that?”

Marshall craned his neck to peer at Spiller. “Do you think I’m daft or something? Do you think I’ve lost my marbles, is that it?”

“No, sir. Not at all. But there is one thing I’ve been wondering about. If you’re so fit, why did you ask Mr Barrat to come and stay with you?”

“He didn’t have anywhere to stay, and I had a spare room, so I offered.”

“It was your idea,” Spiller suggested.

“I reckon so.”

“You reckon or you know?”

Marshall’s lips moved, but he didn’t speak, and his cheeks became pinched.

This conversation was going to need care and tact, but above all, it was going to take time; time Spiller didn’t have.

He took his phone from his pocket. “Give me a minute, Mr Marshall. I’m just going to make a call.”

He stepped out into the hall, but his phone had no signal, so he went outside and stood by the front door. Collins was sitting in the car, and Hugh Barrat was in the back seat, so all was going well.

Spiller called Anisha Kulkarni, and she picked up straight away.

“Anisha, you’re back at the nick, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Jean Doubleday was fine once her son arrived. I had a chat with all three of them, and they know how to get hold of me if anything comes up.”

“Three?”

“Liam’s partner, Mark. He’s a healthcare worker, so he’s used to dealing with people and looking after them. He gets on really well with Jean. He cheers her up.”

“That’s good to hear. What are you up to?”

“The usual. Admin, reports, stats.”

Spiller heard the weariness in Kulkarni’s voice and empathised. Some coppers were best kept behind a desk, but Kulkarni was like him: she belonged in the real world.

“I have a bit of proper police work for you,” he said. “How soon can you be in Embervale?”

“Thirty minutes. Sooner if it’s urgent.”

“There’s no need for blues and twos, but there’s a gentleman I’d like you to talk to.”

He briefly outlined Charlie Marshall’s situation, and Kulkarni said she was already grabbing her coat.

That done, Spiller popped back in to see Mr Marshall. He explained that Kulkarni would be there soon, then he said goodbye, adding a few words of reassurance.

But as Spiller made for the door, Marshall said, “Is Hugh in trouble? Has he done something wrong?”

“Do you think that’s likely?”

“No. He’s a decent chap. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Then he has nothing to fear.”

Spiller said his goodbyes once more and headed out to the car. There’d been no point in alarming Mr Marshall, but there was something about Hugh Barrat that put Spiller’s senses on high alert. The man’s casual manner was a front, every word and gesture calculated for effect. Even more worrying, the way Barrat had spoken to Charlie Marshall hinted at a pattern of controlling behaviour.

Such was Barrat’s self-confidence, that he’d carried on with his thinly veiled coercion despite the presence of two detectives.

Spiller climbed into the car and sat quietly as Collins drove them back to Exeter. He pulled down the sun visor and used the vanity mirror to keep an eye on Barrat. The man was lounging on the back seat, looking out of the window with a faint smile on his lips. Anybody would think he was on a day trip to see the countryside.

He thinks he can get away with anything, Spiller decided. And that makes him dangerous.

But was he a killer?

They’d soon find out when they got him in the interview room. He may have been seen at ten past six, but at the time, he’d only been a couple of miles from Henry Doubleday’s farm.

The MG had been heard by Hargreaves at around quarter past eight and seen, according to Corrigan, by a man named Bellamy at approximately twenty past eight. That window of more than two hours allowed plenty of time for Barrat to get to the farm and commit murder.

And what about the woman he’d been seen with? Could she have been an accomplice? Might she even have been the instigator of the crime?

Stranger things had happened.

But even if Barrat’s alibi was rock solid, he still had some questions to answer. Soon Kulkarni would arrive in Embervale, and it wouldn’t take her long to establish a rapport with Charlie Marshall. If the older man was being coerced or conned by Barrat, she’d find the proof. Whatever else Barrat may have done, he was not going to get away with that.

CHAPTER 57

The time passed slowly for Dan and Alan as they waited in Dan’s kitchen. They’d talked over the case for a while, but Dan was running out of ideas and Alan seemed pensive, content to sit in silence.

Dan checked his phone, but there were no missed calls or texts. In his mind, he replayed the bizarre confrontation between Bellamy and Hugh, but this time he shifted his focus.

He thought of Hugh, a stranger who’d worked his way into the lives of Marjorie Treave and Charlie Marshall. Hugh had flirted with Sam, and he’d been seen in the company of a local woman. If nothing else he was a fast worker. But who was he? And where had he come from?

Embervale was off the beaten track. It was separated from the Teign Valley road by a narrow lane, and the nearest dual carriageway was further away still. There were no buses and the nearest train stations were in Exeter or Newton Abbot. But when they’d seen Hugh in Chudleigh, he’d been driving Charlie Marshall’s car, suggesting he didn’t have one of his own.

Aloud, Dan said, “How did he get here?”

Alan blinked as he snapped out of silent contemplation. “Sorry, who are you talking about?”

“Hugh. He just seems to have appeared, drifting into the village. How did he get here and why did he choose Embervale?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he hitched a lift. It’s a lovely village, so maybe he read about it or saw something online.”

“I can’t remember the last time I saw a hitchhiker. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen one around here. The roads are so quiet you’d wait a long time for a lift. But even if you’re right, why did he choose Embervale? It’s not exactly on the tourist trail, is it? There are no tourist attractions, no tearooms, no gift shops. Coach parties go to Bovey or Widecombe, places like that. They’re in the guidebooks and online; we aren’t.”

“For which I’m eternally grateful. Fortunately for us, you might get a full-sized coach into the lane, but you’d never make it around the bends, they’re far too tight.”

“Which takes me back to my point. Why did Hugh turn up here? It may be nice, but it’s hardly a Mecca for the lone traveller.”

Alan pushed out his lower lip. “You could ask Marjorie. I believe he stayed with her at first. He camped on her field.”

“Yes, I remember you saying. I should’ve thought more about it at the time. Marjorie’s not the most welcoming person. She’s more likely to chase a trespasser away than invite him to stay.”

“She’s all right so long as you treat her with the proper respect, but I know what you mean.”

“Does Marjorie have a phone?” Dan asked.

“Yes, but she keeps quiet about it. It’s really just for emergencies. She doesn’t like people to know the number.”

“How do you know? Did she give it to you?”

Reluctantly, Alan nodded.

“Great.” Dan picked up his phone. “What is it?”

“Erm. Marjorie asked me not to tell you. She was very specific on the subject. You know what Marjorie can be like when she’s made her mind up.”

“Come on, Alan.”

Alan took out his phone, but he turned it over in his hands. “I don’t know, Dan. It would be betraying her confidence, and she really won’t like it if you call her out of the blue.”

“Okay, you ring her then.”

Alan considered this for a moment, then he said. “Let’s just go over there. She’s usually at home, but if we can’t find her, we can leave a note.”

“All right, I give in. I thought for a second we might have made it into the twenty-first century, but I should’ve known better. Shall we drive or do we have to approach on foot? Better yet, maybe we could travel by horseback, galloping over the fields like Poldark.”

“Very funny,” Alan intoned. “I’ve a good mind to insist on walking over there, but it’ll be quicker if we drive. We can take my car, but you can leave your tricorn hat at home.”

It was a short drive to Marjorie’s house, but Alan was uncharacteristically silent throughout. So when Alan halted the car near Marjorie’s gate, Dan said, “Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“You’re not upset about what I said, are you?”

Alan glanced at him, looking puzzled.

“What I said about Poldark and the⁠—”

“No, no,” Alan interrupted. “Water off a duck’s back. I’m used to your offhand remarks.”

“So what’s on your mind?”

Alan stared out through the windscreen, then he let out a slow breath. “I’ll tell you later. Let’s talk to Marjorie first.”

“Okay, if that’s the way you want it.”

“It is.” Alan climbed from the car and Dan followed suit.

Alan strode for the gate, and Dan had to look lively to catch up, but they arrived at Marjorie’s front door together.

Alan was about to knock, but he was spared the effort. The door opened and Marjorie appeared, a well-used wooden rolling pin held in both hands.

“All right?” she said. “What are you two doing here?”

“We came to ask about Hugh,” Alan replied. “We have a few questions.”

Marjorie lifted her chin. “You’re a bit late. All that’s been sorted out. The police took him away.”

“Have they?” Dan asked. “When was this?”

“Not half an hour ago. They sent a couple of detectives, carted him off to Exeter. There’s another detective with Charlie now. Looks like they’re trying to get to the bottom of it.”

“You’re very well informed,” Dan said. “How did you find out so quickly?”

“Charlie called me. I gave him my number.”

Dan raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at Alan, but Marjorie didn’t miss it. Perhaps misinterpreting Dan’s expression, she added, “I was worried about Charlie, so I called at his house this morning. That Hugh was hovering in the background, but I’d already thought of that. I had a few scones all wrapped up in paper, so I gave them to Charlie and slipped him a note at the same time. ‘Something for later,’ I said to him, and fortunately he took my meaning. He shoved the note in his pocket, and I went on my way. I figured he might need someone to talk to, and happen I was right.”

“That was very thoughtful,” Alan said.

“Well, poor old Charlie, he’s had his head turned, hasn’t he? Made a proper fool of himself. It’s what comes of living on your own for too long.”

Dan tried to stop himself, but the words slipped out anyway: “You live on your own.”

“No, I’ve got my livestock for company. They keep me busy from sunrise to sunset. I’ve plenty to do, but Charlie has his garden and not much else. There’s only so much time you can spend planting petunias, and they might look pretty, but they don’t notice when you’re gone, and they’re never glad when you come back.”

Alan caught Dan’s eye, but Dan wasn’t sure why. He’d grown used to thinking of Alan as an open book, and it was unsettling to have that illusion shattered. But whatever was going on with his friend, this wasn’t the time to discuss it.

Steering the conversation back to the matter in hand, Dan said, “About Hugh—did you see him arrive in the village?”

“Not exactly. He said someone in the village gave him directions to my place, but he never said who. Maybe he made that up.”

Dan’s ears pricked up. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t rightly know, but when you look back on things, you sometimes wonder, don’t you? I mean, he knew exactly where I live, and he reckoned he came for eggs, but if he’d been in the village already, why didn’t he go straight to the shop?”

“That’s an excellent question,” Dan said. He was about to say more, but Marjorie was carrying on as though he hadn’t spoken.

“And why would he come down here when it took him out of his way?” She asked. “He reckoned he was headed for the campsite at Hennock, but when he came down to me, he was making it harder for himself. He must’ve come downhill from the village, so he had even further to go uphill. And that lane up to Hennock is bad enough when you’re walking, never mind trying to get up there on a bike. And he had all those bags and whatnot.”

Dan held up a finger, and Marjorie frowned as if frustrated to be halted mid-flow.

“He came by bike?” Dan asked.

“I just said as much, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. It struck me as strange. I’m surprised nobody thought to mention it before.”

“I didn’t know,” Alan said. “But then, I didn’t really think about him. Hugh seemed to get on well with everybody. I thought he was a harmless young man, passing through.”

Marjorie tutted. “We all thought the same. He’s one of those folks with the gift of the gab, full of fancy words but nothing more. You can’t trust people like that. They say one thing and mean another. That’s no way to carry on, now is it?” Her gaze landed on Dan as though he might fall into this camp.

Don’t rise to it, Dan told himself. Be nice. Making his expression open, he said, “I suppose Hugh took all his stuff with him when he went to stay with Mr Marshall.”

“You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you? But no, he’s left the whole lot lying in my field. Tent, bike, sleeping bag, everything.”

“That’s odd. Can we see?”

“I don’t know. I expect the police might want to take it away. That’s what they do, isn’t it? Everything goes to a lab for fingerprints and all that.”

“That might happen,” Dan said. “But it won’t be for a while, and all we want to do is take a quick look at his campsite. We’ll be very careful, and we’ll try not to touch anything.”

Marjorie pursed her lips, then she turned to Alan. “What do you think?”

“I agree with Dan. There’s no harm in us having a look around, and we might find something that could help the police, you never know.”

This clearly wasn’t enough to win Marjorie over.

“As soon as we’re done, we’ll telephone the police,” Dan said. “Then they’ll come and take everything away. That’ll save you having to deal with it.”

“Well, I was going to call them myself, but I don’t know what number they use these days. There used to be a police station in every town, but not anymore. What’s a person supposed to do?”

“You dial 111 if it’s not an emergency,” Alan replied. “That puts you through to an operator, and they decide who to connect you with.”

Marjorie shook her head. “I don’t want to deal with all that. You can do it when you’ve had a look.” She pointed to a gate at the side of her yard. “It’s through there and across the meadow. His tent’s right by the hedge. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks,” Alan said. “We won’t be long.”

Dan and Alan strode to the gate and let themselves into the field. The last time Dan had seen this stretch of land it had been overgrown by bracken and dotted with tangled bushes and clumps of rhododendrons that had seeded themselves. But Marjorie had worked hard, and now it was a rolling expanse of grass, some of it mown, the cut grass lying flat to dry in the sun.

“There it is,” Alan said, pointing across the meadow. “Over by the hedge.”

Dan followed Alan’s gesture and spotted Hugh’s tent. A minute later they were standing over the makeshift campsite.

The light-blue tent looked as good as new. Big enough for two, or three at a push, it had been made by Coleman, but Hugh’s attempt to erect it had been slipshod. The guy ropes were arranged at random angles, and while some were tight, others flapped uselessly against the outer flysheet.

“He’s not much of a camper by the looks of it,” Alan said. “He ought to have put the opening at the other end to take account of the slope.”

But Dan’s attention was already elsewhere, an earlier conversation nagging at his mind: a conversation from a different time, a different place.

“He might not know about tents, but look at that,” Dan said, pointing to the bike propped against the hedge.

A glossy shade of dull green, the bike’s frame was adorned with the brand name Specialized, and it was very modern in design. Dan was by no means a connoisseur of bicycles, but he could see at a glance that this was no ordinary machine.

He moved closer, taking in the disc brakes, the rugged wheels and the sweeping geometry of the frame. And then Dan realised what was different about this bike. Where he’d expect to see the welds on a metal frame, there were only smooth curves. He took hold of the bike, grabbing it low down on the frame to avoid touching the handlebars, and he lifted it just enough to clear the ground before setting it back down.

At his side, Alan watched anxiously. “Should you be doing that?”

“I was careful, and I wanted to be sure. It has a carbon frame, so it must’ve cost a fortune.”

“It’s a nice bike, that’s for sure.”

“Better than Hugh can afford, wouldn’t you say?”

“You think he pinched it?” Alan asked.

“Don’t you?”

Dan bent down to look closer, and there it was, exactly as he’d been hoping: a string of characters along the frame, picked out in dots etched into the paint. “Yes. It’s security marked. It says bikeregister.com and there’s a reference number.”

“I’ll get some photos,” Dan went on, and he used his phone to capture the reference number, then he set the camera to selfie mode and held it under the bike’s bottom bracket. A sticker swam into focus, another reference number printed on it in clear black characters.

“Frame number?” Alan asked.

“Yes, and that’s everything we need.” Dan stood and opened his phone’s web browser, but the phone signal wasn’t strong enough for browsing the internet.

“I’ll check the bike when I get home,” Dan went on. “I’ve a feeling I know exactly where it might have come from.”

“Really? That’s quick work, even for you. You’d better explain.”

“When I went to see Liam Doubleday, he told me about his lodger, Damian. He’d run off, owing them money, and he stole their camping gear. But the clincher is, he’d also stolen a neighbour’s bike. An expensive one. Maybe he sold it to Hugh.”

“That would make sense, but it could be nothing more than a coincidence,” Alan said. “Plenty of people own tents and bikes.”

“Yes, but we can prove it one way or the other. The security mark will give us the bike’s original owner, and we can go from there. If there’s a link between Hugh and Damian, then there’s an indirect connection between Hugh and Henry Doubleday.”

Alan’s hand went to his chin. “That’s worth pursuing. Shall we have a look in the tent? There might be some more clues inside.”

“Just a quick gander.”

Alan squatted down to unzip the tent and they both peered in through the open flap. A sleeping bag lay crumpled on a foam mat, but apart from a vague smell of damp there was nothing of note.

“Let’s leave it,” Dan said. “Zip it back up and we’ll head home to see what we can find out.”

Alan closed the tent, and they marched back across the field. Alan went straight to the car, but Dan called in on Marjorie.

“Are you done?” Marjorie asked.

“Yes, but we think Hugh’s bike might be stolen property. If the police come to take it, that’s fine, but please don’t let anybody else go anywhere near it, especially Hugh.”

Marjorie set her jaw, and Dan said no more. Marjorie would stop all comers, and if Hugh dared to show his face, he wouldn’t get past the front gate.

Dan said goodbye and went to join Alan. As soon as Dan’s backside hit the passenger seat, Alan said, “Let’s go.” He put his foot down while Dan was still fastening his seatbelt, the Golf’s tyres sending up a spray of loose gravel as the car accelerated away.

Dan smiled to himself. This was more like it. Fresh clues and a break in the case. Even better, Alan seemed back to his usual self, his gaze sharp and his posture upright as he tackled the winding lane.

He was going to tell me something earlier, Dan thought. Should I ask him about it? But no, this wasn’t the time. Alan was in the mood for detective work, not talk, and that suited Dan very well.

They were on the threshold of making a discovery, Dan felt sure of it. Liam, Hugh and Henry: there was a link. All that remained was to uncover a motive for murder.

CHAPTER 58

Back at Exeter police station, Spiller and Collins escorted Barrat inside, but as they marched through the lobby, Spiller was hailed by Gwen Sadler, the civilian employee on duty behind the front desk.

“DI Spiller,” she said. “You have a visitor.” Gwen pointed across the lobby, and Spiller turned to see a tall man rising from one of the plastic chairs.

“Mr Bellamy?” Spiller asked.

“That’s right.” The man’s gaze went to Barrat and became a hard stare.

Barrat muttered an oath under his breath, but Spiller’s attention was on Bellamy. Tall and quite distinguished, his hair combed in a side parting and his beard neatly cropped, Mr Bellamy appeared to be eminently respectable. His charcoal grey jacket was understated, and he wore a green V-necked pullover over a white shirt. His black trousers had a sharp crease pressed into the front, and his shoes, also black, had been polished to a high gloss.

“I’ll be right with you, sir,” Spiller said, then he nodded to Collins. “I’ll talk to Mr Bellamy while you get Mr Barrat settled in an interview room.”

“No problem,” Collins replied. “Come on, Mr Barrat. I’ll see if I can scare you up a coffee or something.”

“Never mind about that,” Barrat snapped. “It’s him you ought to be talking to, not me. I don’t even⁠—”

“We’ll cover all this in your interview,” Collins interrupted, placing his hand on Barrat’s arm and guiding him toward the door that led to the custody suite and interview rooms.

Barrat grumbled all the way, and Bellamy watched, standing very still as though holding his breath. It was only when the door closed and the lobby grew quiet that Bellamy seemed to relax.

Moving closer to Spiller, he said, “A troubled soul. What could have been going through his mind? To hurt someone like that, to take a life—I can scarcely imagine it.”

“It happens,” Spiller replied. “Not as often as the TV dramas would have us believe, thank goodness, but I can’t comment on Mr Barrat. He’ll be interviewed and that’s all I can say.”

Bellamy bowed his head. “Of course. Forgive me, I let my preconceptions get the better of me. He is innocent until proven otherwise, and it’s not for me to cast the first stone.”

“Exactly. Shall we go upstairs? We can chat in my office. It’s more convivial than an interview room, and we won’t be disturbed. Probably.”

“I’m in your hands, Inspector.”

“Excellent. It’s this way.”

Spiller led Bellamy up the stairs and through the CID office. Bellamy gazed around as he walked, seemingly entranced by the buzz of activity.

These days, the CID team wasn’t large, but the numbers were boosted by the civilian support staff, and everyone was hard at work, some peering intently at their computers, others talking on their phones, and a few tackling both tasks at the same time. Seeing the room through Bellamy’s eyes, Spiller imagined the scene would seem alien. He was, after all, the deacon of a rural parish where the harvest festival was seen as a major event.

“It’ll be much quieter in my office,” Spiller said, ushering Bellamy through the door and closing it firmly. “Have a seat.”

While Bellamy made himself comfortable, drawing the chair closer to the desk, Spiller ensconced himself on the other side. Leaning his forearms on the wooden surface, he focused on Bellamy and began: “Thank you for coming in, Mr Bellamy. We appreciate it.”

“It’s no trouble. I would’ve come sooner, but I missed your call. I was visiting a parishioner, and I only checked my phone when I was on the way out. Your voicemail said to come in as soon as possible, so here I am.”

“Okay, let’s get started.” Spiller pulled his computer’s keyboard toward him and made everything ready. His fingers itched for the comfort of a proper statement form and a pen, but that wasn’t the way things were done.

“Take me through the events of Monday evening,” Spiller went on. “There’s no rush, so take your time.”

Bellamy started to relate the series of events, and Spiller did his best to keep up, typing as rapidly as he could with two fingers and the thumb of each hand. In many ways, Bellamy was an ideal witness. He spoke eloquently, clearly and accurately, including only as much detail as was needed. He didn’t change his mind and correct himself mid-sentence, and he was never vague. Neither did he hesitate. There was not so much as an ‘um’ or an ‘ah’.

He must be good at his job, Spiller decided. When you’re delivering a message, it pays to sound confident.

It didn’t take more than a few minutes for Mr Bellamy to finish his account. Spiller caught up and glanced back over his handiwork. It was an excellent statement, brief and to the point, but he had questions.

“Mr Bellamy, you mentioned that you received a text message from Henry Doubleday on Monday evening at around six o’clock, but I didn’t quite follow what it was about. Could you run that past me again?”

“Certainly, it was about the arrangements for Ascension Day. That’s when we celebrate the ascension of Jesus to heaven, and we make a special effort to decorate the church with flower arrangements. Henry was always good at organising such things.”

“I see. Thanks for clarifying. And was there any hint of concern or worry in the message? Anything that might’ve hinted at his state of mind?”

“No, it was business as usual. Henry took his duties as warden very seriously.”

Spiller made a note to check the text message later, then he said, “Going back to when the MG passed you in the lane on Monday, how quickly was it travelling?”

“I’d say about forty miles an hour. It came out of nowhere.”

“Did you hear it coming?”

Bellamy shook his head. “I must admit, I was wearing earbuds. I know it’s not totally safe, but I was out in a quiet country lane. I thought I’d be all right.”

“So, when did you become aware of the car?”

“Not until it was almost on top of me. The engine was suddenly very loud, and I realised it was very close. I started to turn, to look over my shoulder, but then it was speeding past me, and I dived out of the way.”

“That must’ve been distressing for you.”

“It was.”

“Were you hurt?”

“Not really,” Bellamy replied. “I was more shocked than anything.”

Spiller nodded in sympathy. “When something like this happens, it’s easy to become disorientated, confused.”

“I’ll take your word for it, but I wasn’t dazed. If anything, I was sharper than usual. It must’ve been the adrenaline. I could see the car clearly, and I saw the driver when he got out.”

“At that point how far away was he?”

“Not far. Twenty or thirty metres.”

“I see.” Spiller was about to add a note to the statement, but instead, he sat back. “That sounds about right for the stopping distance at that speed, but it’s an old car and the road surface isn’t great in those lanes, so I’d guess it could’ve travelled further. Could you read the car’s registration number?”

“I didn’t try. I was face down on the ground.”

“But you probably looked when you got up,” Spiller said. “After a near miss like that, it’s only natural to look at the car’s number plate.”

“I don’t recall. I might’ve tried. It crossed my mind, I think, but if I read it, I didn’t memorise it.”

“Or perhaps it was too far away for you to read the number plate.”

Bellamy lips opened and closed but he didn’t reply

Spiller waited. Doubt had crept into Bellamy’s expression, and for the first time, there were cracks in the man’s self-assurance. At moments like this an uncomfortable silence could work wonders.

Sure enough, Bellamy began talking again, his speech halting at first but becoming more fluent as he went on.

“The distance… what I said earlier, it was only an estimate. It could’ve been further, maybe as much as another fifty metres or so. And I was only guessing at the speed. When I drive in the lanes, I rarely go above twenty miles an hour because there are so many blind bends, but this car was going far too fast.”

“So we could be looking at seventy metres,” Spiller suggested. “Did the driver put the brakes on immediately after passing you or was there a delay?”

“I couldn’t say. At first I was face down on the ground, so I wouldn’t have seen his brake lights. All I know is, when I got back to my feet, the car was there, and the man was getting out.”

Spiller kept his gaze on Bellamy. “I have to say, you seem less than certain about the distance between you and the car. How confident are you about identifying the man you saw?”

“Very. It was the man who came in with you downstairs. I’m sure of it. I saw him in Chudleigh too, and on that day we were very close to each other. I knew it was the same man.”

“So you’re not clear on how far away he was at the time, but you saw him clearly enough to recognise him later.”

Bellamy nodded vigorously. “That’s right. When that man got out of the car, I was worried what he might do. People can be aggressive behind the wheel, acting as if they own the road. When I’ve been out for a run, I’ve seen my share of bad drivers, blaming me for getting in their way. Some people expect pedestrians to jump into the hedge at the first sign of a car, but I won’t do that. It isn’t safe.”

“Quite right,” Spiller said. “But this driver wasn’t angry, was he? According to your statement, he stopped to ask if you were okay.”

“That’s right. Those were exactly his words: ‘Are you okay?’ I said I was fine, and I was going to say more, but he jumped straight back into the car and drove away.”

“What was he wearing?” Spiller asked.

Bellamy dropped his gaze for a second. “A waxed cotton jacket. Dark green. And jeans, I think. Yes, jeans.”

Spiller studied Bellamy for a second. The man’s earlier confidence seemed to be evaporating rapidly.

“What colour were these jeans?” Spiller asked.

“The usual. Dark blue?”

Spiller frowned. “Is that a question, Mr Bellamy, or a statement?”

“Sorry.” Bellamy let out a nervous chuckle. “His jeans were dark blue. He looked fairly smart. I had no reason to think he’d done anything wrong.”

“So he didn’t seem nervous or agitated?”

“No, not as far as I could tell. But then, I don’t have much experience with these things.”

Spiller raised his eyebrows. “Meaning?”

“Crime. I’ve met many people who’ve had troubles, and I’ve tried to help where I can, but I’ve rarely come across those who turn to violence. I suppose I’ve led a sheltered life. These last few days have made me question whether I’m in the right place to fulfil my calling. I ought to go where I’m needed the most. Perhaps it’s time for me to broaden my horizons.”

“There are people in need wherever you go,” Spiller said. “And sadly, there are criminals everywhere, but let’s concentrate on Monday evening. After the car narrowly missed you, did it come to a halt in a controlled way, or did it skid?”

“I didn’t see. Like I said, I was on the ground, but I heard a sound that might’ve been made by the tyres.”

“You still had your earbuds in,” Spiller suggested.

“That’s right, but it was a distinctive noise: a sort of long, drawn out scraping sound.”

Bellamy’s tone was stronger now, more certain, but still, Spiller wasn’t entirely convinced. Bellamy’s story was plausible, but the man’s sense of conviction was paper thin.

“We didn’t find any skid marks on the road.” Spiller said.

“It’s a long lane. Did you check all of it?”

“No, but perhaps we can pin down exactly where the incident occurred. You said that your watch caused your phone to send a message.”

“Yes.” Bellamy reached into his jacket’s inside pocket and brandished his phone. “I still have the outgoing message, and it includes my exact location. It’s all in the GPS data. I didn’t delete anything.”

“We can retrieve the message from your network provider,” Spiller said. “But just to be sure, could we take your phone for examination?”

“Oh, is that really necessary? I use it constantly for my work.”

“Then we’ll be as quick as we can. All we need is the PIN.”

Bellamy pressed his phone flat against his chest. “I’m not sure about that. I have messages from our parishioners, and those conversations are strictly confidential. I can’t just⁠—”

“You needn’t concern yourself with that,” Spiller interrupted. “We can be trusted. Our experts know what they’re doing, and this is a murder inquiry, Mr Bellamy. This investigation has to take precedence.”

Bellamy didn’t look happy. “Do I have a choice?”

“Yes, you do,” Spiller replied. “It’s entirely up to you, but we’d appreciate your cooperation.”

“That being the case, I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse,” Bellamy said. “With the vicar in hospital, I’m very busy, and that phone is my lifeline. Our parishioners are spread over a wide area, and some of them live in remote places. Without my phone, I won’t be able to do my job.”

“Many would say the same,” Spiller said. “Myself included. But if I can prevail on you to change your mind…”

“I’m sorry, but no,” Bellamy replied. “That’s my final word.”

Spiller nodded slowly. “Okay, then that’s everything for the moment. Thank you very much for your time, Mr Bellamy. I’ll see you out.”

At the main entrance, Spiller watched as Simon Bellamy walked at a steady pace toward the visitors’ car park, his head held high and his shoulders back. He seemed serene, looking neither to his right nor his left as he crossed the tarmac, despite the number of vehicles moving nearby.

Spiller stood for a moment, thinking back to an earlier time, more than thirty years before, when he’d been taken in by a dog collar and a priestly smile. That situation had been very different; the man wearing the clerical collar had been closer to sinner than saint.

Simon Bellamy, on the other hand, was a bona fide deacon, and he’d come in to the station willingly, eager to help. There was no comparison, but even so, there was something about Mr Bellamy that wasn’t quite right.

Spiller went back inside, and found DS Collins chatting with Gwen, his elbow resting on the front desk.

“Not overtaxing you, are we, Collins?” Spiller called out, and Collins broke off his conversation and straightened his spine.

“No. I was waiting for you to come back in. Gwen told me you were seeing Bellamy out. How did it go?”

Spiller kept walking across the lobby, beckoning Collins as he went. Together, they headed toward the interview rooms.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Collins said. “What did you think of Mr Bellamy?”

“Hard to tell. On the surface, he seems straight as a die.”

“But?”

Spiller wasn’t sure how to respond. His doubts about Bellamy were nebulous at best. A quote came to mind, and he muttered it aloud without meaning to: “The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.”

Collins glanced at him, but didn’t ask.

“Shakespeare. The Merchant of Venice,” Spiller explained. “I was just thinking about an old case. Sometimes, it’s all too easy to let our preconceptions get in the way. We trust doctors, clergy, teachers, nurses, but people aren’t defined by their jobs. Everyone has their failings.”

“Even detective inspectors?”

Spiller’s smile was wry. “Yes, even people like me.”

“You reckon Bellamy might be dodgy?”

“There’s nothing I can put my finger on. He’s very articulate and switched on. I’ve never taken a statement so fast. He had all the times for his movements that evening, and they all add up. But he wouldn’t give me his phone. Mr Bellamy fell when Henry’s car almost ran him down, and he says his watch picked up the sudden movement. It's connected to his phone, apparently, so an automatic text went out. I asked if we could double check his messages, but there was no way he was going to hand it over. He says he needs it for his work.”

“Fair enough,” Collins said. “Most people want to keep hold of their phones, and we can always check his phone records.”

“I know, but even so, it gave me pause.”

Collins was unconvinced. “He struck me as all right. Bellamy recognised Barrat as soon as he clapped eyes on him. Anyone could see that.”

“But that might’ve been because they met the other day in Chudleigh. In that instance, they were standing right next to each other. It doesn’t prove that Barrat was in the MG. You know what eyewitnesses are like. Sometimes, they see what they’re expecting to see.”

“On the other hand, maybe he’s exactly what he looks like,” Collins said. “A man of the church doing his best to be a good citizen.”

“You might be right, Collins. We can safely say that Mr Bellamy will make a good witness. Certainly, a jury might value his testimony over the word of a drifter like Barrat. But I don’t want to rely on Bellamy too much. I’m not totally satisfied by his story.”

Collins shook his head. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Guv. We’ve got Barrat as a prime suspect for the murder, and we’ve got a good witness in Simon Bellamy. We’re on a roll and there’s no downside. We still get to hold Searle for false imprisonment, and as soon as the CPS get their arses in gear we can charge him.”

“Yes. Searle can’t use his dear old dad as an extenuating circumstance, not for this. And with Julie’s age and vulnerability, and the level of distress he caused, Searle will be looking at a long sentence.”

“Too right. He deserves it.”

“We’ll take care of him later. First, I’d like to see what Mr Barrat has to say.”

“He’s waiting in IR 1. He’s been there for a while, so he should be ready to talk.”

“Good. Let’s get to it.”

CHAPTER 59

Alan insisted that they go to his house to take the next step in their investigation, and Dan readily agreed. Within a few minutes of arrival they were sitting side by side at Alan’s kitchen table, Dan watching intently as Alan tapped away at his laptop’s keyboard. The bike registration website was easy to find, and the database could be searched by area, frame number or unique reference code.

“The code will be our best bet,” Dan said, and while he read out the string of letters and numbers, Alan typed them in.

“Got it!” Alan beamed triumphantly and Dan returned his smile.

On the screen was a photo of the bike Hugh had left in Marjorie’s field, a Specialized carbon-framed gravel bike, along with a plaintive plea from the owner, a Mr Bowler:

I need this bike for work and for a charity ride I’m doing this summer. Any help appreciated.

Above the photo was a button for sending a message to the owner.

“Shall we contact him directly?” Alan asked. “Or would it be better to tell the police?”

“I don’t see why we can’t do both,” Dan replied. “Send him my number, then I’ll have a chance to talk to him.”

“Okay. He’ll be glad to know his precious bike is in one piece.”

Alan tapped out a brief message and sent it, then he sat back.

“The ball’s in his court,” Alan said. “All we can do is⁠—”

He was cut short by Dan’s phone ringing. Dan checked the screen. “Unknown number. It could be him.”

“Already?”

“Why not? I expect the site sent him a text.”

Dan accepted the call, and in a faltering voice, a man said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but did you send a message about my bike?”

“I certainly did,” Dan replied. “But before we go on, could I check your name, please?”

“It’s Len Bowler. The bike is a Specialized Diverge. That’s the make and the model. It’s a gravel bike with a carbon frame.”

“That certainly matches the bike we’ve found.”

“That’s amazing. I’d almost given up hope. And your message said the bike was okay.”

“As far as I can see, but we didn’t check whether it was all in working order. We saw the security mark and contacted you straight away.”

“Are the panniers still attached, and the lights?”

“Yes to the panniers. I didn’t see any lights.” Dan looked to Alan and received a shake of the head.

“We think the lights may be missing,” Dan went on. “But there’s still a chance you’ll get them back.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, you see, the man who had your bike is in police custody.”

“Ah, a serial thief, is he? Some of them are quite organised. They work in gangs and ship the bikes overseas.”

“It’s more serious than that,” Dan said. “The man who was using your bike is suspected of murder.”

The silence on the line was so prolonged that Dan asked Bowler if he was still there.

“Yes, I’m still here.” The caution in Bowler’s voice was an unspoken accusation, as if he’d already decided this was a hoax or a scam of some kind.

“Let me explain,” Dan said. “My name is Dan Corrigan and I’m a private investigator. If you like, you can look me up online. I’ll wait.”

There was a pause before Bowler replied. “Okay, I’m doing that now. You’re based in…?”

“Embervale. If you compare the phone number on my website, you’ll see that it’s the number you called me on.”

“Yes, I see that. So I guess that explains how you found my bike. Is that what you do, look for stolen property and claim a reward?”

“No, not at all. I came across your bike by chance. Sadly, a man was murdered near our village, and the police took a man named Hugh in for questioning. I went to see how he arrived in the village, and that’s when I found your bike.”

“I see. The bloke who pinched it must’ve sold it on. That makes sense.”

“You must be referring to Damian, the man who was a lodger at a house near yours.”

“That’s right. Damian Barnsley. But how did you know that?”

“I spoke to your neighbours, Liam and Mark, in connection with a different case. They mentioned Damian because he’d stolen from them. They told me about your bike and that you suspected Damian of stealing it.”

“Oh, it was more than a suspicion. I’m positive it was him.”

“Can you take me through what happened?”

Bowler didn’t reply immediately. He might well have been wondering why he should repeat a story he’d already given to the police, so Dan added, “I’m trying to work out the connection between Damian and Hugh, and the sequence of events will really help.”

“Fair enough, I suppose. And you did find my bike, so… I was in the garden, getting my bike ready for a ride. There’s an alley that runs along the back, and I saw Damian pass by. He said hello and something about the weather—nice day for it—something like that. Sometimes he stops for a chat, but he didn’t on that day. He kept walking. He didn’t so much as glance at the bike. But a few minutes later, I popped inside to use the loo, and I saw someone moving past the window. I dashed out as quickly as I could, but he was already cycling away. I chased after him, but he was pedalling like crazy. There was no way I was going to catch him.”

“So you only saw him from behind,” Dan suggested.

“Yes, but it was Damian. The same build, the same clothes, everything. I’d seen him just minutes before.”

“What did you do next? Did you go straight over to Liam’s house?”

“Yes. I talked to Liam, and he was as surprised as I was. He was talking as if Damian was going to come back, like it was all some stupid prank, but I knew better. I spent a fortune on that bike, and I’d talked to Damian about it. I should’ve known better than to show off, but I thought he was a decent bloke. Anyway, when he stole that bike, he knew exactly what he was doing.”

So when did Damian steal the camping gear? Dan asked himself. Did he go back for it? And how did Hugh fit into the picture? Were they, in fact, the same person?

Aloud, Dan said, “Can you describe Damian to me?”

“He’s tall, slim, dark hair. He has a beard, or he did when I last saw him. I’d say he’s in his late twenties. He’s soft-spoken, educated. He could be very polite, easy to talk to. He always seemed to be cheerful.”

“It sounds as though you liked him.”

“Yes, as a neighbour he was ideal. He could be quite…”

“Charming,” Dan suggested.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

It was Dan’s turn to remain silent. Len Bowler’s pencil portrait could very easily be applied to Hugh.

“So when can I collect my bike?” Bowler went on.

“Very soon, I should think,” Dan replied. “The police might want to look at it first, but I know the detective in charge, and I’ll pass on your details. There’s the security mark too—that should help.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll have to be patient, but thanks for calling, Mr Corrigan. Bye.”

Bowler hung up, but Dan kept his phone in his hand, and he began searching through his contacts.

“Who are you going to call?” Alan asked.

“Liam. I want to know more about Damian. I’m beginning to think the connection between Hugh and Damian is stronger than we thought.”

“You mean, they plotted something together?”

Dan shook his head. “They might be the same person.”

“Ah, why didn’t that occur to us before?” Alan pulled his laptop closer. “Let’s see what we can see.”

“Social media?”

“Absolutely,” Alan replied. “I’ll start with Liam. Guessing at his age, I’d say Instagram is our best bet.”

Alan worked furiously for a minute, then he paused, frowning. “Liam’s account is private. Let me try Mark.”

A moment later, he started scrolling. “Got it. And Mark likes to share. Ahah!”

Alan turned the laptop to show Dan, and in the centre of the screen was a photo of three men, all smiling, pint glasses in their hands. Standing between Liam and Mark, Hugh was either pulling a face or he’d enjoyed one beer too many, his head tilted to one side and his lips stretched wide in a goofy grin. But it was the caption that held Dan’s attention:

At The Roundabout with Liam and Damian.

“That settles it,” Dan said. “Hugh and Damian are one and the same.”

“It looks that way. And that answers your earlier question: Why Embervale? Liam told Damian all about the village, and he might even have told him about Marjorie. She is something of a local legend.”

Dan nodded. “So Damian changed his name to Hugh, and he set out to find Marjorie’s place. He knew enough about her to pull the wool over her eyes, and hey presto, she invited him to stay. He was okay until he ran into Henry Doubleday, and somehow, Henry knew his real identity.”

“How? Henry wasn’t even on speaking terms with his son, let alone the lodger.”

“I don’t know.” Dan thought for a second. There was a chance that Henry’s estrangement from his son had not been as complete as he made out. He could’ve been keeping up appearances, worrying about what other people thought. But there was another possibility.

“Jean Doubleday,” Dan said. “I don’t know her at all, but when I spoke to Mark on the phone, he sounded quite fond of her. Perhaps he’s known her for a while. If she’s been keeping in touch with her son, she might’ve recognised Damian and told her husband.”

“At which point, Henry would’ve waded in with both feet. Desperate to protect his identity, Damian lashed out and the deed was done.”

“And Damian moves on, deciding he’ll be safer tucked away in Charlie Marshall’s cosy home.”

“It hangs together, but we’ve gone as far as we can,” Alan stated. “It’s time to talk to DI Spiller.”

“Maybe, but it’s tenuous at best, and I don’t want to send Spiller on a wild goose chase.”

“That’s for him to decide.”

“Yes but we have another iron in the fire,” Dan said. “We should deal with that before we go to Spiller.”

“Simon Bellamy?”

“That’s right. I still think he’s our prime suspect. All we know about Damian is that he’s a thief and a liar, and on the night Henry was killed, he was seen with Penny Robbins.”

“It’s not much of an alibi,” Alan said. “It was early evening when they were seen, and we have no way of knowing what Damian did next.”

“That’s true. Damian isn’t off the hook, but neither is Simon Bellamy. He knew Henry, we can place him in the lane where Henry was found, and the man has a temper. We ought to have been looking at him from the start. You’ll see, he’ll call as soon as he gets my message.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“He will,” Dan said. “He’ll have to.”

CHAPTER 60

Spiller entered Interview Room One to find Hugh Barrat sitting upright on his chair, his hands resting on the tabletop. Barrat fastened his soft gaze on Spiller and Collins, but he didn’t speak, not even to return Spiller’s greeting.

Like that, is it? Spiller thought. Going to keep schtum, are we?

The policemen took their places facing Barrat across the table, and Spiller waited while Collins started the recording and ran through the preliminaries.

Barrat watched all this with a serene smile on his lips.

“Hugh,” Spiller began, “do you understand everything that my colleague has explained to you?”

“Yes,” Barrat replied. “But I don’t need a lawyer. There’s been a misunderstanding, but we can clear it up in no time. I’m happy to help.”

“That’s good to hear,” Spiller said. “Let’s begin with Monday evening. Where were you from, say five o’clock onwards?”

“I can’t account for every minute, but at five I would’ve been walking into the village. I’ve been camping in a field belonging to Mrs Treave, but I’d arranged to meet someone outside the pub. We met up as planned, and I spent the rest of the evening with my friend.”

“What kind of friend?” Collins asked.

“A woman. We were together all evening.”

Spiller adopted his tried-and-tested expression of expectant patience. It usually worked, and it didn’t let him down now.

“You want her name, I know,” Barrat went on. “But listen, she’s married, okay? I don’t want this getting out. It’s not fair to her.”

“We’re nothing if not discreet,” Spiller replied. “And yes, we do need the lady’s name.”

“Penny Robbins. She’s from the village.”

“I see, and where did you and Penny go?”

“We went to Torquay. To a club. We stayed until very late.”

“We’ll need times and details,” Collins said. “And please be as accurate as you can. We’ll be checking everything you say.”

“Okay.” Barrat ran his tongue over his lips. “We took a taxi. I booked it from a firm called A to B. They were supposed to pick us up outside the pub at six, but the driver got lost. The firm called me and said the satnav was no good. The car was waiting on the edge of the village, so we told them he could stay put. We walked to meet him. It seemed easier.”

“When did the taxi leave Embervale?”

“About quarter past six. It took us straight to Torquay and dropped us off by a park. I don’t know what the place is called, but there’s a fairground. Penny saw it and wanted to have a look.”

“It’s a long taxi ride to Torquay,” Spiller said. “It must’ve cost a few quid. Who paid?”

“I did. I paid in cash. The driver might remember us. He was white, middle-aged, dark hair. He was a grumpy sod. He didn’t get a tip.”

Collins made a note on the tablet.

Watching him, Barrat added, “The taxi firm will have records. They’ll back me up. I’m not lying.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about,” Spiller said. “So, having arrived in Torquay, where did you go?”

“We had a look at the fair. Penny wanted to go on a couple of the rides, so we did that, then we went to find something to eat. There’s a bar—Visto Lounge—they do food. It would’ve been around half seven by the time we got there.”

“Did you get a receipt for your meal?”

“Er, I don’t know. Penny paid. She insisted. She said I was doing her a favour, taking her out, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“So it’s true what they say,” Spiller remarked. “The age of chivalry is well and truly dead.”

Barrat held out his hands. “No, I offered to pay or split the bill, but it was like I said. Penny⁠—”

“We’ll check with Mrs Robbins,” Spiller interrupted. “And we’ll check at the bar too.”

“Fine. It’s all true. I had a cheeseburger and chips, Penny had one of those salad bowls. She likes to look after herself, eat healthy.”

“Very wise. When did you finish your meal?”

“About nine, maybe a little later. The food took a while to arrive. They were busy.”

“Too early to go to a club,” Collins stated.

“Yeah. We went to a pub first. The Ship. We were there for a couple of hours. It was gone eleven when we got to the club. The Soho Bar. We stayed until two, then we got another taxi back to Embervale. It must’ve been about three by then. I made sure Penny got home okay, then I dossed down under a hedge.”

Spiller raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah. Look, I know it doesn’t sound good, but that’s what I did. It would’ve been a fair walk back to my tent, and I was tired. I’d had a few drinks, and I couldn’t be bothered to trek all the way over there, especially in the dark. I didn’t have a torch or anything.”

“You could’ve used your phone,” Spiller said. “That’s what most people do.”

“No, it was dead. There’s nowhere to charge a phone when you’re camping. Anyway, Marjorie has geese, and I thought they might’ve made a racket if I turned up in the middle of the night, stumbling around. I didn’t want to wake her up. She might’ve come after me with a shotgun or something.”

“Does Mrs Treave have a shotgun?”

“I don’t know. I’m just trying to tell you how it was. It’s all true.”

“Is that so?” Spiller intoned. “In that case, you ought to be able to tell us exactly where you slept on Monday night.”

“No way. It was just some random hedge in the lane. It looked dry, so I gave it a go.”

“Then you will have seen where you were when you woke up.”

“Yeah, but I was a bit fuzzy. I climbed out and started walking. I thought the shop might be open and I wanted a cold drink. Something sweet.” He paused. “That was when I met Charlie Marshall. He was on his doorstep looking out at his garden, and I said hello. I think he could tell I was feeling rough. He offered me a mug of tea, and I was glad of it, so I went in. I was only going to stay a minute, but we got chatting and we figured I could help him out. I’ve been staying there ever since. Ask him.”

“We will,” Spiller replied. “But going back to Monday night, you’re saying that Mrs Robbins was out from six in the evening to three the next morning. That’s a long time to be away from home.”

“Her kids are teenagers, so she said they’d be all right. And anyway, her husband was at home.”

“Left holding the fort, eh?” Spiller said. “Did Mr Robbins know how his wife was spending the evening?”

Barrat pulled a face. “Him? From what Penny said, he probably didn’t ask. He doesn’t give a toss about her. They might live in the same house, but they hardly talk. Penny sometimes sleeps on the sofa rather than with him. It’s not right, expecting a woman to live like that. You can judge me all you like, but I’ve done nothing wrong. Penny needed cheering up and I took her out. So what?”

“Oh, we let others do the judging,” Spiller replied. “We’re investigating a murder, so our interest in you starts and ends with your connection to Henry Doubleday.”

“I don’t have one. It was sad that something happened to him, but I never knew the guy.”

Spiller studied Barrat for a moment, letting the silence build. An odd turn of phrase, he thought. Barrat could’ve said ‘He was killed’ or ‘He was murdered’. He might even have used a gentler phrase such as ‘He’s passed away’. But no. He’d been deliberately vague, like a man who couldn’t face the reality of what he’d done.

Leaning forward in a swift motion, Spiller said, “Why did you kill him?”

Barrat recoiled, shrinking into his chair. “Jesus! I didn’t do anything. I’ve never met him, I’ve never even seen him.”

“Then how come you were driving his car?”

“I wasn’t. I⁠—”

“An eyewitness says otherwise,” Collins interrupted. “He clearly saw you driving Henry’s car on Monday, the day Henry was murdered.”

Barrat was flustered now, his cheeks colouring as if he were embarrassed by his earlier display of weakness. “Well, he’s plain wrong, isn’t he? Either he made a mistake or he’s lying. I don’t know, maybe he needs to get his eyes tested, did you think of that?”

“We think of everything,” Spiller replied. “And our witness is certain. He saw you on Monday evening, and you were driving Henry’s MG.”

“No. He’s wrong. I wasn’t there. I don’t know anybody called Henry, and I’ve never even been in an MG.”

Barrat had been raising his voice, so Spiller and Collins sat patiently, waiting for him to subside. When Barrat breathed out an exasperated sigh, Spiller said, “Now we come on to a different matter. What shall we call you?”

“You know my name.”

“Do we? You don’t seem to have any ID. No bank card or credit cards. Nothing.”

“I don’t trust the banks.”

“What about the DVLA?” Collins asked. “You aren’t carrying a driving licence, and as you may know, we can require you to provide it.”

“Only if you stop me while I’m driving.”

“But you have been driving,” Spiller stated. “We have witnesses who say you drove to Chudleigh and back, using a car owned by Charles Marshall.”

Barrat raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, technically I might’ve been in the wrong. I’ve no idea what happened to my licence, but maybe it fell out of my pocket when I was on the bike. Anyway, I haven’t got around to sending for a new one. I mean, why would I? I haven’t got a car. But then Charlie asked me to drive him to Chudleigh for some groceries. He’s an elderly man. What was I going to do, say no?”

“If the car isn’t insured for you to drive, then yes, you should’ve declined. If you’d had an accident⁠—”

“Charlie took care of that. He rang his insurers. He’s very careful. He wouldn’t break the law.”

“That was very good of him,” Spiller said. “What’s your relationship with Mr Marshall?”

“We’re friends. I’ve been helping him out, doing some work in his garden and around the house too.”

“In return for…?”

“Board and lodging.”

“Nothing else?” Collins asked. “He hasn’t been paying you?”

Barrat shook his head firmly. “He’s put a roof over my head, and that’s more than enough. He offered to pay me, but I wouldn’t take it.”

“Very noble.” Spiller sat back and folded his hands across his stomach. “So, what’s your source of income?”

“I’ve done a few jobs here and there while I’ve been travelling. Casual labour.”

“Yet you can afford a night out in Torquay, including an expensive taxi fare.”

“I split the taxi with Penny, and she paid for our dinner. For the drinks, I used some cash I’d been saving. I don’t spend much. I use the bike for getting around, and that doesn’t cost anything. I camp for free where I can, or I do a bit of bartering. Odd jobs bring in enough for food. What more do I need?”

“I really don’t know,” Spiller replied. “But there’s something not right here, Mr Barrat. We’ve been looking you up and, so far, we’ve come up empty-handed.”

“That’s because I haven’t broken the law.”

“Even so, there are records we might expect to see. Your driver number, for example, assuming you were telling the truth, and you do actually have a driving licence.”

“Of course I’ve got a licence, I just don’t know where it is, and I haven’t been able to send for a new one because I’ve been travelling. You need an address where they can send it, right? But now I’m staying with Charlie, I’ll take care of it, okay?”

Spiller nodded. “There is another matter. What happened to your hand?”

“I told you—I burned it on a hot pan. I was frying eggs over a fire. The handle was hot.”

“Then you won’t mind if we have a look at the injury.”

Barrat narrowed his eyes, then he leaned forward. “Yes, I bloody well do mind. Unless you’re going to arrest me, I can go, right?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Spiller said. “You can leave at any time.”

Barrat sat back. “Right, then I’d like to go now. I’ve done my best to help, but I haven’t got anything else to tell you.”

Spiller glanced at Collins in case he had any further questions, but the younger man’s expression said it all: there was no point flogging a dead horse. For the time being, they’d have to let Barrat go.

“Okay,” Spiller replied. “We’ll give you a lift back to Embervale.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll figure something out.”

“But I insist,” Spiller said. “It’s the least we can do, and we’re going to Embervale anyway, so it’s no trouble. We have to call in on Mr Marshall and we’ll be dropping in to see Mrs Robbins too.”

Barrat’s eyes beetled from side to side as though he were weighing up his options.

“Unless you have some reason for not accepting a lift,” Spiller went on. “If you were planning to cut and run, for example.”

“No. I’m not going anywhere. I promised to help Charlie, so I will. Anyway, all my stuff is back in Embervale.”

“So it is.” Spiller ended the interview and Collins stopped the recording.

Getting to his feet, Spiller said, “Come along, Mr Barrat. We’ll have you back in Embervale in no time.”

Spiller made for the door while Collins stood and waited to one side.

Barrat remained seated, pressing his lips together like a petulant child, but he relented, standing up slowly and dragging his feet as he crossed the room.

Spiller watched from the doorway, his features remaining impassive despite the sense of conflict brewing in his gut. They were a hair’s breadth from arresting Barrat on suspicion of murder, but the Detective Superintendent had vetoed that idea. The only evidence they had against Barrat was an eyewitness account from someone who claimed to have seen him at a distance. There were no reports of Barrat being seen with Henry, and no evidence to link the two men: no fingerprints or fibres or DNA. Not one thing.

And that’s exactly what we need, Spiller thought. One good piece of solid evidence and we’ll have him. But they weren’t there yet. And until they reached that critical threshold, all they could do was keep looking.

CHAPTER 61

Dan settled in to wait in Alan’s kitchen; there was little else he could do. Sooner or later, Simon Bellamy would call, and when that happened, Dan had to be ready.

But when Dan’s phone rang, the caller ID showed Brenda Southgate.

A pang of guilt hollowed Dan’s stomach. He hadn’t forgotten about the search for Joshua Southgate, but he’d let the case slide down his list of priorities. He stood up to take the call, bracing himself for bad news.

“Dan,” Brenda said. “He’s here.”

“Sorry, but who’s there? Joshua?”

“Yes! He’s here at the hospital. He’s in with Greg. It’s wonderful.”

“Thank God for that,” Dan breathed. “Oh, sorry, that’s⁠—”

“It’s fine. Thanking God is entirely appropriate. And thank you too. I’m not sure how you did it, but Josh said something about a notice in a shop. What did you do, canvass every shop in Exeter?”

“Only the Polish grocers. Josh’s girlfriend is Polish.”

“Yes, I know. Adrianna. She’s here, and she’s lovely. It’s like a dream. It’s…”

Brenda’s voice faltered and it sounded as though she were stifling her tears.

The moment caught Dan off-guard, and he turned away from Alan and wiped at the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat and said, “I’m so pleased. How is Greg?”

“Oh, he’s in good spirits. You should’ve seen his face when I took Josh in. Greg was so happy. They both were. It was like he’d never been away.”

“I’m happy for you. If there’s anything I can do, please call.”

“Thank you, but you’ve done so much. Greg wanted me to pass on his thanks as well. He’s so much brighter now, and he seems stronger. Stable is the word they use. They say we might be able to take him home. He’s on all kinds of medication, which he detests, and he’ll need oxygen and a wheelchair, but it’ll mean he can spend time at home with his family, and that’s what Greg wants. Josh and Adrianna are going to stay with us, and we’ll make up for lost time. It’s going to be good.”

“That sounds wonderful. If Greg’s strong enough for visitors, I’d love to drop in, and I’m sure Alan would too.”

Dan turned around and, as expected, Alan was already nodding enthusiastically.

“We’ll see,” Brenda said. “Greg might be feeling better, but he’s still very ill. He might have to go back to hospital for more treatment. It depends on how well he gets on with his medication. We’re trying not to build our hopes too high, taking each day as it comes.”

“Of course. I’ll let you get back to your family. Please give everyone my best wishes.”

“I will, and God bless you—both of you. You’ve done something good here.”

“Thank you, but we didn’t do much. We were lucky.”

“Then maybe you had some help,” Brenda replied. “Goodbye, Dan, and thanks again.”

Brenda ended the call, and Dan relayed the good news to Alan.

Alan beamed. “That’s brilliant. I must tell Natalya. She’ll be thrilled.”

“Rightly so. Natalya played an important part.”

“All’s well that ends well,” Alan said. “Not exactly a textbook case, but we got there eventually.”

Dan nodded, but there was something about this case that still rankled. Until he figured out what the problem was, it wouldn’t let him go. And then he saw it.

“There’s one more thing we need to do,” Dan said. “The case isn’t over yet.”

“Well, Greg has been reunited with his son. That’s all that matters.”

“No, it isn’t. We still don’t know why Joshua ran away in the first place.”

Alan looked unimpressed. “That’s between Joshua and his parents. If he wants to tell them, he will, but that’s up to him. All we can do is step back and let them get on with it.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Leave it, Dan. That family has a lot to deal with right now. Give them space. The last thing they need is for us to reopen an old wound.”

When Dan didn’t reply, Alan added, “I mean it, Dan. Stay out of it.”

“Okay, you’ve made your point.”

Dan sat back down at the table, but he managed all of thirty seconds before he got to his feet again and started pacing.

Alan watched him for a couple of circuits of the kitchen, then he said, “Okay, leaving the Southgates aside, what do you want to do next?”

Dan halted. “I’m going to call Bellamy. It was a mistake to wait. I’ve given him time to make a plan, to get his story straight. I’ll call him, and I’ll keep calling until he answers.”

“Or until he blocks your number.”

“He won’t do that. It’s too much of a risk. He doesn’t know what information I might have.”

“Might being the operative word,” Alan said. “What have we got exactly? A story that more or less hangs together—nothing more.”

“Which is why I have to goad him into action. It’s worked before and it’ll work again.”

Alan’s only reply was a resigned sigh. Dan was going to go ahead anyway, and they both knew it.

Dan called and this time, Bellamy answered right away.

“Mr Bellamy, did you get my message?” Dan said.

“Yes, but I had no idea what you were talking about, so I ignored it. Frankly, if you keep harassing me like this, I’ll be the one going to the police.”

“Then let’s settle this right away. We need to talk.”

“Why? If this is about Henry, I’ve already spoken to the police. I’ve told them everything I know.”

“That’s not quite true though, is it? There are still some things you need to explain. I’d like to give you that chance.”

There was a pause, then: “All right, Mr Corrigan. If that’s what it takes to put an end to this nonsense, let’s talk. But I want to make something clear from the start. I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing. My conscience is clear.”

Dan started to reply, but Bellamy butted in, his voice taking on a determined tone: “I won’t do this over the phone. We’ll have to meet.”

“Okay,” Dan said. “How about somewhere public? If you’re at home, I know a cafe in Chudleigh, I could come⁠—”

“No,” Bellamy interrupted. “I’m in Embervale. Come to the church. Alone. I’ll be waiting.”

“When?”

“Now is good for me.”

“Fine. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

As soon as Dan ended the call, Alan stood up, ready to go, but Dan motioned for him to sit back down.

“I’m sorry, he wants me to go alone.”

“I’ll bet he does,” Alan said. “But that isn’t going to happen.”

Dan hesitated; they’d been down this road before.

“Okay, but keep your distance. If he sees you, I’m not sure how he’ll react.”

“Even better, you set off first and I’ll wait for a few minutes then follow in the car. I’ll drive past the church and park nearby, then I’ll walk back. He doesn’t know my car, so even if he sees me driving past, he won’t know it’s me.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Dan said. “Keep your phone handy.”

Alan brandished his phone. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 62

In my time as a copper, how many front rooms have I been in? Spiller asked himself as he settled on the sofa next to Collins. How many times have I sat in someone’s lounge and asked questions?

This room, at least, was comfortable. The Robbins’ family home was not large, but it was well looked after. In the lounge the furniture was modern, the carpet a pale shade of cream that had somehow been kept spotless, and the wallpaper had a modestly cheerful pattern featuring rows of small blue flowers.

But when Spiller complimented Penny Robbins on the family home, she gazed around the room as though seeing it for the first time.

Perching on the edge of her Ikea armchair, Penny said, “Dave does the decorating. He’s very good at all that sort of thing.” She pulled her lips tight, and the strain of recent events could be seen in the wrinkles around her eyes.

“I suppose this is about Julie,” she went on. “I thought we’d been through it all with the lady who came. Anisha.”

“Yes, I’ve seen Julie’s statement, and it was all fine,” Spiller said. “Actually, we’re here to talk to you.”

Penny’s expression became guarded, so Spiller quickly added, “It’s nothing to worry about, but we need to check a few facts. It shouldn’t take long.”

“All right. If I can help…”

“Much appreciated.” Spiller nodded toward Collins. “My colleague has a few questions he’d like to ask.”

Collins’ posture stiffened. He had his tablet at the ready, but Spiller hadn’t warned him he’d be taking the lead. It was good to throw the lad a spin ball now and then. It kept him on his toes.

“Right,” Collins began. “Mrs Robbins, I’d be grateful if you could take us through your movements on Monday evening.”

“Okay, but why do you want to know?”

“We’ve been talking to a man named Hugh Barrat. Do you know him?”

“Yes. I know Hugh. He’s not in trouble, is he?”

Collins shook his head. “When did you last see Mr Barrat?”

“Monday night. Well, it would’ve been the early hours of Tuesday. We’d been out.”

“Have you spoken to him since then?”

“No. But why⁠—”

“What about text messages?” Colins interrupted.

“No.”

“Any emails or WhatsApp messages, anything of that nature?”

Penny shook her head, bewildered. “I haven’t heard from him. Nothing. But I’m starting to get worried. Is he okay?”

“Mr Barrat is fine. We recently interviewed him as part of an ongoing inquiry and your name came up, so it would be helpful if you could go through everything you did on Monday night.”

A hesitant smile lit Penny’s features. “I’ll try, but Hugh isn’t in trouble, is he?”

Collins didn’t miss a beat. “That’s not something I can discuss, so if we can get back to what you were doing on Monday night, that would be great. And if you can recall the time each event took place, it would be very helpful.”

“I was having a few drinks and a laugh. I wasn’t looking at the time every five minutes.”

“Then please do your best,” Collins replied. “We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Mrs Robbins. We’re conducting an investigation into a murder, and that’s as important as it gets.”

Penny’s reaction was instantaneous. Her eyes widened, and there was no longer any trace of her smile.

Spiller focused on Penny while Collins ran through a series of questions. Penny answered every one, keeping her tone level and recalling a reasonable amount of detail. Collins kept up the pace, making notes and asking questions simultaneously.

But Spiller didn’t need a tablet to know that her account tallied precisely with everything Hugh Barrat had told them, right down to what they’d had for dinner. If Barrat had briefed Penny and asked her to give him an alibi, he’d done a fine job. And for her part, Penny was either telling the truth or putting on a convincing performance.

When she told them how she’d arrived home and slept on the sofa to avoid disturbing her husband, Collins seemed to run out of steam, and he looked to Spiller as if seeking approval.

It wouldn’t be right to leave the lad in suspense; not for long, anyway.

Smiling, Spiller said, “Thank you, Mrs Robbins. That was all very informative. We’ve got everything we need for now.”

Spiller and Collins stood at the same time, but just as Penny made to stand, the lounge door opened, and Julie quietly sidled into the room.

Penny jumped up and went to her daughter’s side, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. “It’s all right, love. These gentlemen are with the police. They came to talk to Mummy.”

Julie nodded, her eyes round with fright.

“Hello again, Julie,” Spiller said. “We met the other day. I’m a detective.”

“I know,” Julie mumbled. “I ain’t daft.”

“No, of course you aren’t. How are you feeling today?”

“Please, no questions,” Penny said. “She’s been through enough.”

Spiller raised his hands, his fingers spread wide. “It’s all right. We’re on our way out. It was nice to see you again, Julie. Take care.”

To Penny, Spiller added, “If there’s anything you⁠—”

“I want to say sorry,” Julie interrupted.

All eyes were on Julie. Standing tall, she looked as though she were putting on a brave face, but she clamped her lips between her teeth in a childlike expression of remorse.

“There’s no need to apologise,” Spiller said gently. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I have. Painting on the wall. Rude words.” Julie shook her head, agitated. “I shouldn’t have done it, but I hate him. He’s a perv.”

“Are we talking about Roy Searle?” Spiller asked.

“Him. Yeah. He creeps about when I’m cleaning, looks in the window. I don’t like it. And… and…”

Spiller clasped his hands in front of him and tilted his head to one side, his gaze on Julie, letting her know he was listening. Victims of crime often needed time to recover from the shock and trauma of their experiences. Only then would they be strong enough to drag those dark memories to the surface. Julie had something to say, and it was important to let her speak.

But Julie had grown tongue tied. She leaned against her mum, her gaze dropping to the carpet.

Spiller made his voice gentle and said, “Was there something you wanted to tell me, Julie?”

A nod.

“I thought so,” Spiller replied. “Was it about Roy Searle?”

“He’s horrible. A perv.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He spies on me. I told the lady, Neesha. She knows all about it.”

Spiller offered a sympathetic smile. “Yes, Anisha is very nice, isn’t she? We know Roy Searle used to look in the window while you were at Mr Higgs house, but was there anything else?”

“Like what?”

“For instance, has he ever done anything to hurt you?”

Julie screwed up her features. “That one time he hurt me, before he shut me in the shed.”

“He can’t hurt you now,” Spiller said. “We have him locked up at the police station, and I know you’ve already made a statement, but I think there’s something worrying you. What is it, Julie? Do you think you could tell me about it?”

“For God’s sake,” Penny muttered. “Don’t make her go through all this again.”

But Julie lifted her chin to look at her mother and said, “It’s all right, Mum. I don’t mind talking about it.”

They regarded each other for a moment, then Penny nodded.

“I was doing the dusting,” Julie went on, “but I heard somebody coming in the door, so I went to look. He was standing there—Searle—and he saw me. Then all of a sudden, he went up to the little table and pinched some keys. I told him no, he mustn’t do that, but he got angry. He came right up to me and said… bad things. He said he’d hurt me if I made a fuss, so I didn’t say a word. I was too scared.”

“Did he take hold of you?”

Julie’s cheeks reddened, then she tapped her left arm with her right hand.

“Did Roy Searle put his hand on your arm?”

“Yeah. It hurt, but I didn’t know what to do. He said he’d do something worse, give me something to cry about.” She hesitated. “Will I get in trouble? Over the painting, I mean.”

Spiller shook his head. “No, you won’t get into trouble, Julie.”

“How come?”

“Look at it like this, Julie, why did you paint on the shed?”

“It was ‘cos of him. I didn’t like him. Still don’t.”

Spiller couldn’t help but smile at Julie’s honesty. “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? How did Roy Searle make you feel?”

“Scared. Frightened. I thought he was going to do something to me.”

“Right, and that makes all the difference,” Spiller said. “I think you only wrote on the wall because Roy Searle made you feel unsafe, and you wanted him to go away, is that right?”

“Yeah. So, it’s like it wasn’t my fault?”

“You’ve got it in one, Julie. It wasn’t your fault at all.”

“You see?” Penny said. “I told you, love. You’re all right, and you’ll never see that horrible man again.”

“But I can go back to my job, can’t I? I don’t mind Mr Higgs. He’s all right.”

“I suppose so,” Penny replied. “If you really want to.”

Julie brightened. “Yeah. I want to go back to normal. I don’t like sitting around all day.” She looked to Spiller. “Can I go now?”

“You can do as you please,” Spiller replied. “It’s me and DS Collins who have to be going. But thank you for your help. You’re a very brave person, speaking up like that. Well done, Julie. Goodbye.”

“I’ll see you out,” Penny said, and a minute later, Spiller and Collins were heading back to the car.

“Poor kid,” Collins said. “You’ve got to feel sorry for her.”

Spiller didn’t reply.

“Are you all right, Guv?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure what’s just happened. I have an inkling we’ve been fed a line. You heard what she said. Julie likes her job, she’s keen to get back to it, so why would she have done something silly like vandalising the shed?”

“That’s a fair point,” Collins admitted. “But she was scared. Maybe she didn’t know what else to do.”

“Yes, but she’s neither malicious nor devious. She has no side to her, if you know what I mean.”

“I do, but why would she lie? Covering for someone?”

“That’s what I’m thinking, Collins. Remember the way she came in, determined to have her say. To my mind, Julie was sticking to a script, saying exactly what someone told her to say. And she was happy to do it, because the person she’s protecting is someone she trusts and cares about—a close friend or a family member.”

Collins consulted his tablet. “She lives with her mum and dad, and there’s a sister, Kayleigh.”

“An older sister?”

“Yes.”

Spiller nodded. “That’ll be the one. Searle frightens Julie, so her older sister wades in and does something about it.”

“Why wouldn’t she have it out with him? Why muck around with graffiti?”

“She might’ve thought she was being clever,” Spiller said. “She drew a target on Searle’s back, expecting Higgs to put two and two together and send Searle on his way. It was a neat solution when you think about it. If Mr Higgs had any common sense, he would’ve got the message and sacked Roy Searle. Julie’s problems would’ve been solved.”

“We ought to have a word with the sister. I could pop back and see if she’s there.”

“Do that, Collins. It would be nice to tie this up, one way or the other.”

“Won’t be a sec.”

Spiller waited on the pavement while Collins strolled back to the front door, but it wasn’t long before Collins returned, and it was clear from his expression that he’d had no luck.

“Kayleigh is at work,” Collins stated. “At the local pub. Worth dropping in?”

Spiller checked his watch. The day had gone quickly, and it felt like a long time since he’d bolted down his lunch. If the pub had started serving, there might be food or at least a snack, and most pubs offered hot drinks these days.

“Yes, I wouldn’t mind having a word with Kayleigh.”

“Right. Shall we take the car?”

Spiller glanced at the sky. It was going to be a fine evening, and it wasn’t far to the pub. Besides, he needed the exercise.

“We can walk,” he said. “And when we get there, keep your ears open. There’s not much that doesn’t get talked about in a village pub. You never know what we might find out.”

CHAPTER 63

The door to the church was open, so Dan went straight inside. In the vestibule, he glanced down at the stone floor where they’d found Greg, but he didn’t pause. The inner door was wide open, and Dan went straight through.

The church was silent, the air still, and Dan stood for a while, taking it in. The stained glass windows were lit by the early evening sun, but it was the old stone columns that caught Dan’s attention. Standing like silent guardians through the centuries, they drew his gaze upward, and he found himself staring up at the vaulted ceiling. There were no ornate paintings or decorative motifs here, just the perfectly smooth stones, curving to divide and support the roof.

Made with only hand tools, the stones fitted together with an elegant precision. They did their job while remaining pleasing to the eye.

Very elegant, Dan thought. A sophisticated solution.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” someone said, and Dan turned to see Simon Bellamy watching him from beside an open doorway.

“Yes,” Dan replied. “I can’t quite believe I’ve never been in to see it.”

Bellamy half smiled as he came over to join Dan. “You’re not the only one in the village who might say that. Everyone is welcome, of course, but these days…” He gazed sadly at the rows of polished wooden pews, perhaps wondering how many of the seats would remain empty at the next service.

“It’s hard to persuade people to change,” Dan said. “We’re all creatures of habit, no matter how much we might try to deny it.”

“Very true.”

They were silent for a moment, then Dan said, “You had something to tell me.”

“Not here.”

“Okay. You asked me to come, but we can go somewhere else.”

Bellamy’s curious little smile fluttered across his lips. “Oh, we can stay in the church. But this isn’t the place. There’s something I want to show you.”

He raised a finger to point upward. “I presume you’ve never been up to the top of the tower.”

“I didn’t even know it was possible.”

“It is. Come and see.”

Dan shook his head. “We can talk here or outside.”

“What are you worried about? Are you afraid of heights?”

“No, and I’m not worried.”

“Let’s go up then,” Bellamy said. “It’s important for you to see this for yourself. It’s through there.” He gestured to the doorway he’d appeared from.

Dan tried to read Bellamy’s expression but could make nothing of it. The man was a blank canvas, his smile bland and his hands clasped together in front of his chest.

If this was a trap, it was an odd one, believable in the pages of an Agatha Christie novel but nowhere else. There was no real danger here. The church tower couldn’t be all that high, and he could handle Bellamy. Besides, Alan would be outside by now, ready to lend a hand.

“Okay,” Dan said. “Lead the way.”

“That would be my pleasure.”

Bellamy disappeared through the doorway and Dan followed, stepping into a gloomy and cramped space lit only by the weak beams of daylight filtering in through a very small, glazed window above. In front of him, a narrow set of stone steps spiralled upward.

Bellamy began to climb. “Mind how you go. The steps are rather narrow. When they were built, people were smaller.”

Dan could believe it. He had to place his feet carefully, the smooth stones providing little in the way of grip. Bellamy, he noticed, was wearing a pair of black trainers, and he ascended easily.

The steps rose steeply, and there was no handrail or length of rope to hang on to, so Dan kept one hand on the wall to steady himself.

“Not much further,” Bellamy said. “Nearly there.”

A minute later, Dan joined Bellamy in a small room with a wooden floor. There was plenty of light coming from the unglazed windows on each side. Much of the space was taken up by the church bell that hung from a wooden beam, its thick rope descending through a hole in the floor. Beside the bell, an old wooden ladder had been propped up against an open hatchway in the ceiling.

“Only a short climb to the top,” Bellamy went on. “Are you okay to go on?”

Dan looked up to the ceiling, eyeing the age-darkened timbers. Some had been repaired, the new beams so much paler than the rest, but most were in a state of decay, their edges crumbling, their faces riddled with small holes.

Following his gaze, Bellamy said, “It’s quite safe, so long as you stay with me.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Dan replied. “But you’re going first again, right?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Bellamy climbed the ladder and Dan followed, feeling the ladder bend beneath his weight. When he reached the top, Bellamy was waiting on the tower’s roof, his hand outstretched to help him up.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Dan said, and he climbed onto the roof himself.

“Okay.” Bellamy lowered his hand and straightened up, stepping back to give Dan some room.

The roof was covered with sheets of lead, some of it in need of repair. Much of the central area was taken up by a square-based pyramid designed to shed rain, but a narrow walkway ran around the tower’s perimeter.

Dan was relieved to see that the tower had a waist-high stone parapet.

“This way,” Bellamy said, and led him to a corner where they both stood, looking out over the village and the rolling countryside beyond.

“It’s a magnificent view, isn’t it?” Bellamy said. “I used to come up here all the time, especially when I had a knotty theological problem I wanted to unpick. It’s a wonderful place to think.”

“I’m sure it is. But I thought you didn’t like to work here. You told me so when we first met.”

Bellamy hesitated. “That’s true, these days. I haven’t been up here for a while, and when I explain, you’ll see why.”

“I’m ready to listen. Tell me about Henry. Tell me what happened on the night he was killed.”

Bellamy shot him a look. “I’ve already told you. And I’ve told the police too. There’s nothing else to say.”

Dan returned Bellamy’s stare. “Why were you in the pub that night? Who were you hoping to see?”

“No one. I’d had a shock, so I went for a drink to steady my nerves.”

“So why did you leave when you saw Alan and me? Why did you run out of the back door?”

“I didn’t run, but I’ll admit to avoiding the pair of you. I was in no fit state for another confrontation. I knew you’d ask questions, and I’d end up having to tell you what had just happened. I didn’t want to go through all that. Listen, I probably shouldn’t have had that drink, but it was only a small one, and I went for a walk afterwards. I made sure I was perfectly sober before I got behind the wheel.”

Dan found himself being drawn in by Bellamy’s sincere tone, but then, the man was a practised public speaker, used to letting his words convey the weight of his convictions. Dan had met many clever communicators in his time in the corporate world, and in his experience, sincerity wasn’t hard to fake.

There had to be a flaw in Bellamy’s story, a piece of the narrative that could be attacked. And Dan spotted it.

Adopting a sympathetic smile, Dan said, “That near miss must’ve been very distressing. I expect you were shaken by it.”

“Yes, I was. You’re a runner too, aren’t you? So you know what it’s like when a car goes by too close and too fast. You can feel very vulnerable.”

“Oh yes. Especially if you don’t hear it coming because you’re wearing earbuds.”

Bellamy puffed out his cheeks. “Well, I won’t be doing that again. A lesson learned.”

“That’s very wise. But going back to that night, if you were so shaken, how can you be certain about who you saw?”

“What?”

“It’s a simple question,” Dan said. “You’d narrowly avoided being run over, and yet you saw the driver clearly—well enough to identify him afterwards.”

Bellamy blinked. “Yes. That’s exactly what happened. I was badly shaken up, but I saw him clear as day.”

“The two don’t go together. Any hint of danger, and our brains go into self-preservation mode. I’m sure you’ve heard the expression fight or flight. Which one applied to you?”

“I was upset, but⁠—”

Dan raised a hand to cut him off. “You were going to say, ‘I know what I saw.’ But please, don’t use that line in court when you’re called as a witness. Any barrister worth their salt would tear you to pieces. They’ll point out that you’d had a shock. You’d been running, so maybe there was sweat in your eyes or dust from the road. You were distraught, angry, confused. You were so upset, in fact, that you went to the pub afterwards. Isn’t that so, Mr Bellamy?”

“Yes, but I’ve just explained.”

“It was a pack of lies though, wasn’t it? You didn’t see Hugh because he wasn’t there, and you weren’t run down by the car because you were the one doing the driving.”

“How dare you?” Anger flashed in Bellamy’s eyes, and he advanced on Dan, his hand raised to point at Dan’s face, his finger jabbing the air. “I have never hurt anyone,” Bellamy growled. “I am a man of peace, but I will not stand here and have these slanders, these lies, thrown in my face.”

Bellamy’s cheeks were white with rage, and when he raised a trembling fist, Dan backed away.

“No!” Bellamy snapped. “Stay where you are.”

Dan took another step back. “What, and have you throw me over the edge? Was that the plan all along? Because it won’t work. Surely you can see that.”

“Stand still! Come here!”

Dan shook his head, but as he made to retreat, Bellamy lunged at him, grabbing him with both hands. Dan planted his hands on Bellamy’s chest and pushed back, but it was no use. Bellamy was strong, rage burning in his eyes, and there was no way he was going to give in without a fight.

Dan planted his feet and shoved off hard, forcing Bellamy back. But Dan’s shoes slipped against the smooth sheets of lead, and he couldn’t keep up the pressure.

“For God’s sake!” Bellamy snarled. “Stop struggling.”

“I’m not going to make it easy for you,” Dan shot back, and he lashed out with his right fist, his punch landing squarely on Bellamy’s cheekbone.

The man let out a grunt, but he didn’t let go; he swung Dan around, pushing him harder.

Dan felt the stone parapet pressing against his lower back. Bellamy was winning. Dan threw another punch, but his feet slipped from beneath him and he lost his balance, his punch going wide. Bellamy used Dan’s momentum against him, spinning him around, and suddenly Dan was bending over the stone parapet, his arms held tight behind him. He stared down at the ground far below.

Still struggling, Dan shouted, “Don’t do it! Alan knows I’m here. He’s at the church right now.”

“You stupid man,” Bellamy hissed. “You bloody idiot!”

Along with the anger in Bellamy’s voice there was exasperation, but he didn’t release his grip on Dan’s arms.

“Let me go,” Dan shouted, pushing back with every muscle in his body, willing himself away from the long drop below. “You don’t want another death on your conscience.”

“What?”

Bellamy froze, and Dan wrenched an arm free. He half turned, reaching back and clasping Bellamy’s arm, gripping it tight.

“I’ll take you with me,” Dan growled. “I swear to God, we’ll both go together unless you let me go now.”

“Stop struggling!” Bellamy altered his grip, pulling Dan toward him, turning him around until they were face to face, pressing their two bodies together in a deadly embrace, trapping Dan’s arms against his sides.

Dan’s feet searched for a solid surface, but they found only empty space. Bellamy must’ve hoisted him up, holding him in mid-air, his legs dangling helplessly. Still, Dan had to escape, and he pushed himself sideways, at the same time kicking out at Bellamy’s legs, his shoes meeting the man’s shins.

Bellamy cursed and staggered sideways, but he didn’t let Dan go, and now both men had their sides pressed against the stone parapet, their upper bodies leaning dangerously out over empty space.

Bellamy grimaced, baring his teeth, grunting with the effort of controlling his captive. And when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse.

“Why must you be like this? Why?”

Dan stared into the man’s eyes. Where there had been anger, there was despair and resignation, as though he had decided what he must do.

Bellamy held Dan’s arms tight. And in Dan’s mind, he saw the ground rushing upward to meet him.

CHAPTER 64

As Spiller and Collins approached The Wild Boar, Collins said, “What about the stuff someone put through Higgs’ letterbox? The dog muck. If Julie’s sister was trying to get at Searle, why would she do that?”

“She wouldn’t,” Spiller replied. “Julie was probably the one who’d have to clean up the mess. There’s no way Kayleigh would do that to her sister. But we’ll soon know one way or the other, assuming we can have a quiet chat with Kayleigh when we get inside.”

Collins halted by the pub’s front door. “So there’s no connection between the graffiti on the shed and the dog muck through the front door.”

Spiller nodded. “That’s the most likely explanation. You’ve met Mr Higgs. He doesn’t exactly fit in, does he? A second-home owner, breezing in at the weekends when it suits him then clearing off again. That’s enough to upset some of the locals, added to which, Mr Higgs has a knack for rubbing people up the wrong way. I hadn’t spoken to the man for more than a few minutes before he wound me up. I suspect he’s annoyed one of his neighbours.”

“Makes sense.”

“The simplest solutions often do. We’re interested in the graffiti because we can tie that to Roy Searle, but that’s as far as it goes. A dispute between neighbours has nothing to do with our case. If somebody keeps posting things through Mr Higgs’ letterbox, we’ll let uniform deal with it.”

“Excellent.” Collins whipped the tablet from under his arm and tapped on the screen, looking pleased with himself.

Ticking boxes, Spiller thought. When did this job become all about ticking boxes?

But the pub’s lights were beckoning him inside, and when they strode in through the door, the cosy warmth of the place enveloped Spiller and he felt the tension leaving his shoulders. A log crackled in the grate, lending a tinge of woodsmoke to the air, the rows of bottles behind the bar glittered, and the hoppy aroma of good ale reached Spiller’s nostrils.

The pub’s manager, Sam Ashford, had been working at something below the counter, but she looked up with a welcoming smile.

“Hello,” she called out, but her smile faltered. “Inspector Spiller, is everything…?”

“We’ve just popped in for a quick drink,” Spiller replied, and they made their way to the bar. “We’re more or less finished for the day.”

Spiller inclined his head toward the pumps. “Go on, Collins, try a decent beer for a change. I’ll get you a half.”

A confirmed lager drinker, Collins shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ll have a coffee. White, please.”

“Ah well, it’s your loss.” Spiller studied the labels affixed to each pump. “Hm, Avocet. Brewed in Exeter. I’d better try a pint of that, please. It would be disloyal not to.”

“Right you are.” Sam scooped up a glass and began pulling the pint. “So, does this mean you’re off duty?”

“Yes and no,” Spiller replied. “While we’re here, we were hoping to have a word with Kayleigh Robbins. I believe she works here.”

Sam’s smile was gone now. “She does. Kayleigh’s in the kitchen. She’s not in any trouble, is she?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Spiller said. “It’s a routine inquiry. We should be able to clear it up in—” Spiller broke off. He’d heard something that sounded suspiciously like the slam of a door.

The others had heard it too. Sam had stopped what she was doing, her expression frozen, but Collins was already in motion, striding toward the back room.

To Sam, Spiller said, “Is there anyone else here apart from you and Kayleigh?”

“No. It’s just the two of us.”

From the threshold of the back room, Collins called out, “Is there a back door?”

“Yes,” Spiller replied, and Collins started running as he disappeared into the back room.

“I’ll take the front,” Spiller shouted.

Sam said something but Spiller didn’t hear it. He was at the front door and out.

But they were too late.

A young woman was haring along the road, her blonde hair bouncing with every powerful stride.

Collins appeared in the alley beside the pub, but before he could give chase, Spiller saved him the bother.

“Leave her, Collins. We’ll catch up to her later. We know where she lives.”

“If you’re sure.” Collins rejoined Spiller by the door. “This has to be about more than a bit of graffiti, or why would she run like that?”

“I don’t know, Collins, but I’d very much like to find out. Let’s head back inside.”

With that, Spiller made for the door. There was another element to this case—something lurking on the periphery—and they’d only just now stumbled onto it. But whatever it was, Spiller’s instincts told him it was worth pursuing.

CHAPTER 65

Alan jumped into his VW Golf and set off, but as he pulled out from the drive, he spotted a pair of horses on the road ahead. Plodding away from him and along Fore Street, the horses were in no hurry. Their riders, decked out in high-vis pink waistcoats, were both women and from the silvery ponytails swaying from below their riding hats, they were mature in years.

In theory the road was wide enough for a car to pass the horses, but one side was dotted with parked cars, so the riders had wisely used the centre of the street.

“No, no, no,” Alan muttered. “Of all the times…”

There was no way he’d drive toward the horses and risk spooking them, so he had two choices: he could sit and wait or he could take a longer route toward the church, via a narrow, winding lane that would briefly take him out of the village before returning to the road by the church. That route was mainly on single-track roads, so if he met any oncoming vehicles, someone would have to pull in, and that usually meant reversing until a passing place was found.

Meeting one vehicle would hold him up, but if he met two or more it could double the time it took for his short journey.

Alan pulled out cautiously into the road, his car facing the horses. He stopped the car, hoping the riders might hear the engine and guide their horses to a safe place while he passed. But as he watched, the horses halted. The riders were chatting with a passerby—a man walking his dog—and they seemed to be having quite the conversation.

“They’ll be there all day,” Alan grumbled. He reversed into his drive and turned the car around, then he set off once more, this time taking the longer route.

Alan gripped the wheel tight, frustration tingling his fingertips. He took each corner as fast as he dared, knowing that any number of hazards could be waiting around each blind bend. Over the years, he’d met everything from tractors to runaway sheep, usually when he was in a hurry, and there was no reason for today to be any different.

But he was in luck, and it wasn’t long before he was bowling back into the village. He could see the church’s bell tower, and for a second, he thought he glimpsed someone up there: a figure moving fast.

Dan. It had to be.

I should never have let him go on his own, Alan scolded himself. Will I never learn?

He pressed the accelerator, and the VW surged forward. Alan looked up at the church tower again. Whoever he’d seen, they’d gone now, but he had to get in there. He had to make sure Dan was all right.

There was no parking space, so Alan stopped the car in the middle of the road, grabbed the keys and jumped out.

But as he dashed from the car, someone—a young woman—sprinted out from a side road, her head down and running hard, and she ran right into him. By instinct Alan held onto her arms, and she did the same. Alan staggered back, and for an instant he teetered on the edge of falling, but somehow, he regained his balance.

The woman sprang back, escaping from their awkward embrace, and she stared at him, wild-eyed and breathless, her chest heaving.

“Kayleigh!” Alan said. “Are you all right?”

Kayleigh’s only response was to look rapidly from side to side like a frightened animal.

“Kayleigh. What’s wrong?”

Finally, Kayleigh’s gaze fixed on him, but not for long. She looked away and said, “Nothing. I’m all right. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, but why were you running?”

“I don’t… it doesn’t matter.”

Alan glanced back at the church tower. There was still no sign of anyone up there. Yes, Dan might need help, but he couldn’t leave Kayleigh in this state.

“Kayleigh, are you in trouble?”

“No. I don’t know. I…” Kayleigh shook her head. “I’m all right. I just felt a bit funny for a while, needed to get out of there.”

“Out of where?”

Kayleigh didn’t seem to have heard him. “I’m fine,” she mumbled. “Fine.”

“But that’s not true, is it? You’re obviously upset. Is it something to do with what happened to Julie?”

The mention of her sister’s name seemed to snap Kayleigh out of her bewildered state, and she blinked rapidly, focusing on Alan as though he’d appeared out of thin air.

“Julie’s okay,” Kayleigh said, her voice stronger. “She’s been better since they locked up that awful man. Searle. I hope they throw away the key. That Hugh bloke too. He’d better not show his face around here again if he knows what’s good for him.”

“Why do you say that?”

Kayleigh grimaced. “Well, he’s been carrying on, hasn’t he? Chasing after women who ought to know better.”

Alan hesitated. “I take it you mean your mother.”

Reluctantly, Kayleigh nodded. “I suppose everybody knows. They’ll all be talking. It’s embarrassing.”

Alan wasn’t sure what to say. He looked back to the church. Dan was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean he was okay—far from it.

“Listen, Kayleigh—” he began, but she talked over him.

“They were out the other night, him and my mum. She didn’t come home until early next morning.”

“Wait, was this Monday night?”

“Why?”

“It might be important. Henry was killed on Monday night, and some people think⁠—”

“It wasn’t him. He was with my mum the whole time.”

“Your mum told you this or you saw them?”

“I saw them, all right. They were outside, laughing and mucking about. They woke me up. I looked out of the window and there they were, both of them. It was gone three in the morning, and she’d been with him since six.”

Alan’s mind raced. It looked as though Damian’s alibi held water, and that meant that Bellamy had lied to put Damian in the frame. There was only one reason for him to do that.

“I’ve got to go.” Alan turned and ran toward the church. Behind him, Kayleigh called out, saying something about his car blocking the road, but that would have to wait. He’d delayed too long already. He had to find Dan. Before it was too late.

CHAPTER 66

In one final act of defiance, Dan twisted and turned, struggling to free himself from Bellamy’s grip, but he felt himself being pressed harder against the stone parapet. Bellamy was trying to hoist him over the edge.

“For God’s sake!” Bellamy hissed from between clenched teeth. “I’m trying to save you, you idiot!”

“Then let go of me.”

“You’ll fall. The roof. You didn’t see. I tried to stop you.”

Dan moved his foot to one side, and his toes found a jagged edge. In a flash he relived the moment he’d lost his balance. He hadn’t slipped; the roof had given way beneath him. But Bellamy had charged into him, carrying him over to the stone parapet, to the solid section of roof. And Bellamy hadn’t lifted him up; he’d held on to him, preventing him from falling through the roof.

Bellamy wasn’t lying. He’d saved him.

His throat dry, Dan swallowed and said, “Okay. Pull me back.”

Bellamy groaned as he lifted Dan up and shuffled backward. Between breaths, he said, “Put your feet wide. Like mine.”

Dan looked down and saw that Bellamy had planted his feet on either side of the hole, and he was leaning back, bracing himself against Dan’s weight. Dan placed his feet next to Bellamy’s. The lead buckled beneath his right foot and from somewhere below came the sharp crack of a timber giving way. Another small piece of the roof crumbled, the hole growing larger as debris pattered down onto the floor below.

Dan stiffened, but this time he didn’t fight against the other man’s grip. Bellamy knew where to stand, and Dan did not.

He allowed himself to be dragged back and away from the hole.

“Take it easy now,” Bellamy said, loosening his grip. “Sidestep. Go back to where we were standing.”

Dan complied, his eyes fixed on the hole that had almost swallowed him up. At best, the fall would’ve broken a few bones; at worst he might’ve sustained a head injury, or damaged his spine, or…

Focus, Dan told himself. Stay calm.

Bellamy was staring at him, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you did that,” he said. “I told you to stay still.”

“I didn’t know it was going to give way. Why didn’t you warn me?”

“I did,” Bellamy protested. “I specifically told you before we came up that it was quite safe so long as you stayed with me. I didn’t think you were going to wander off like a child.”

The two men regarded each other, eyes narrowed, anger not far below the surface.

“You should have warned me properly,” Dan insisted. “Why didn’t you?”

“I thought I had. When most people come up here, they’re cautious. They do what they’re told. But not you. You ignore me, then when I try to help you, you hit me.” Bellamy’s hand went to his cheek. “You kicked me too.”

“But none of that would’ve happened if you’d told me the roof wasn’t safe.”

In the simmering silence, a voice called up from the open hatchway: “Dan?”

“We’re up here, Alan,” Dan replied. “You can use the ladder, but mind where you step when you get up here.” Looking pointedly at Bellamy, he added, “The roof isn’t safe.”

“I can see that. There’s a bloody great hole in it.” A moment later, Alan’s head appeared in the hatchway. He looked at them in turn then said, “For God’s sake come down. What’s the matter with you?”

At the sight of Alan’s disembodied head, Dan’s anger subsided. He lifted his hands and said to Bellamy, “Look, this was a disaster, but⁠—”

“You can say that again,” Bellamy snapped.

“Okay, I almost caused an accident,” Dan said. “It was my own fault. Does that help?”

Bellamy shook his head. “We… we both made mistakes. I shouldn’t have brought you up here. Let’s go back down.”

“In a second,” Dan replied. “You wanted me to come up here for a reason. You said I had to see something for myself. What was it?”

“I can’t tell you now,” Bellamy said. “I thought you’d understand, but I was wrong.”

“For goodness sake,” Alan grumbled, already clambering up onto the roof. “You’re worse than children. The problem with you two is you’re too alike.”

Dan looked at Bellamy askance and found a match for his expression on the other man’s features.

Moving cautiously, Alan positioned himself between them. “Mr Bellamy,” he began, “there’s something we need to talk about.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I disagree,” Alan stated. “You mentioned mistakes—here’s another. You said that Hugh, also known as Damian, was driving Henry’s MG when it passed you, but you were wrong. He has an alibi.”

“I don’t believe it,” Bellamy said. “He must be lying.”

“I didn’t hear it from him,” Alan replied. “On the way here, I ran into Kayleigh. She told me that Damian was out with her mum on the night Henry was killed. She saw them come back together in the early hours of Tuesday morning.”

Dan raised an eyebrow. “On its own, that’s not an alibi. They could’ve been in it together.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bellamy blurted, then he closed his lips tight, colour creeping into his cheeks.

There it is again, Dan thought. Bellamy had reacted to Penny’s name before.

Watching Bellamy carefully, Dan said, “Penny Robbins resigned as churchwarden, didn’t she?”

“That’s right. What of it?” Bellamy lowered his eyebrows. “Look, we’re not here to talk about Mrs Robbins, nor has this got anything to do with Henry’s murder.”

“I’m not so sure,” Dan replied. “Penny’s name keeps coming up, and I know that something has happened between the pair of you. Are you going to stand there and tell me I’m wrong? Are you going to lie to me?”

“I haven’t lied,” Bellamy said. “I’m trying to protect a confidence.” Bellamy closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, the fire had gone from his gaze.

“You’ve backed me into a corner,” he went on. “If I refuse to answer, you’ll assume I’m guilty of some kind of unseemly behaviour.”

“Not necessarily,” Dan replied. “But this is your chance to clear the air. If you tell me what happened between you and Penny, it won’t go any further—unless someone has broken the law.”

“No, there was nothing like that.” Bellamy heaved a sigh. “All right. A little while ago, Mrs Robbins was going through a difficult time. When I tried to comfort her, she misunderstood and took it as a sign of affection. I think she was lonely, and I made allowances for that, but she said some things that were inappropriate. I tried to let her down gently, but she took offence. Shortly after that, I suspect she confided in Henry, and he wasn’t so tactful. They argued, and Penny’s husband waded in. It was embarrassing for everybody. Penny resigned as churchwarden, and we never saw her at the church again.”

Bellamy’s voice caught in his throat. “Mrs Robbins has been through a lot. She lost a daughter to meningitis—a terrible thing for any parent. People rush to judgment, but Penny—Mrs Robbins—she isn’t some dreadful person. She’s sweet and kind. She’d never hurt anyone. But she’s been alone for a long time, at least, she’s felt that way. I know she has her family, but she can’t talk to them about her loss. She doesn’t know how. She bears the weight of her grief alone, so she looks for other ways to dull the pain.”

“That’s very sad,” Alan replied. “I never knew.”

“How could you?” Bellamy said. “It’s not your job to look after your neighbours. But I’ve always felt that I failed her. If I’d handled things differently…”

The three men stood without talking.

Eventually, Dan broke the silence. “Does Penny come to the churchyard sometimes? At night?”

“Yes, she does. I never told Greg about it. I should’ve done, but I didn’t want to reopen that can of worms. She wasn’t doing any harm.”

“But you run past the church now and then,” Dan suggested. “At times when you think she might be there.”

Bellamy nodded, though his expression showed how much it pained him to do so. “It probably sounds stupid to you, but I liked to think I was watching over her. I never approached her, but if she needed someone to talk to, I was there.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Alan said. “We thought it was Kayleigh in the churchyard.”

“No. The family comes once a year to tend to Susan’s grave, but other than that, they stay away. Apart from Penny.”

Dan thought of Penny Robbins, trying to imagine the sense of loss she must’ve been battling with for years. And if Bellamy was right, she’d faced that struggle alone, feeling unable to accept help from those closest to her.

“Penny was caught on my camera, but you deleted the clip,” Dan said.

Bellamy’s lips twitched. “How did you know?”

“You also deleted the footage of you finding the camera, so we knew you’d watched the clips. And if you deleted one, you could’ve deleted more.”

“Ah yes. It was an impulse. I was pretty angry at that point.”

“But you weren’t quite thorough enough,” Dan replied. “We caught a glimpse of someone in another clip. It was only for a moment, and to be honest, it didn’t occur to me it was Penny until now.”

“That’s a shame. I’d hoped to protect her, but I’ve failed. Again.”

“Not necessarily,” Dan said. “I’ve got a great deal of sympathy for Mrs Robbins, and I see no need to intrude on her privacy. I’m sure Alan feels the same.”

“Absolutely,” Alan replied. “As far as I can see, there’s no reason for anyone else to know about this. Ideally she’d go to someone for help, but it’s not for us to interfere.”

“With one possible exception,” Dan said. “Greg should know.”

Bellamy sent Dan a sharp look. “Is that really necessary?”

“I think so. It may have been unintentional, but Penny gave him quite a shock. The truth might set Greg’s mind at rest. Perhaps you’d like to tell him yourself.”

Bellamy nodded, then he let out a slow breath as if relieved. His posture straightened, then he cleared his throat and said, “I think I may have misjudged you, and for that, I’m sorry.”

“The same goes for me,” Dan replied. “But now we’ve got that out of the way, perhaps we can finish what we started. You have something to tell me. This is your chance.”

“Okay, I’ll say my piece, then we can go back down and try to put this behind us.”

“That’s fine by me,” Dan said. “We’ll listen.”

“All right.” Bellamy turned away from them, looking over the village. “When you left me that voicemail and said you knew what I’d done, I made an assumption. I know you’ve been looking for Joshua, and I put two and two together. You see, I haven’t done anything wrong, but there is something that’s been on my mind for a long time.”

“Go on,” Dan said. He had no idea where Bellamy was going with this, and when he glanced at Alan, he clearly felt the same.

Bellamy pointed at a row of houses not far away. “Do you see that house—the one that’s taller than the others?”

Dan and Alan peered out in the direction he’d indicated.

“Mrs Parkhurst’s place,” Alan said. “She had another floor added as a studio for her daughter.”

“That’s right,” Bellamy replied.

Dan focused on the Parkhursts’ home. The top floor was clearly visible, and the window facing the street was a large one, but there was no way he’d be able to see inside. The angle was wrong.

“Did you see somebody at the window?” Dan asked.

“No, but someone else did.” Bellamy lowered his hand to indicate a garden opposite the Parkhurst’s home. “There’s a tall tree in that garden, can you see the one I mean?”

“The flowering cherry,” Alan said. “Yes, I’ve got it.”

That sounded about right to Dan. There were several trees among the generous front gardens, but the one he was looking at was tall and had some fresh white blossom.

“It wasn’t in bloom back then, but there were plenty of leaves,” Bellamy went on. “This was six years ago. The roof beneath our feet was in better condition, and as I told you, Dan, I used to come up here to think. But one day, I happened to look down, and there was a man hiding in that tree. He’d climbed almost to the top.”

“What makes you think he was hiding?” Dan asked.

“We’ll get to that. He wasn’t easy to see. He was all dressed in camouflage gear including a hat. But then he moved, and I saw he had a camera and a telephoto lens. At first I thought he was a birdwatcher, but when I tried to gauge what he was looking at, I realised he was pointing his camera at that window. That’s when I knew he was hiding.”

“He was spying on Sophia?” Alan asked, his voice edged with horror.

“I don’t think so. This was six years ago, and I saw—” Bellamy broke off. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“What happened?” Dan asked, making his voice gentle. “Who did you see?”

Bellamy didn’t reply, but Dan didn’t want this moment to slip away. It was time to take a chance, and Bellamy had already given him a clue.

“You said this was six years ago,” Dan said. “It was Joshua Southgate, wasn’t it?”

Bellamy nodded, then he opened his eyes. “Joshua came out into the street, and he was furious, yelling at the man in the tree. There was an argument, and I think there would’ve been a fight, but the man climbed down and ran away.”

“Did you see who it was?” Alan asked.

“No. He kept his head down and ran, and it all happened very quickly. Joshua went back to the house and that’s when I saw… someone else. She came to the door and peered out. She told Joshua to come inside, and he went in. That’s all there was to it.”

Dan and Alan stared at Bellamy, but he was unable or unwilling to meet their gaze.

“It was Mrs Parkhurst you saw,” Dan said. “They’d been upstairs together.”

“I didn’t say that,” Bellamy protested. “I have no way of knowing. I would never make an accusation like that. Never.”

“But the signs were there, weren’t they? Maybe their clothes were untidy, their hair in a mess. I’m willing to bet Joshua was barefoot when he ran out into the street, or maybe his shirt was undone.”

Bellamy glanced at Dan for a split second then he looked away as if it had been an involuntary movement.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Dan said.

There was a pause before Bellamy spoke. “I’ve said what I came to say. I have nothing more to add.”

Dan bit back the first words that came to mind, but while he composed himself, Alan seized his chance.

“You have a lot to answer for,” Alan stated. “What you saw, that must’ve been the reason Joshua ran away. You could’ve said all this to Greg, but you kept it from him. You’ve let that man suffer for six years, not knowing whether his son was alive or dead.”

Bellamy rounded on them. “Do you think I don’t know that? But how could I have told anyone? The shame, the humiliation. I don’t know what that poor woman would’ve done, but as for Greg, he would never have forgiven his son.”

“That was for him to decide,” Dan shot back. “Greg would’ve done anything to keep his family together. Anything. You must see that. But you deprived him of that chance.”

Bellamy flinched, then he screwed his eyes shut tight and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Dan glared at him for a second, then he looked to Alan. “Come on. Let’s go. I’ve heard more than enough.”

“Me too,” Alan replied. “Me too.”

CHAPTER 67

Sophia stomped along the hallway, heading for the kitchen. She’d spent most of the day in her studio, trying to work, letting the music drive all other thoughts from her mind, but she’d missed lunch and now she needed food. She pictured a mountain of toast, smothered with butter and jam. There was almost a whole loaf in the bread bin. It was the one thing her mother could be relied upon to provide. Whatever else ran out, there was always bread.

First, coffee, Sophia decided. Gallons of it. But as she passed the lounge door, she stopped. The house had been quiet, so she’d assumed that she had the place to herself, but there were voices coming from the front room: her mother and someone else: someone with a voice so quiet it was little more than a murmur.

Sophia moved closer to the door, listening, but as she stepped forward, one of the floorboards creaked beneath her, and the conversation on the other side of the door halted abruptly.

Sophia had to go in now; she had no choice. Doing her best to look casual, Sophia opened the door and stepped through to find her mother in the armchair, and a familiar figure perched on the edge of the sofa.

“Auntie Jean,” Sophia said, going immediately toward the sofa and sitting beside her. “How are you?”

Jean Doubleday smiled sadly and wrapped an arm around Sophia’s shoulders, pulling her in for a sideways hug. “All the better for seeing you, my dear,” she said. “All the better for seeing you.”

Nestling against her, Sophia said, “I’m so sorry about Uncle Henry. So sorry. Mum told me last night. I couldn’t believe it.”

“Me neither, sweetheart. But it’s…” Jean’s voice faltered, and she took out a handkerchief to dab at her eyes.

“Do you need anything?” Emma Parkhurst asked. “A cup of tea? Something stronger?”

Jean shook her head. “Bless you, but no. I’ve no appetite.”

“You’ve got to have something,” Sophia said. “I was going to have coffee and toast. Would you like some? We’ve got some really good jam. Mrs Treave made it.”

“Well, Marge does make the best jam.” Jean seemed to brighten a little. “A bit of toast might be nice.”

Emma rose to her feet. “I’ll get it. Coffee too. You two can catch up. I’ve been telling Jean about all your achievements, Sophia, but I’m sure you can explain it better than me. I won’t be long.” Emma bustled from the room, leaving Sophia and Jean looking at each other uncertainly.

“You know, you don’t have to tell me about university if you don’t want to,” Jean said. “We don’t have to talk at all. It’s just nice to sit with you.”

“Yes.” Sophia hesitated. “I hope Mum hasn’t been making too much fuss. You know how she gets sometimes.”

“I do. Her heart’s in the right place, but your mum has always been the same. Even when we were little and making tea parties for our dolls, she was always the one to set out the little cups and saucers. Everything had to be just so. I let her get on with it.”

“I can imagine.” After a moment of silence, Sophia said, “I think Mum’s worried about you staying on the farm. It could get lonely out there. If you like, I could come over and stay with you.”

“No, you have your studies. I’ll be fine. I have Liam to keep me company.”

“Yes, of course. How is he?”

“Ah, Liam’s a strong young man. He reminds me of Henry when we first met. Although neither of them would admit it, they were alike in so many ways. That’s why they argued. It had nothing to do with the church or Liam coming out. They were just too damned stubborn, too afraid to admit they needed each other, loved each other. It near broke my heart to see them. But now…”

Sophia sniffed back a tear. She could think of nothing to say, so she patted Jean gently on the back.

“I have Jess too,” Jean went on. “She’s getting used to being indoors. Henry would say it’s making her soft, but she seems happier. I think she’s missing Henry almost as much as me. She knows he’s gone, I’m sure of it. She whines whenever she’s left alone.”

“You could’ve brought Jess with you. I’d love to see her.”

“I tried that last night,” Jean replied. “I came over to see you and your mum, but Jess was being a nuisance. She never liked being on the lead. She’s spent her whole life on the farm, and walking over here was quite the adventure. She practically pulled me off my feet.”

Sophia leaned back from her aunt. “You walked all the way from the farm?”

Jean nodded. “It’s only a couple of miles. There’s nothing wrong with my legs. I drove today, though. I had to pop into Newton Abbot to make some arrangements, so I stopped off on my way back.”

“Did you go on your own?”

“Yes. Liam wanted to come, but I didn’t want to put him through all that. I told him he had to stay and look after Jess. That made him give in. He’s always doted on that dog.”

“What about his partner?”

“Mark had to go back to work today. He asked for time off, but you know what it’s like these days in the NHS. They’re pushed at the best of times, and Mark didn’t want to let anybody down. He’s very dedicated to his work.”

“I’ve never met him,” Sophia said. “What does he do? Is he a doctor?”

“Heavens, no. He’s a healthcare worker. If you ask me, he gets all the jobs no one else wants to do, but he’s happy enough. A very caring young man is Mark. He wasn’t through the door five minutes before he set to, making us some supper. He even did the dishes afterwards. He wouldn’t let me lift a finger. I felt quite spoiled.”

Sophia smiled, impressed. “You deserve to be looked after. Anyway, Mark sounds great—better than the men I meet at uni. They can just about heat up a pizza, and you can forget about the washing up. Compared to that lot, Mark sounds like a keeper.”

“I suppose so. He can certainly cook. He made us some vegetable soup, and it was better than mine. And he looks after Liam. It’s in his nature, I think, to care for others, and they seem happy together, so what more can you ask?”

Sophia cuddled up to her aunt again, wondering at the source of the older woman’s strength.

“Where were you?” Jean asked.

Sophia tensed.

“Last night, I mean,” Jean went on. “Your mum said you were out, but she didn’t know where.”

“Oh, I was seeing an old friend. We were just hanging around, talking. I lost track of the time.”

There was a pause before Jean said. “It’s all right if you don’t want to tell me. I was wondering if you still kept in touch with Ellen, that’s all.”

“Yes. That’s who I was with. Her dad is still really ill. It’s his heart. She thinks he won’t get better.”

“That is sad. How are they all coping?”

“They’re keeping it together. I think Ellen hasn’t really taken it in. She was sunbathing the other day, like she was on holiday.”

“We all deal with these things in our own way. You can’t grieve twenty-four hours a day. Look at me, sitting here and waiting for my coffee and having a nice chat with you. I could feel guilty about it, but what would be the point? I still have a good few years to look forward to, so I may as well get on with the job.”

“That’s good. It must be a generational thing. Ellen’s mum is the same. Soldiering on.”

“Brenda’s a good woman. I must call on her soon. Maybe I can take her out for a cup of tea somewhere. Teignmouth, maybe.” She chuckled softly. “What a pair we’ll be, two widows going to the seaside for the day, eating ice cream and going for a paddle.”

Jean laughed again, louder this time, and Sophia joined in.

When they grew quiet again, Sophia said, “Will you stay at the farm?”

“Yes, I think so. It’s been in my family for generations. I might sell some land though, and I’ll get rid of the animals. They’re nothing but a nuisance, and Liam won’t be interested. He doesn’t like the llamas and neither do I, so that’s that. Somebody will want them. At the moment, there’s no one to look after the stupid creatures.”

Sophia hesitated. “Is it true, do you think, what they’re saying about that awful man?”

“Roy?”

“Yes. Did he… did he do something to Uncle Henry?”

Sophia felt a shudder run through her aunt’s body. “The police seem to think so. I don’t know why he would’ve done such a thing. Henry was always kind to him. Always. But I never liked the man, never trusted him. He always struck me as sly.”

“Yes, he is.”

Jean twisted in her seat, and when Sophia looked up, she found her aunt staring down at her.

“Did you know him?” Jean asked.

“No, not really,” Sophia replied. “But I saw him sometimes, when we all came to visit, and I never liked it when he was around. He was always creeping about.”

“That sounds about right.” Jean sat back. “When—” she started to ask, but she was interrupted by the door opening, Sophia’s mum bustling in with a tray.

“Here we are,” Emma said. “Sorry it took a bit longer than I expected. I had to dig some bread out of the freezer.”

She set the tray down on the coffee table, and while she fussed over the plates, Sophia eyed her mum warily. The story about the bread was an obvious lie, so what else had her mother been up to in the kitchen all this time?

Was her voice a little slurred? Had her eyes grown soft with the familiar faraway gaze that appeared when she’d been at the wine?

No, Sophia decided. She’s stone-cold sober. Now that she thought about it, her mum had been more like her old self over the last couple of days, her eyes bright and her manner more down to earth. Perhaps the death of Uncle Henry had shocked her into sobriety.

But we didn’t know about Henry until Tuesday, Sophia thought. And I think Mum stopped drinking before then. Sophia thought back to Monday. Her mum had spent the day cleaning—that was nothing new—but she’d seemed cheerful, singing to herself as she’d scrubbed the sinks and run the Hoover over the carpets. She’d even made a roast dinner for both of them in the evening, and they’d eaten together for once, both of them making an effort to be kind to each other.

Now, as Sophia watched, a look passed between her mum and Auntie Jean, and for a second she could picture the pair of them as girls: two sisters cooking up mischief between them. What was going on?

Sophia wanted to ask, to find out if they were keeping something to themselves, but she had to sit up to accept the mug of coffee offered by her mum, and the moment was lost.

“Toast?” her mum asked. “I put plenty of jam on it, just the way you like it.”

The smell of freshly toasted bread rose to Sophia’s nostrils, and her mouth watered. The buttered toast had been arranged neatly on a large plate, and Sophia dived in, helping herself to the slice with the most jam.

The first taste made her close her eyes. It took Sophia back to her childhood and story time by the fire, although then her drink had been hot chocolate. This moment had that same warm feeling of comfort and contentment, of safety.

Sophia opened her eyes and took in the scene. Her mum and Aunty Jean were tucking in, chatting in-between mouthfuls of toast and sips of hot coffee.

This is good, Sophia thought. This is home. But as she settled back on the sofa, her mug of coffee resting on her lap, her fingers slippery from melted butter and sticky with jam, a splinter of darkness grew in her mind, needling her conscience.

There was a reason she’d been to see Ellen. Henry’s death had changed everything. Ellen had calmed her down, explained what they had to do, and at the time, it had all made sense. But now, sitting next to Aunty Jean, a slow replay of every bad decision she’d made in the last few days ran through Sophia’s mind.

I did wrong, she told herself. I did wrong and I’ll be found out.

From now on, everything she said and did would be based on a foundation of lies. Disaster was only a heartbeat away. A word out of place, a glance at the wrong person at the wrong time, and it would all come crashing down. There was only one thing she was sure of: she’d be made to pay for what she’d done.

CHAPTER 68

Spiller lingered over the remains of his pint, deep in thought. Collins had finished his coffee twenty minutes earlier, and he was staring around the cosy barroom of The Wild Boar as though he’d rather be anywhere else. Perhaps it was time to call it a night. Kayleigh Robbins had not returned, and though they’d talked to Sam, they’d learned nothing new.

Spiller drank a mouthful of beer and cast his eyes around the room. It was still early, and the bar was empty apart from a middle-aged couple who’d ordered food and were sitting quietly with their drinks, barely speaking to one another. Then there were the two older men who’d arrived separately and taken up positions at opposite ends of the bar, both intent on drinking steadily and staring into space.

It’s not exactly a hotbed of activity, Spiller thought. No wonder Collins is down in the dumps. But even if the place was busy, it wouldn’t suit Collins. He preferred shiny new tables and chairs in bright colours, not to mention live football on a widescreen TV, the volume turned up to ensure no moment of action went unheard.

Each to their own, Spiller told himself, and he downed the last of his pint. “Come on, Collins. Time to put you out of your misery.”

“If you’re sure,” Collins replied, already pushing his chair back from the table.

“Positive. We’ll clock off for the day and start fresh tomorrow.”

But as they stood, who should come mooching in through the door but Daniel Corrigan and Alan Hargreaves.

Collins let out a low groan. “Let’s get out of here before they treat us to their latest conspiracy theory.”

“Don’t be so hasty,” Spiller replied. “We may not have managed to talk to Kayleigh, but local knowledge can be helpful, and these two have it in spades.”

Collins didn’t look happy, but he stayed put, and he didn’t complain when a few minutes later, Corrigan and Hargreaves homed in their table, brimming pint glasses in hand.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Hargreaves said. “Mind if we join you?”

“Not in the least,” Spiller replied. “We’re not staying for long but pull up a pew.”

“So, how’s it all going?” Corrigan asked as soon as he’d sat down. “My guess is, you’re in Embervale because you’ve been talking to Penny Robbins.”

Spiller remained inscrutable. At least, he thought he had.

“Well, well,” Corrigan said with a knowing look. “I was right, and there’s a problem. Hugh’s alibi stands up, doesn’t it?”

“Let’s not go there,” Spiller replied. “We don’t deal in guesswork and inspired hunches.”

Corrigan grinned. “You think my hunches are inspired? High praise. And that must mean I was right. Hugh does have an alibi.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Spiller said. “Guess all you like, Mr Corrigan, but even if I wanted to, I couldn’t give you that kind of information, and you know that.”

Corrigan lifted his glass in salute. “You’re nothing if not consistent, Inspector. It was worth a try, though.”

“Was it?” Spiller asked. “Why?”

The question caught Corrigan when he was halfway through swallowing a mouthful of beer. For a moment, he seemed to be genuinely puzzled, but he quickly regained his self-confidence, saying, “Sometimes it’s not the answer that’s important, it’s the way it’s delivered. I’ll bet you do the same in interrogations—ask a question just to see how the suspect reacts.”

Grudgingly, Spiller nodded. “We prefer to call them interviews, but yes, there’s something in what you say.”

“What about body language?” Dan asked. “Do you look at that?”

“Not so much. It’s not reliable, and it certainly wouldn’t stand up in court.”

Corrigan’s eyebrows shot up and he looked ready to launch into an argument, but Hargreaves said, “That makes perfect sense. For one thing, expressions can be faked, but there’s also the possibility of misinterpretation. We’ve all grinned at an unfortunate moment or pulled a face when we didn’t mean to. Think of nervous laughter. It happens all the time.”

“Exactly,” Corrigan replied. “But our spur-of-the-moment reactions are when our innermost thoughts come to the surface.”

“Or when we might be wondering what to have for dinner, or thinking about the mortgage, or worrying how the kids are getting on at school,” Spiller countered. “Minds wander, Mr Corrigan, especially when people are tired or under stress. We can’t send someone to prison on the strength of a nervous tic. We need evidence, so that’s what we look for.”

“And when you looked at Hugh’s alibi, did you find any evidence to back it up?” Corrigan asked.

Spiller smiled. “We’re working on it.”

“Good, and I have something that might help.”

Corrigan left a pregnant pause, but Spiller wasn’t about to play that game. He waited patiently and that was better than any number of daft questions.

Corrigan looked put out, but he said, “The name Hugh Barrat is an alias. His real name is Damian Barnsley.”

“Is that right?” Spiller intoned. “And where did you come up with that snippet of information?”

“He arrived in Embervale on a stolen bike. It was security marked, and we traced it. The owner was Mr Len Bowler, and he reported the theft, so you’ll find a record of it.”

Spiller mimed applause. “A stolen bike. Well done. But that doesn’t prove that Mr Barrat is living under an assumed name.”

“No, but the bike was stolen from an address in Plymouth that happens to be across the road from Liam Doubleday’s house—52 Kingsley Road. I called in on Liam, and it turns out that the thief had been Liam’s lodger, Damian Barnsley.”

Corrigan sat back with a self-satisfied smile. “Damian also stole camping gear from Liam and his partner. You’ll find the gear and the bike in a field at Marjorie Treave’s house.”

“Well, once again, you have been busy. We’ll look into it.” Much as it pained him, Spiller added, “Thank you,” then he clamped his lips shut to show that the subject was closed.

Still, Corrigan’s information would be helpful, so perhaps it was only fair to give him something in return.

“On a completely different and unrelated matter,” Spiller began, “I passed on the details of that missing person you were looking for. We have a specialist team, and they’re very good, but they haven’t come back with anything, I’m afraid. It’s not easy after so much time has passed, but you never know.”

“Ah, I should have told you,” Corrigan replied. “We managed to solve that problem on our own. We made contact with Joshua, and he’s been to see his father in hospital. Case closed, you might say, so there’s no need for your colleagues to carry on.”

It was Spiller’s turn to look surprised. “How did you find him?”

“That’s confidential,” Corrigan said with a smirk. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Touché,” Spiller replied. “And on that note, I think we should be going.”

But before Spiller and Collins could make a move, Corrigan said, “Hang on a sec. I have one more snippet of information as you might call it. And this one is even more significant.”

Spiller looked to Collins and saw weary resignation in his eyes.

Corrigan looked primed and ready to launch into one of his cock-and-bull stories, but they were going to listen. They had to, because you never knew when a new lead might come to light. That was police work. You had to sift through a mountain of dirt to find a single speck of gold.

“Go on,” Spiller said. “But please, make it brief.”

Corrigan nodded. “The ashes I found in Higgs’ garden, did you have them analysed?”

“Forensics took a sample, but it won’t have been processed yet. To be blunt, Mr Corrigan, we don’t need it. We already know what the man did.”

“Not everything,” Corrigan replied. “Have that paper analysed and you’ll find traces of colour ink, probably from an inkjet printer. He’ll have a computer, but he’ll have hidden it, so it’s most likely a laptop. Oh, and there’ll be a camera somewhere and a telephoto lens.”

Spiller kept his expression immobile, but he must’ve given something away because Corrigan lowered his eyebrows in consternation.

“You haven’t found it, have you?” Corrigan said, though it sounded more like a statement than a question. “You must’ve searched his house when you arrested him—he was a murder suspect, after all. But the camera wasn’t there.”

“Mr Corrigan,” Spiller began, “where are you getting all this?”

Corrigan tapped his temple. “I worked it out.”

“I see,” Spiller said. “But⁠—”

“You have to find the camera and the computer,” Corrigan butted in. “Searle is a peeping Tom. He spies on people and takes photos. He’s been doing it for years. He’ll have kept all the recent stuff digitally, but in the past he printed off photos on ordinary paper. That’s what he was burning. He had to get rid of them.”

“I’ll ask again,” Spiller began, his voice taking on an edge of impatience, “where is all this coming from? Because if it’s a leap in the dark I will not be impressed.”

“There was a witness,” Corrigan replied. “Six years ago, Simon Bellamy saw a man taking photos through someone’s window. Bellamy didn’t say anything because one of Searle’s victims that day was Joshua Southgate, the vicar’s son. The embarrassment was what made Joshua run away.”

“One of the victims?” Spiller said. “Who was the other?”

Corrigan hesitated. “Joshua was with an older woman—Mrs Parkhurst. I don’t mean to imply any wrongdoing on their part. I don’t know what passed between them and it’s not relevant. The important thing is to focus on Searle. If you look closer and search for evidence, I think you’ll find he’s done this sort of thing many times. It’ll give you something else to charge him with.”

“That’s for us to decide,” Spiller replied. “What do you say, DS Collins?”

Collins grunted. “Not a lot. For a start, you say Mr Bellamy saw someone. That sounds very much as if he didn’t identify Mr Searle, is that right?”

“He didn’t see the man’s face,” Corrigan admitted. “But it all fits. You have the burnt papers, and I’ve heard that Searle used to creep about the fields with a camera and a long lens, claiming he was birdwatching.”

Spiller remained impassive, but Collins didn’t quite manage to hide his renewed interest, and Corrigan picked up on it.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Corrigan went on. “You already knew about some of this. What was it, the spurious birdwatching?”

Spiller simply shook his head in disappointment.

“Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have asked,” Corrigan said. “But listen, Searle used to go into the nature reserve, and that’s a place where teenagers like to hang around. I don’t know what those young people might be doing in there, but if Searle has been taking photos of them…”

“That’s a very serious allegation,” Spiller said. “I need to know where it’s coming from.”

Corrigan’s gaze flitted sideways, but though Spiller tried to follow his gaze, he wasn’t sure who Corrigan had been looking at.

Spiller didn’t comment. Instead, he let his stare settle on Corrigan and he waited for an answer.

After a long second, Corrigan started talking: “I heard it from Sam, the pub manager. Sam grew up in the village, and if you ask her, she’ll tell you all about Searle. She might even give you some names of people who were affected. That should be enough to get you started. If Searle is a peeping Tom, especially if his victims were teenagers, you can’t let him get away with it.”

Spiller’s expression soured instantly, and Corrigan had the decency to look abashed.

“Sorry,” Corrigan said. “You don’t need me to tell you how to do your job.”

“That’s right,” Spiller replied. “We’ll follow this up. It goes without saying.”

“Thank you.” Corrigan seemed relieved to have unburdened himself. “Look, I know I got carried away just now, but maybe I can make it up to you. Another pint?”

“Thank you, but no,” Spiller replied. “We should get going. Goodbye Mr Corrigan, Mr Hargreaves. I expect we’ll see you again soon, one way or another.”

Spiller and Collins took their leave, but they took a short detour to the bar.

Sam Ashford was busy serving a customer, but when Spiller raised a hand to attract her attention, she came over.

“Sorry to bother you at work,” Spiller said, lowering his voice. “But could we have a quiet word?”

“Now?” Sam replied. “There’s only me behind the bar.”

“It’ll only take a minute. Is there somewhere quiet we can go?”

Sam looked as if she’d like to refuse, but she relented. Gesturing to the section of the bar that could be lifted to allow access, she said, “We can go in the kitchen.”

A few minutes later, Spiller and Collins stepped outside into the cool night air. The quiet streets of Embervale had grown dark, and a gentle mist hung in the air, softening the outline of the houses and making a cosy glow around the brightly lit windows. But the two policemen didn’t pause to admire the tranquil scene. They marched back to the car, their stern expressions set in stone.

Sam had confirmed everything Corrigan had told them, and after a moment’s thought, she’d provided a short list of names: old friends who, as far as she could remember, had once complained about Searle sneaking up on them in the nature reserve.

Damn the man, Spiller thought. He won’t get away with this. But in truth, it might be hard to build a case. Searle’s house had already been searched, and no camera or computer had been found. If Corrigan was right, and Searle had burned any photographs, physical evidence might be hard to come by.

Spiller suddenly felt tired, and as they reached the car, he thought of home. Sheila would have his dinner ready, and they’d eat at the table. Then they’d retire to the front room to sit on the sofa and watch TV for a bit before turning in. Perfect.

But as Collins drove them away from the village, it seemed that the younger man’s mind was still fixed firmly on the case.

“I’ll chase those names up tomorrow,” Collins began. “What do you reckon Searle’s done with his camera?”

“Hard to say,” Spiller replied wearily, but his colleague’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Spiller could almost feel his synapses waking up.

“But come to think of it, Searle isn’t rolling in money, and photographic equipment doesn’t come cheap,” Spiller went on. “The same goes for the laptop. We can look at Searle’s bank records, but even if he’s been crafty and bought secondhand gear with cash, will he have thrown all that expensive kit away?”

Collins shook his head. “He’ll have hidden it. He’ll have picked somewhere dry. Under the floorboards? An outbuilding?”

“We’ll see. Let’s have a word with Mr Bellamy tomorrow, and if he can give us a description that matches Searle, we could be looking at a pattern of behaviour. Don’t forget, Julie Robbins said that Searle used to peer in the window when she was working.”

“I always thought there was something off about him,” Collins said. “Do you want me to go through his financials?”

“No, I’ll farm that out, and I’ll send another search team to Searle’s house. I’ll tackle the paperwork in the morning. You’d better concentrate on the Doubleday murder. I want you to pick apart every detail of Barrat’s alibi. Or should I say Damian Barnsley? That’s another lead we need to follow up, but I’ll have someone else do that. I want you to check with the taxi firm yourself. Once we know for sure that he was in Torquay, send a couple of DCs over there. We’ll soon find out whether he was in those pubs and restaurants with Penny Robbins. There’ll be plenty of CCTV.”

Collins puffed out his cheeks. “That’s going to take some time. We could be looking at a lot of cameras, and Barrat was supposedly there until early the next morning.”

“Rope a few people in. I want this done quickly but efficiently. We can’t afford to cut corners.”

“Right, Guv.” Collins chuckled quietly to himself.

“What’s funny?”

“I was thinking about the poor sods who’ll have to plough through all that CCTV. I reckon I had it easy with Mrs Doubleday. She turned up at Sainsbury’s. A couple of hours later she left with her shopping. That’s all there was to it.”

“A couple of hours?”

“Yes, Guv, give or take. It was in my report.”

Spiller gazed out through the windscreen, watching as they left Embervale and there was nothing to see but the high hedges bordering the narrow lane.

Two hours, Spiller thought. That’s a long time for a weekly shop for two people. Then he remembered. Mrs Doubleday had said she’d grabbed a bite to eat at the cafe. If she’d had to wait in a queue and then taken her time with her sandwich or whatever, that might account for it. Or it might not.

“Collins, you did check the CCTV from the cafe, didn’t you?”

The car’s interior was dark save for the faint glow from the dashboard, but even so, Spiller sensed that Collins was distinctly uncomfortable.

“Oh dear,” Spiller went on. “You didn’t, did you?”

“No, Guv.” Collins cleared his throat before he went on, “I didn’t think of it. I should’ve been more thorough.”

Spiller grunted in disapproval. Still, at least the lad hadn’t made excuses; he was learning.

“You’ll have to go back and have another go at it,” Spiller said. “And don’t ask Barry to do it, check it yourself. What if she left the shop by a different door? That would give her two hours when she was unaccounted for. Or what if she met somebody in the cafe?”

“I…” Collins’ voice trailed away, and he winced.

“What is it?”

“What you said, about her meeting someone. When Jean arrived in the shop, she was hanging around by the newsstand. I thought she was making her mind up about a paper, but I don’t think she actually bought one, so maybe…”

“She was waiting for someone,” Spiller suggested.

“Yeah. It’s possible, I suppose. But who would she meet and why?”

“Well, we don’t know, do we? That’s the whole point. We have a gaping hole in her timeline, and cases have been won or lost on such things.”

Collins nodded, dejected. “I’ll get on it first thing, Guv.”

“I should think so, Collins. We need another suspect. Searle doesn’t match Bellamy’s description, so if Barrat’s alibi holds up, we have nobody. On the other hand, if we can see Jean talking to someone over a cappuccino, we’ll have another line of inquiry. Anisha has spent a long time talking to Jean, and there’s been no mention of her meeting anyone. If that turns out to be a deliberate omission, I want to know the reason why.”

“Good point, Guv,” Collins said. “I didn’t think of that. It won’t happen again.”

“I know, Collins, I know. Unfortunately, promotion to detective sergeant does not confer infallibility. And the same goes for an inspector. I didn’t ask questions, I just accepted what you’d done. I was too busy thinking about the man we had in the cells.”

Spiller made his tone a shade softer as he went on. “In World War II, fighter pilots were told not to concentrate too much on the target they were trying to hit, otherwise they might collide with it. It’s called target fixation. Drivers do it too, especially when they get into trouble.

“I expect Roy Searle was staring firmly at that ditch as he swerved off the road. What we focus on, we go towards. In our job, we have to be better than that. We have to remain open-minded and follow the evidence because, when it comes to a trial, evidence is the only thing that matters.”

“Yes, Guv.”

Here endeth the lesson, Spiller thought. But he didn’t say it out loud. He’d let Collins know he was off the hook later. He didn’t want the lad to stew on his mistake all night, but he needed to remember this moment and learn from it. This wouldn’t be the first hard lesson for Collins, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last.

Still, he wanted Collins to show up for work with a fire in his belly, not a millstone around his neck. He’d send him home with a kind word and a pat on the back, then Collins could go home and rest.

But all that could come later. For now, Spiller wanted to be alone with his thoughts, looking out at the darkened countryside and the night sky, seeing only with his mind’s eye as he searched for a fresh suspect.

CHAPTER 69

Dan and Alan had almost finished their drinks when Jay Markham strolled toward them, a sheaf of papers in his hand.

“Hi,” Dan said. “Come to join us? Pull up a chair.”

Jay looked affronted. “Don’t be daft. It’s nearly time for the quiz. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Dan quickly checked the room. He’d noticed it filling up over the last twenty minutes or so, and now that Jay mentioned it, he vaguely recalled Sam talking about starting a quiz, but he hadn’t realised it was tonight.

“Well, what’s it to be?” Jay demanded. “Are you making up a team or not?”

“I’m game,” Alan replied. “I love a pub quiz. I saw the notice by the bar, but I’d forgotten all about it.”

Jay stared at them in disapproval. “Some private eyes you two turned out to be. You can’t see what’s in front of your noses.”

“We’ve been busy,” Dan protested. “Anyway, we can’t make a team, there are only two of us.”

“It’s no skin off my nose,” Jay said. “Two is enough, but it’s the same price. Four pounds.”

“I really don’t think we have the time,” Dan started to say, but Alan was already handing over the entrance fee.

“Right you are.” Jay handed over several sheets of paper, one blank and the others showing collections of anagrams and grainy, black and white photographs.

“Name?” Jay’s pen was poised over a pad. “And before you deliberately misunderstand, I want your team name. Something distinctive and preferably not rude. You wouldn’t believe the stuff some folk try and get away with.”

“Erm, The Dynamic Duo?” Alan offered.

“Fine.” Jay scribbled it down and then moved away to another table where he was greeted enthusiastically by a group of men in their thirties, none of whom Dan recognised.

“Those chaps mean business,” Alan said. “Some people take these things very seriously. I don’t think they’re locals, so they must’ve come especially.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Dan replied. “But honestly, do you want to do this?”

Alan stared at him. “Are you joking? I’ve already paid.”

“It’s only four quid, and I can pay you back.”

“We’re doing it. It’ll be fun.”

Dan pulled a face. “No, it won’t, because we’ll fail miserably. For a start, this isn’t my kind of thing. I have no interest in trivia whatsoever. And anyway, there are only two of us. We don’t stand a chance.”

“For goodness sake, Dan, it’s not just about answering the questions, it’s about working together and having a go. Nobody really minds whether they win or not. It’s a bit of fun.”

“I know that.”

“Right.” Alan stood, his expression determined. “I’ll get us another round and some crisps, then we’ll take the rest of the evening off and do the quiz. Who knows? We might actually enjoy it. Same again?”

Dan knew when he was beaten. “Okay. Yes please. But be quick. Jay looks like he’s getting a microphone ready. If he set the questions, I’m sunk. He’s obsessed with football, and if there are loads of sports questions⁠—”

“I’ll do those ones,” Alan interrupted, then he hurried toward the bar.

Alan returned a few minutes later, setting the glasses and packets of crisps on the table as he sat down.

“I timed that well,” Alan said. “There’s a queue now. Sam’s going to be run off her feet. Apparently, Kayleigh was supposed to be working, but she dashed out and didn’t come back.”

“When was this?”

“It must’ve been when I ran into her,” Alan replied. “I told you she was in a state.”

Dan nodded. Alan had mentioned his unexpected collision with Kayleigh, but Dan’s mind had still been on Simon Bellamy, so he hadn’t paid much attention.

“I hope Kayleigh’s all right,” Alan went on. “Something was up. She didn’t seem herself at all.”

Spiller was in the pub when we arrived, Dan thought. So Kayleigh must’ve run out while he was there. Were the two things coincidental?

“What did she say?” Dan asked. “Did she tell you what had upset her?”

“Not exactly,” Alan replied, and he relayed their conversation.

“Ah, that makes sense.”

Alan raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to explain?”

“There’s no time,” Dan replied. “The quiz is about to start.”

Alan’s protest was lost in a howl of feedback as Jay switched on his microphone.

“Sorry about that,” Jay said as the noise faded. “Teething troubles. Still, I’ve woken you all up, so let’s get cracking.”

The quiz began in earnest, and Dan was soon swept up in the rapid flow of questions.

Sure enough, there was a section on sport, all of which was lost on Dan, but Alan tackled every question with glee, scribbling down answers, occasionally crossing words out and replacing them as he went.

Dan made encouraging noises and tried not to drink his beer too fast. When it came to the black and white photos, Dan fared better. Some showed isolated parts of faces from various actors, and Dan knew several of them instantly. Another set of photos showed highly magnified parts of plants, and Alan was surprisingly good at that round.

But then they came to a general knowledge round, and Dan began to enjoy himself. He’d always been good at storing up facts and figures, and he enjoyed current affairs. He was at sea with the historical questions, but that was where Alan shone.

At the end of the round, Alan murmured, “I think we’re doing okay. We make a good team.”

“Well, we knew that already,” Dan replied, and both men smiled as they clinked glasses and took a drink.

“The next round is called people and places,” Jay announced. “It’s all about the meaning of names, but you’ll see as we go on. Right, question one. What was the original meaning of these surnames: Cooper, Wright, Chandler, Fletcher? You get one point for each, so have a go.”

Alan smiled. “That’s an easy one. They all made things.”

“Ah, of course,” Dan replied, lowering his voice to a whisper. “A cooper made barrels, and I’ve heard of a shipwright, so it must be ships.”

“I think they’ll be looking for a more general answer. Originally, a wright was someone who worked with wood. A chandler made ropes, and a fletcher made arrows.”

“Are you sure about that last one? The others sound okay, but that doesn’t sound right.”

“Positive,” Alan replied. “The flights on an arrow are still called fletching. They were made from feathers.”

Dan had been about to post another crisp into his mouth, but he stopped and put the snack back in the packet. “Coloured feathers?”

“They can be. Goose, I think. Something like that anyway.”

Dan stood, reaching in his pocket for his phone.

“What’s up?” Alan asked. “You can’t just go.”

Jay had begun on the next question, but he paused, staring at Dan, as were most of the other customers.

“Sorry, but I’ve got to make a call,” Dan said. “I’ll just be outside.” He started walking away.

Alan made to stand. “Shall I come with you?”

“No need. I’ll be back in a minute. Carry on without me.”

Dan didn’t look back to see whether Alan was staying put. He was already finding Brenda Southgate’s name in his contacts.

Outside, he called Brenda, and after a few rings, she picked up.

“Dan,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

“I should be the one asking after you,” Dan replied. “How are you all holding up?”

“Not too bad, thanks. It helps now we’re all together. I can’t thank you enough.”

“That’s all right. I was glad to help, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

There was a pause before Brenda replied. “If you don’t mind me saying, you sound tense. What’s going on? Because whatever it is, I don’t want Greg to be upset.”

“It’s not about Greg, not directly anyway. My question is about Joshua.”

“Okay,” Brenda replied, caution in her tone.

“When you told me about Joshua and Liam growing up together, you mentioned bows and arrows. I thought you were talking about toys. Was I wrong?”

“Yes. Josh loved archery. When he was ten, the school took his class on a residential trip. They spent a week canoeing and climbing and all that sort of thing. But it was the archery that appealed to him. He loved it.”

“So he took it up?”

“Very much so. Liam too. They joined a club, entered competitions. They were both pretty good. They had a friendly rivalry—who would win, who would come second—but they never fell out over it.”

“I’m guessing he would’ve had an expensive bow and all the equipment.”

“Naturally, but why do you ask?”

“I’ll get to that. Do you still have all his gear at home?”

“Of course. It’s all been packed away, but we didn’t let anything go, apart from his old clothes. After a while, we knew they wouldn’t even fit him anymore, so they went to charity.”

“So who would have access to the bow and arrows now?”

“Anyone in the family. It’s all up in the loft. We had it converted.”

“I see. I don’t suppose you can recall what kind of arrows Joshua used.”

“Erm, I know they were quite expensive.”

“It’s the fletching I was wondering about,” Dan said. “The feathers on the arrows. Were they all the same colour?”

“Yes, but why do you want to know?”

“I’ll explain another time. I can’t talk now. I’m in the middle of a pub quiz.”

“Okay, Dan,” Brenda said slowly. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but you’ve built up a lot of goodwill with us, so I’ll trust that you’re asking in good faith. Josh always had red fletching on his arrows. Bright red. It was his favourite colour.”

“Thank you. That was what I thought. Bye for now, Brenda. I’ll get back to you soon. Send my best to Greg.”

Brenda said an awkward goodbye and ended the call.

There it is, Dan thought. The missing piece. He pocketed his phone and made his way back inside.

He’d have to apologise for abandoning his teammate, but Alan would understand. He’d have to, because for what Dan had in mind, Alan’s help would be essential.

CHAPTER 70

Alone at his desk, DS Collins concentrated on his computer’s screen. There were two mugs on his desk, one empty, the other half full, the black coffee long forgotten.

Collins cued up another piece of CCTV footage, but he didn’t play it back immediately. He blinked and shook his head, then he rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, pressing hard. In the temporary darkness he seemed to see green squares on the back of his eyelids, but the massage brought new life to his eyes, and when he looked back to the screen, he was ready.

Absent-mindedly, he picked up the half-full mug and took a swig. The cold coffee was harsh enough to make his tongue shrivel, but it was wet, and his throat was dry, so he swallowed the bitter liquid in one gulp.

Collins studied the image on the screen: the tables and chairs of the cafe in Sainsbury’s. He’d already seen more or less the same image from two different angles, each one adding a slightly different slice of the cafe’s interior.

Why so many cameras? Collins asked himself. Wouldn’t one be enough?

If the cafe’s customers realised they were under such intense surveillance, they’d choke on their cappuccinos.

But despite the overlap of the coverage, it was clear that one camera was aimed at the counter, another focused on the cafe’s entrance, and this last one gave the best view of the seating area.

He’d watched Jean Doubleday arrive in the cafe. He’d watched her queue at the counter, pick out a sandwich and a slice of cake, receive her drink and pay at the till before walking away with her meal on a tray. All of this she’d accomplished alone and, as far as he could see, without speaking to anyone except the staff behind the counter.

“Third time lucky,” Collins muttered, and he began the playback. He’d have to wait a while before Jean walked into view, but he daren’t fast forward the footage. There was nothing to do but wait and watch, his mind buzzing as caffeine and fatigue fought it out.

He took another mouthful of cold coffee and grimaced. Somehow, it tasted even worse than last time, but he forced it down.

Finally, Jean walked into view. She paused for a moment as if having difficulty choosing a place to sit, and Collins scanned the tables in turn, just as she had done.

Some were taken by couples, others by solitary shoppers, mainly women. Three tables were occupied by mothers with young children. But where would Jean go? Was she looking for someone?

“Come on, Jean,” Collins whispered. “Who are you going to meet?”

Jean began picking her way through the tables, and Collins watched with bated breath. She approached an elderly man, but then she swerved away at the last moment. She looked over her shoulder for a second, and then…

And then she sat down at an empty table.

Collins clapped his hands against his forehead, mouth open in silent anguish. Had he worked late for this? Had he ploughed through all that mind-numbing footage just to watch someone eat a sandwich?

“What a complete and utter waste of bloody⁠—”

Collins’ grumble died in his throat. A man in his twenties was making a bee line for Jean’s table, long strides rapidly closing the distance between them. Caught perfectly by the camera, the man was dressed in smart casual clothes and a red messenger bag hung from his shoulder. But as he neared Jean’s table, he turned his back to the camera.

Jean looked up and got to her feet, opening her arms. The man walked straight into her embrace and they hugged.

Collins paused the playback and rewound it, noting the time when the new arrival had appeared, then he played it forward slowly. When he found a decent image of the man’s face, Collins captured a still image and stored the file carefully.

“Hello,” Collins muttered. “And who might you be?”

Jean had a son, and this man looked about the right age, but it was too early to make that assumption. Whoever he was, Jean hadn’t mentioned meeting him, and that made him a person of interest. Later, Collins would go back through the footage looking for him, but for now, he wanted to see what happened next.

As the footage rolled forward, the two companions sat down, and Jean pushed the plate of cake toward the man. It was a motherly gesture, and Collins felt sure this was her son. She’d be telling him to eat up, fussing over whether he was feeding himself properly.

But the man didn’t oblige. Instead, he rummaged in his bag and produced a reusable cup, then he stood and walked out of the frame, presumably heading to the counter.

Collins had already watched the footage focusing on the counter, so he must’ve seen this man before, but he hadn’t known he was with Jean. The man must’ve been late, and that was why jean had lingered near the newspapers, hoping he’d show up.

Collins let the footage roll, and the man reappeared, carrying his cup carefully. He made himself comfortable and set about the cake. The two of them talked, their heads close together. There was laughter, and more than once, Jean reached across the table and laid her hands on top of his.

Collins watched every moment of their meeting, even though it lasted for well over an hour. They stood, there was another embrace, and then the man walked away, turning back to give a last wave before he strolled out of the frame. Collins noted the time.

Alone, Jean sat down and brought a paper serviette up to her mouth. She dabbed at her face, her head down. Collins couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though she were wiping away tears, hoping no one would notice.

Finally, Jean pushed herself to her feet and marched from the cafe, her back straight.

Collins copied down the timestamp and stopped the playback. He took a moment, replaying the scene in his mind. It was about time he called his own mother. He could take her out for coffee and cake. She’d like that.

But that call would have to wait until tomorrow. He still had work to do. Collins retrieved the CCTV from the store entrance. He needed to know if the man had left the shop, but at least he only had a short timeframe to check. Once that was done, he’d find the footage from the car park.

There were eight cameras outside, all of them wide-angle, but the man’s red shoulder bag was quite distinctive. With a bit of luck Jean’s companion had arrived by car, and if the camera had picked up his car’s registration, they were on to a winner.

Don’t count your chickens, Collins told himself, then he set to work.

THURSDAY

CHAPTER 71

Dan awoke feeling fresh, and first thing after breakfast he sat at the kitchen table and set to work.

His first call was to Higgs who, predictably, was already at work.

“Dan,” Higgs said. “Good to hear from you. I can give you three minutes.”

“I can make do with one and a half,” Dan replied. “You told me that Kayleigh once took her sister’s place and cleaned your house.”

“That’s right.”

“The graffiti on your shed—did it start to appear immediately after Kayleigh came to your house, or was it already going on at that point?”

“It was a few days afterwards, I think. I was in town when it happened. But why do you want to know?”

“Tying up a few loose ends,” Dan said. “And that’s my time up. All the best, Mr Higgs.”

“It’s Brad,” Higgs began, but Dan ended the call.

Three minutes, he thought. Who does he think he is? But there was no time to dwell on Mr Higgs; his case was closed.

Kayleigh had daubed the graffiti on the shed, hitting back at Searle and sticking up for her sister. That was why she’d run from the pub when Spiller had arrived. She hadn’t wanted a confrontation at work, probably fearing she’d lose her job. Sam wouldn’t have let her go over such a minor offence, but Kayleigh hadn’t known that. She was young and impetuous, but there was another possibility. Kayleigh might well have a stronger reason for hating Roy Searle.

Dan’s next call was to Brenda Southgate.

After a few words of greeting, Dan asked after Greg. Brenda said Greg was stable and comfortable, and from what the doctors had said, this was the best they could hope for. Even so, Brenda was still pushing for Greg to be allowed to go home.

“I hope it works out,” Dan said, the words seeming inadequate as soon as they’d left his lips. “It’s always good to be home, but in the meantime, I’m sure Greg appreciates you being there.”

“Yes, we’re all here today,” Brenda replied. “The whole family. We’re keeping each other company, and we take turns having a break. It’s wonderful to have Josh here. I know I’ve said it before but thank you.”

“I’m happy to have helped. Is Ellen there too? She must be happy to see her brother again.”

“Yes, she is. She’s like a new person.” Brenda paused. “But I told Ellen what you said to me on the phone last night, and she seemed upset. She said it was nothing, but she can’t hide it from me. What’s going on, Dan? And why did you want to know about Joshua’s arrows?”

“A piece of red feather was found in the nature reserve,” Dan said, choosing his words with care. “I thought it might be part of a fletching. I wondered whether Ellen might have gone there to practise archery.”

“No,” Brenda stated. “Ellen had no interest in all that, and I’ve already told you, Josh’s bow and arrows have been packed away for years.”

“Okay. There must be an alternative explanation. I’ll keep looking.”

Brenda made a noncommittal noise. Dan was in danger of exhausting her goodwill, so he wished them all his best and wound up the call.

So far, so good, Dan thought. Time for phase two.

CHAPTER 72

Spiller arrived at the police station and marched inside, his shoulders back, ready to do battle. At one time he would’ve looked forward to a chat with his colleagues in CID, catching up on the latest news over a mug of tea, sharing a joke and a bit of gallows humour.

But those days had gone. The number of officers had been whittled down to the bare minimum, and all of them were overstretched. There was barely enough time to get the job done, so the early morning chats had gone out the window. As for the idle banter, that was no great loss. Over the years Spiller had heard plenty of remarks that were far from politically correct, and too many that would now be deemed downright offensive. What had once been considered a joke would now be a disciplinary offence, and that was all to the good.

You can’t protect what you don’t respect, Spiller reminded himself as he stomped up the stairs toward his office. And if we don’t protect everyone, what are we here for?

It was a thought that came to him often, the nearest he was ever going to get to a mantra. It helped him to get through the day, to focus on what was important. And today, he had a lot on his plate.

The information Sam Ashford had given him about Roy Searle’s activities had opened a fresh can of worms. It amounted to a fresh allegation against Roy Searle that went back over a decade. They’d have to contact everyone on the list of names Ms Ashford had provided, and there was a chance that many of Searle’s victims, now older and wiser, would be prepared to go on the record.

Every single one of those victims deserved justice. They would all be interviewed, they would all be heard. The investigation would take time, but it would be done properly, and it would begin in earnest today, with the search for Searle’s camera and computer.

Then there was the Doubleday murder. So far, every lead had veered off course. But today, he’d take the case by the scruff of the neck and shake it.

Spiller exchanged greetings with a few of his colleagues as he strode past their desks, but he didn’t stop until he was in his chair, his jacket slung over the backrest and his computer fired up.

“Excellent,” Spiller murmured. Amid the clutter of his inbox were two pieces of good news. DC Barry Clarke had submitted his report, detailing his investigation into Hugh Barrat and his alibi. There was also a message from Roy Searle’s solicitor, Roger Cunliffe.

Cunliffe had visited Searle the day before, and having met with his client, was requesting a meeting as soon as possible. Searle, apparently, was ready to make a statement.

Roger Cunliffe worked for a law firm in Exeter and since he was often on call as the duty solicitor, Spiller had tussled with the man before. Like many legal professionals, Cunliffe was thorough to a fault, but that was fine with Spiller; he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Spiller called Cunliffe’s firm to make an appointment and was told that Roger Cunliffe was already on his way to the station.

Someone’s keen, Spiller thought. He must think he’s on to a winner. No doubt there were other, more profitable, clients waiting in the wings for a slice of Mr Cunliffe’s valuable time.

Nevertheless, he would have to wait his turn. Spiller opened DC Clarke’s report and started reading. Before he’d finished the first paragraph, he learned that Corrigan had been right: Barrat’s real name was Damian Barnsley, and he had a record, including two cautions for public order offences and a conviction for burglary.

Spiller read on. At some point, Clarke appeared at the doorway bearing a mug of tea and wearing an expectant expression. Spiller accepted both with a nod.

DC Clarke hovered in the doorway. Pushing thirty, he’d been at his present rank for a while, and he knew his job, but he’d never struck Spiller as ambitious. Of average height and build, with mousy hair and narrow features, he was easy to work with and competent in every way, but he lacked that edge, that competitive streak that drove some officers to excel.

It was time that changed.

Spiller took a sip from his mug and inclined his head toward his screen as he said, “You’ve done good work there, Barry. Just how I like it.”

“The tea?” Clarke asked.

“No, son. Your report into Barrat’s alibi, or more properly, Damian Barnsley’s alibi. Brief and to the point while omitting no significant details. That’s the way to do it. And I see you’ve sent uniform over to collect the stolen goods he left in Embervale.”

Clarke’s smile was hesitant. “Yeah, I thought I may as well crack on with it.”

“You did right. Good work, Clarke. Well done.”

“Thanks, Guv. To be honest, I thought you might be…”

“I might be what?”

Clarke’s throat bobbed. “Well, I thought you might not be too happy about it. I mean, the guy was in Torquay when Henry Doubleday was murdered, so bang goes our prime suspect.”

“And that is exactly as it should be,” Spiller stated. “I shouldn’t have to tell you this, Clarke, but this is what police work is all about. Eliminating a suspect is every bit as important as nailing one. The last thing we want is a miscarriage of justice.”

“Yes, Guv. I know. I didn’t mean…”

Spiller softened his tone. “All right, son. You misspoke. We’ve all done it. But in this job, it’s better to think twice and be thought slow than it is to blunder in and put your foot in it.”

“Right, Guv. Got it.”

“Okay, you can go down to the custody suite and talk to Mr Barnsley about the theft of the bike and the camping gear. If he admits to it, we’ll pass the case to the CPS, and then you can send Mr Barnsley on his way with a stern warning. He’ll be up before the magistrate eventually, and in the meantime, he’d better not do a disappearing act.”

Clarke nodded, but as he retreated, Spiller called him back.

“Yes, Guv?”

“Do me a favour, son,” Spiller said. “The next time someone gives you a compliment, don’t ask questions, just say thank you and walk away, all right?”

Spiller smiled to show the ordeal was over, and Clarke looked mightily relieved.

“Okay, Guv. Thanks.” As if to prove he’d learned his lesson, Clarke strode smartly away, but he was immediately replaced by Spiller’s next visitor.

DS Collins appeared in the open doorway and rapped on the frame with his knuckles.

“I’ve just had a call from Simon Bellamy,” Collins said. “He heard about Searle’s arrest, and he wants us to know that he saw someone spying on a private house six years ago. He backed up everything Corrigan said.”

“That’s good, but I assume he couldn’t positively identify Searle.”

“No, but he’s willing to come in and look at some photos and make a statement. He offered right away.”

“Progress on one front at least,” Spiller said. “Have you had time to look at the CCTV from Sainsbury’s yet?”

“I did it last night.”

Spiller raised his eyebrows. “Did you, by God? That’s good, Collins, and it explains the shadows under your eyes. How long did that take you?”

“It took as long as it took,” Collins replied. “I’ll send the report over to you in a minute, but I figured you might want to hear the short version right away.”

“You figured right. And from the look on your face, I’d say that Mrs Doubleday didn’t spend the whole two hours poring over the carrots and potatoes.”

Collins nodded firmly. “She met someone—almost certainly her son, Liam. I could tell right off the bat they were close, but there’s more.”

“Go on.”

“They spent over an hour together, and when he left, I caught him on a couple of the cameras outside. He approached an old Vauxhall Astra, dark blue, but then a van blocked my view for a second or two. I checked for a better angle, but the next best camera was too far away. Anyway, I saw the Astra pulling out and Liam was gone, so he must’ve got in. I managed to get a decent image of the number plate, and it’s registered to Liam Doubleday at an address in Plymouth: 52 Kingsley Road. So Jean met her son on the day her husband was killed, and she kept it very quiet. I have to wonder why.”

Spiller bestowed a beaming smile on Collins. “So do I, Collins. So do I.”

“Time to have another word with her?”

“Oh yes,” Spiller replied. “We’ll talk to Liam too. With a bit of luck, they’ll both be at the family farm. We’ll drive over to Embervale later, but first, I want to hear what Mr Searle has to say for himself. He’s had a word with his solicitor, and he wants to talk. He should be ready soon.”

“Which way do you reckon he’s going to play it?”

“We’ll see. Call down to the custody suite and see if they’re ready. I’d like you to sit in if you’re free.”

Collins rubbed his hands together. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

CHAPTER 73

Dan collected Alan, and they set off through the village, walking at a brisk pace.

As they neared their destination, Alan slowed his pace. “Are you sure about this, Dan? It feels wrong to me. Searle is under arrest, so why dig up the past? Why pick at an old wound?”

“Because there’s more to this case than meets the eye. The day after Henry was murdered, Searle went completely off the rails. Usually he’s a sneak and a coward. Six years ago, he couldn’t even stand up to a teenage boy. But the other day he locked Julie in a shed, went into Higgs’ home and stole an expensive car.”

“He panicked.”

“Yes, but why? If he didn’t kill Henry, then what did he have to fear?”

“Ah,” Alan murmured. “You think he knows something. Maybe he saw the killer or maybe they saw each other. If so, Searle could be frightened for his life.”

“Exactly, but everything I’ve heard about Searle tells me he won’t cooperate with the police. We have to make sure he has no other choice.”

“That’s all very well, but⁠—”

“We can find the evidence,” Dan interrupted. “The police don’t even have Searle’s camera—Spiller as good as told us. We can do better than that, and we can bring in witnesses to seal the deal.”

“Who?”

“I haven’t got time to explain it all now,” Dan said, “And anyway, I’m still mulling it over. When I know for sure, I’ll tell you. Until then you’ll have to trust me.”

“I do, but I’m still not happy about this. We can walk away, try another approach.”

They’d almost arrived at their destination, and Dan simply gestured to the detached house at the end of the street.

“All right,” Alan said. “It’s my turn to say it. We’re here so we may as well get on with it.”

“Absolutely. But don’t worry. I’ll be tactful.”

“That’ll be the day,” Alan muttered, but he followed close behind as Dan marched up to the front door and rang the bell.

Mrs Parkhurst appeared a moment later, blinking at them in confusion as though she hadn’t woken up properly.

“Good morning,” Dan said, making his voice bright and breezy. “May we come in for a minute? I’d like to talk to you about Joshua Southgate.”

Mrs Parkhurst’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh?”

“Yes, have you heard that Joshua has come home?” Dan asked. “He’s with his family at the hospital.”

Mrs Parkhurst nodded uncertainly, but she seemed disinclined to speak.

“Are you all right?” Alan asked. “Have we come at a bad time?”

“No, no, I’m fine. You’d better come in.” Hoisting a small smile into place, Mrs Parkhurst stepped back, holding the door open. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

They settled in the front room as before, Dan and Alan on the sofa, Mrs Parkhurst on the armchair, but this time, there were mugs of tea in front of them.

When he’d thanked their host and taken a sip, Dan said, “Has Sophia ever had any interest in archery?”

Mrs Parkhurst looked at Dan as though he’d used the wrong knife at a dinner party. “Certainly not. Why on earth would you think that?”

“It’s just something I’m following up,” Dan replied. “How about Ellen Southgate? Was she into archery at all?”

“Ah, now I see where you’re getting your wires crossed. It was Joshua who was good at archery—him and his friend Liam. I think the girls might’ve had a go, but those boys were serious about their archery.”

Mrs Parkhurst paused, her expression softening as if at a memory. “In the summer holidays, there was a little group of them who used to go to Foxlake together, but as far as I know, the boys stuck to the archery range while the girls went riding or swam in the pool.”

“That sounds idyllic,” Dan said. “Do you happen to know whether Kayleigh Robbins was part of their friendship group?”

“Who?”

“She’s a young woman from the village,” Alan replied. “She’s Dave Robbins’ daughter.”

Mrs Parkhurst frowned. “The plumber?”

“That’s right,” Dan replied. “Kayleigh is about the same age, so I thought⁠—”

“You thought wrong,” Mrs Parkhurst interrupted. “Sophia never mentioned anyone called Kayleigh, and I think I would’ve remembered. It’s an unusual name, isn’t it?”

She looked thoughtful, her lips pursed.

“Was there someone else?” Dan asked. “Another name that’s come to mind?”

Mrs Parkhurst blinked. “I’m afraid not. I was thinking that it’s a shame I never went with them. I was always busy, so the other parents took turns at ferrying the children over to Foxlake. I missed out, and now those days seem like ancient history. A different time.”

“It would only have been about six years ago,” Dan suggested.

“Something like that, yes.”

Dan nodded. Mrs Parkhurst’s expression had become more guarded, and her last answer had been decidedly vague. She seemed like the kind of person who could recall the exact dates of every outing her daughter had made, but almost as soon as the memory of those summer days had come to her, she’d shied away from it.

Making his tone casual, Dan said, “What happened to the photo?”

Mrs Parkhurst gave a guilty start but tried to hide it with a whinnying laugh. “Mr Corrigan, you do come out with odd stuff, don’t you? I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

Smiling, Dan pointed to the mantelpiece. “The one that used to be there. The last time we were here, Sophia glanced at that spot when I mentioned Joshua, so I’m pretty certain there used to be a photo there—a group picture with your family and his. After all, your family were great friends of the Southgates.”

“Well yes, we still are friends, although we don’t see each other so much now that the children are…” Mrs Southgate’s voice trailed away, but she lifted her chin and grew brighter, as if she’d given herself a good talking to.

“But as it happens, you’re right,” she went on. “There was a photo, and it did have a whole gang of children in it, and my dear husband too. He took it with the timer on his old camera. But it was a very old photo, and it was getting faded by the sun, so I packed it away.”

“When did you decide to take it down?” Dan asked.

“I don’t recall. Why?”

Dan made a show of looking thoughtful. “It must’ve been hard to see everyone looking happy, especially after your husband passed away. And of course, Joshua went missing, so I wondered if you removed it when Joshua ran away from home.”

Mrs Parkhurst nodded slowly. “It would’ve been about then.”

“It brought back memories,” Dan suggested. “Or perhaps one memory in particular. A memory of a time you’d rather forget.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Dan looked to Alan and received a nod in reply.

Leaning forward, his hands clasped together, Alan’s voice was gentle as he said, “We’re not here to cause you any embarrassment, you must believe me when I say that, but we have recently been made aware of an incident involving you and Joshua Southgate.”

Mrs Parkhurst’s features froze in an expression of mute horror, her body rigid.

“We don’t know exactly what happened, and we don’t want to know,” Alan went on, “but there is someone who has a case to answer, and that’s the man who spied on you.”

Mrs Parkhurst opened her mouth to speak, but her voice let her down.

“You don’t have to explain,” Dan said, doing his best to match Alan’s sincerity. “We only want to⁠—”

“You don’t understand,” Mrs Parkhurst interrupted. “It wasn’t… like you think. We didn’t do anything. It was a mistake, a stupid, stupid mistake. I was giving him a hug, that’s all. He was upset about something or other, and it was just a hug, but… but it…”

“Turned into something else,” Dan suggested. “Something more.”

Mrs Parkhurst stared at Dan in silence. Nobody moved, and the silence grew heavy. But then, almost despite herself, Mrs Parkhurst nodded.

In a small voice, she said, “It’s a terrible thing to be lonely. When you get married and have a family, you think you’ll never have to face loneliness. But then, when you lose the one person who made you feel whole, so much is taken away. You’re utterly bereft and alone. It’s worse than you could ever imagine. And no one touches you anymore, not even a hug, not even your own daughter. So when you feel someone in your arms, and your heart races, you don’t know what you’re doing. It’s all too much, and… and…”

“It’s all right,” Alan said gently. “You don’t have to explain. Can I get you anything? A glass of water? A tissue?”

“No, thank you.” Mrs Parkhurst pulled a tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan and wiped her eyes, then she sat back, defeated. “I wasn’t always like this, you know. I wasn’t always so… drab. And this is going to sound like an excuse, but Josh looked older than he was. I think he had a teenage crush on me. I stopped him when he kissed me. I did. I pulled away. But then Josh saw something outside, and the next thing I knew, he was in the street, shouting. I had to get him back inside, and that’s when I realised what was going on.”

“That must’ve been very distressing for you,” Alan said. “For both of you.”

Mrs Parkhurst nodded sadly. “I was utterly humiliated, but it was much worse for Josh. He was a sensitive young man and passionate. Hot-blooded. That’s why he got on so well with Sophia. If this had got out, his world would’ve been turned upside down. Maybe I should’ve known he’d run away–that was so like him. If I’d realised, I might’ve been able to do something. I might’ve been able to make things right.”

Yes, Dan thought. You should’ve tried. You were the adult. But he couldn’t bring himself to pour more misery onto Mrs Parkhurst. This proud woman had, in all likelihood, been punishing herself for years. So he said nothing, and Alan remained quiet too.

Inner pain creased Mrs Parkhurst’s brow as though she understood their unspoken disapproval and took it to heart.

“Well, it’s all going to come out now, isn’t it?” she went on. “And whatever I say, no one will believe me. Everyone will imagine the worst, and I’ll have to leave the village, start again somewhere new.”

“Not necessarily,” Dan said. “You’ve been carrying this secret for a long time, and when we leave our problems unresolved, they cause us pain. It’s time to draw a line under it, and you can do that. All it takes is for you to go to the police and tell them what happened.”

“No, I can’t do that. I’ve got to think about Sophia. I don’t think she’d ever forgive me.”

“You don’t have to mention Joshua,” Dan replied. “All you have to say is that someone spied on you and took photographs. But it’s important for you to speak out, because I think you know who it was, and you can help the police by giving them his name.”

Mrs Parkhurst bowed her head and wiped her eyes once more, but not before Dan saw the disgust in her expression.

“Was it Roy Searle?” Dan asked. “Was he the one taking pictures through your window?”

Without looking up, Mrs Parkhurst said, “Yes. It was him.”

“Did he try to blackmail you?” Dan said. “Was that what he wanted?”

Mrs Parkhurst shook her head, and when she looked up, there was scorn in the curl of her lips. “I don’t know what he said to Josh, but he wouldn’t have the nerve to threaten me. Even now, he’ll cross the street to avoid me. He’s a pathetic specimen.”

“And he should be punished for what he put you through,” Dan replied. “The police already have Searle in custody, but they’re having trouble finding enough evidence. If they have to let him out, who will he spy on next? Will it be your daughter?”

Mrs Parkhurst stared at Dan, her lips set in a tight line.

“It’s a lot to deal with, I know,” Alan said. “But for what it’s worth, I think the police would give you a sympathetic hearing. They’d be grateful that you came forward, glad to have you as a witness.”

An expectant silence filled the room as Mrs Parkhurst gazed at Dan and Alan in turn.

Finally, she said, “If I don’t do it, if I don’t talk to the police, will you tell them anyway?”

Alan shook his head but more in sorrow than in refusal. “I’m sorry, but they already know. We had to tell them about Searle and what he did to you. I wish we could’ve kept your name out of it, but it wasn’t possible.”

“We had no choice,” Dan said. “When we found out about

Searle, we couldn’t withhold that information. We had to tell the police.”

“And now I’m the one with no choice,” Mrs Parkhurst stated. “I see.”

“That’s not quite true,” Alan replied. “You can wait and see if the police come to you, or you can take charge of the situation, go to them first. If you make a statement, it’ll give you a chance to put your side, to set the record straight.”

“We’ll leave it with you,” Dan said. “But you seem like a person who tries to do the right thing, and this is your chance to speak out, to see that justice is done. And afterwards, when Searle is behind bars, you can put the whole thing behind you.”

Mrs Parkhurst looked down for a moment, and when she met Dan’s gaze, some of her self-assurance had returned. “I’ll think about what you’ve said. Now, if you don’t mind…”

“Of course,” Alan replied, getting to his feet. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

Dan stood and though he tried to think of something to add, nothing worthwhile came to mind. All Mrs Parkhurst wanted was to be left alone.

CHAPTER 74

In Interview Room One Searle sat in silence, glowering at Spiller and Collins as soon as they stepped through the door. His solicitor, Roger Cunliffe, stood to shake hands.

Collins ran through the formalities and started the recording, then Cunliffe kicked off the proceedings as if anxious to get them off to a flying start.

“My client wishes to make a statement,” Cunliffe announced. “He believes that he has some information valuable to your inquiry, and he hopes you’ll take that into account.”

“Your client has been watching too many American crime shows. We don’t make deals, as you well know.”

“Indeed, I have made Mr Searle aware of that, but nevertheless, we’d like to get his cooperation on the record. In return, he will plead guilty to the charge of unlawful imprisonment.”

“I’ll bet he will.” Turning a hard stare on Searle, Spiller added, “You’re going to jail for that, Mr Searle, whatever you say.”

“My client will not be making any further comments during this interview, but he has prepared a statement that he’d like me to read out to you.”

“Go on then,” Spiller said. “Let’s hear it.”

Cunliffe consulted his laptop, cleared his throat and began reading, his tone devoid of emotion:

“On the night of Monday, 18th of April, I was birdwatching in Embervale’s nature reserve when I heard a car driving past and coming to a sudden stop. I recognised the sound of Mr Doubleday’s MG, so I went to have a look. The car was in the lane, and the driver, a man, exited the car. He then called out to someone, asking if they were okay.”

“Description?” Spiller said.

“We’ll come to that. May I go on?”

“Be my guest.”

In the same flat voice, Cunliffe said, “I didn’t recognise the man who’d been driving, but I knew it wasn’t Mr Doubleday and that worried me, so I stayed out of sight by the hedge. The man was tall and slim. He had a full beard and looked to be in his early thirties or late twenties. He wore a flat cap and a thornproof green jacket.”

“Why are we just hearing about this now?” Spiller demanded. “I’m sure you’re aware, Mr Cunliffe, that your client said nothing about this in his earlier interview. That’s more than withholding evidence, that was a wilful lie, and we could charge him with perverting the course of justice.”

Cunliffe’s cheeks tightened. “That’s a little over the top, Inspector. As you know, my client has a record of minor thefts, and he was worried in case you assumed he was involved in Mr Doubleday’s murder. If he’d had adequate representation during his interview, this situation could’ve been avoided.”

“He waived that right.”

“Yes, I know, but you ought to have taken Mr Searle’s level of education into account. He’s not well versed in matters of the law, and⁠—”

“He knew exactly what he was doing,” Spiller interrupted. “Isn’t that so, Mr Searle? Isn’t it true that you’re not half so daft as you make out?”

His eyes flashing, Cunliffe looked like he was about to launch into a protest but Spiller waved his hand in the air and said, “Carry on, Mr Cunliffe. We may as well hear the whole thing.”

“Are you sure?” Cunliffe asked, lifting his chin in an imperious gesture. “Because if you’re going to interrupt and attempt to bully my client, we’ll end this interview now.”

“I’m positive,” Spiller stated. “However, in the light of recent allegations about Mr Searle, I reserve the right to ask him a few questions about a separate matter.”

For the first time during their meeting, Cunliffe looked concerned. “What allegations?”

“We’ll come to that,” Spiller replied with a smile. When Cunliffe didn’t immediately respond, Spiller gestured for him to go on.

“Very well.”

Composing himself, Cunliffe began to read once more:

“The man got back into the car and drove further along the road before stopping again. I couldn’t see clearly, so I moved along the hedge to get a better view. Someone was lying on the road, and they appeared to be unconscious. I feared for my own safety, so I stayed hidden, but I accidentally made a noise, and the man who’d been driving ran away. As soon as he’d gone, I went to see if I could help. I discovered that the man in the road was Mr Doubleday, but he was clearly dead. I couldn’t leave him lying there, so out of respect⁠—”

Spiller let out a grunt of disbelief, and Cunliffe flashed him a look.

“Out of respect,” Cunliffe went on, “I carefully moved his body to the side of the road. There was no signal on my phone, so I went home, intending to call the police. But by then, I became anxious and upset, and I feared I would be blamed. I realised I should not have moved the body, and that I may have incriminated myself. I didn’t sleep, and the next morning, I was even more anxious.

“I went to Seven Springs Farm as usual, intending to tell Mrs Doubleday what I’d seen, but I couldn’t bear to do it. She was already looking for her husband, so I assumed he’d be found even if I didn’t say anything. I was distraught and I panicked. In the midst of that confusion, and not being in my right mind, I ran away, taking a car belonging to Mr Higgs. Unfortunately, Ms Julie Robbins tried to stop me, so I persuaded her to hide in a shed until I’d gone.”

“Persuaded?” Spiller banged the flat of his palm against the table, and Searle flinched. “You did a damned sight more than persuade that poor young woman. You held her forcefully by the arm and dragged her out of the house. She has bruises. Do you want to see the photos, because I can show you in an instant? Collins has them on his tablet right here.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Cunliffe replied. “That concludes my client’s statement. Now, if there have been additional allegations, it would be useful if you could furnish me with the details, so that I can confer with my client before he responds.”

Furnish? Spiller thought. Where do these people learn to talk like that? But he nodded and said, “It will be my pleasure.”

He fixed Searle with a look. “Where’s the camera, Roy? What have you done with it?”

Cunliffe actually had the nerve to roll his eyes. “Really, Inspector? Is that how you want to proceed? Bullying and harassment.”

“It’s a valid question,” Spiller replied. “In his statement, your client claimed he’d been birdwatching, but we found no binoculars or telescope in his house. Subsequently, a witness has informed us that Mr Searle owns a camera with a telephoto lens. Given the value of such a camera, it seems strange that it was missing from his possessions, wouldn’t you agree?”

Cunliffe looked uncomfortable, then he leaned closer to Searle and whispered something in his ear.

Stirring himself, Searle muttered, “No comment.”

“Come along, Mr Searle,” Spiller said. “We’re simply trying to corroborate a claim you made in your statement. Surely, any birdwatcher carries some sort of equipment. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr Cunliffe?”

Cunliffe pursed his lips. “You’re fishing for something. What is it?”

Spiller was all innocence. “I’m trying to make sense of your client’s story, that’s all. We have Mr Searle’s statement, but if there are any inconsistencies, the whole thing could fall apart, and we wouldn’t want that.” He paused. “So I ask again, Roy, where’s your camera?”

“No comment,” Searle replied. But Cunliffe whispered in his ear once more, and this time Searle squirmed in his seat, then he grunted and said, “I threw it away. I dropped it and the lens broke, so I chucked it in the bin. Satisfied?”

“No,” Spiller said. “But we’ll find it when we search your house. We’ll be more thorough this time. We’ll pull up a few floorboards, turn the place upside down. It’ll be upsetting for your poor old dad, but if you won’t tell us where it is, we’ll have no choice.”

Cunliffe leaned forward, his cheeks flushing. “Why would you do that? You said⁠—”

“I know what I said,” Spiller interrupted. “And it’s true—we do need to corroborate Searle’s statement, but another matter has been brought to our attention.”

“Which is?” Cunliffe demanded. “And please, don’t beat about the bush, Inspector. If there really have been allegations made against my client, I need to know exactly what they are.”

“Yes, of course,” Spiller replied. “Your client, Mr Cunliffe, has been accused of spying on people in their homes and possibly elsewhere. That nature reserve, it seems, is a place where teenagers like to gather. It’s a sort of lovers’ lane. And by his own admission, your client has been loitering there with a telephoto lens. He’s also attempted to destroy the evidence by burning some photographs. During his earlier interview he admitted to starting a fire in Mr Higgs’ garden. He claimed he was burning rubbish, but we’ll soon know the truth. We’re having the ash analysed as we speak.”

Cunliffe shook his head. “This won’t do. We need to terminate this interview now. I need to speak with my client.”

“Be my guest,” Spiller replied. “Take all the time you need.”

He gave Collins a nod, but while Collins stated that the interview was over and ended the recording, Spiller’s watchful eyes never left Roy Searle. The man’s inner turmoil was easy to see. It was in the quiver of his jowls, the droplet of sweat on his brow, the twitching of the tiny muscles around his eyes.

“We’ll speak again soon,” Spiller said as he stood. “We’re gathering up all your victims, Mr Searle. We’ll have their testimony, and we’ll have that camera and your computer. We will make this stick, Mr Searle. You can count on that.”

Searle’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and Spiller smiled. Solicitor or no solicitor, Searle was at the end of his rope. All that was needed was a little nudge, and he’d crack. It was only a matter of time.

CHAPTER 75

Dan and Alan walked away from Mrs Parkhurst’s house, heading for home, and for a while neither man spoke. But as they turned on to Fore Street, Alan said, “Was that really necessary? Was it worth it?”

“On balance, yes,” Dan replied. “The police had no evidence, not of this crime anyway, but with a couple of reliable witnesses they can build a case. With a bit of luck, Searle will give in and confess.”

“I hope so, I really do. Emma Parkhurst has suffered enough over the years. If she has to appear in court, she’ll be mortified.”

“The ball’s in her court,” Dan said. “If she doesn’t go to the police, we’ll have to come up with a different solution.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Dan glanced at Alan but could read nothing in his steadfast expression.

“You don’t think I would⁠—”

“No,” Alan interrupted. “Not at all. You gave your word. That’s good enough for me.”

“Right. Okay.”

It was Alan’s turn to cast a sideways glance. “This case is a strange one, isn’t it? And I have to say, I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Really? What gives you that idea?”

“For a start, you’ve been talking about archery and I don’t see the connection. I know there was a piece of feather in the nature reserve, but what does that prove?”

“On its own, nothing,” Dan said. “It was just an idea I had, but it was a dead end. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Why don’t you run it past me?”

“Okay, but don’t laugh.”

“As if I would.”

Dan took a breath and began. “It started when I was thinking about the graffiti, and I realised that someone was trying to make a stand against Searle.”

“You thought that was Kayleigh,” Alan said.

“Right. And then I began to wonder whether she might’ve taken it further. It struck me that Kayleigh must be about the same age as Sophia and Ellen, and this is a small village. They might be from different backgrounds, but they could’ve been friends. And through Ellen, Kayleigh could’ve had access to a bow and arrows.”

Alan let out a burst of dry laughter. “You’re joking.”

“You said you wouldn’t laugh.”

Alan held up his hands. “Sorry, but I can’t imagine Kayleigh taking potshots at Searle. In all seriousness, was that your theory?”

“Yes,” Dan admitted. “But as I said, it was a dead end.”

“Never mind. Something will turn up. But what shall we do next?”

Dan noted Alan’s use of the word ‘we’ and was glad of it, but he’d already trespassed on Alan’s time for long enough. And there was something else.

Alan hadn’t wanted to confront Mrs Parkhurst, and he’d said so, but Dan had gone ahead anyway. Alan wouldn’t hold it against him, but even so, it played on Dan’s mind. Had he been wrong to drag up the past, to push Mrs Parkhurst into cooperating with the police?

Dan thought of her pained expression, the anguish in her eyes. And she was right: if her story became public knowledge, it would be blown out of all proportion, especially if the press waded in. She’d be painted as the older woman who’d taken advantage of a youngster. The truth wouldn’t matter.

Alan was right, Dan told himself. I shouldn’t have talked to her. I should’ve found another way.

As if sensing his mood, Alan said, “Listen, about just now… it wasn’t your finest hour, but what’s done is done. We can’t take it back. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think Emma Parkhurst is without resources. From what I hear, she can afford to take legal advice.”

“Ah, I never asked her what she does for a living. That was remiss of me.”

“She doesn’t work, so my guess is that her husband made provision for his family. As I told you before he was⁠—”

“In finance, yes,” Dan said. “That covers a multitude of sins, but I’m sure you’re right. Everything in the Parkhurst home is shiny and new, and the house itself must be worth a small fortune. It’s very big for two people.”

“Soon to become one,” Alan replied. “I expect Sophia will move on once she’s graduated.”

“So when she talked about moving on and starting again somewhere new…”

“She meant it,” Alan said. “Mrs Parkhurst has options.”

Dan nodded. “That’s good to know. It makes me feel a bit better, anyway. Thanks, Alan.”

“All part of the service.”

Dan and Alan didn’t speak for the next few minutes, but Dan was glad of Alan’s company. It was good to have him there, stolid and dependable, matching Dan step for step.

As they approached The Wild Boar, Alan said, “There is something you could try. Talk to Kayleigh, see how she reacts.”

“It could be worth a try, I suppose.”

Alan nodded toward the pub. “She might be at work right now. We could drop in and see what happens.”

Dan didn’t reply immediately. He stopped walking and Alan did the same.

“We can’t go in mob-handed,” Dan said. “Kayleigh might feel threatened and clam up. It would be better if I go in alone and drop a few hints.”

“Okay, but what do you want me to do?”

“You could wait outside. If I say we’ve spotted some evidence and we’re going to report it to the police, Kayleigh might dash out to check.”

“What kind of evidence?” Alan asked with a grin. “More feathers?”

“No. And if we’re going to do this, we need to take it seriously.”

Alan dropped his smile. “Sorry.”

“What about Searle’s camera?” Dan said. “We think it’s missing, but what if Kayleigh took it?”

Alan nodded slowly. “There might’ve been pictures of Kayleigh, so she’d want to get rid of them, and maybe the camera too.”

“Exactly. She must’ve dumped it somewhere, so I can say I’ve found it but left it for the police. Kayleigh will want to beat them to it.”

“And I could follow her,” Alan said. “At a distance, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Alan thought for a second and then nodded. “I’m game. Personally I don’t think you’re going to get anywhere, but you never know.”

“Fair enough. I’ll go inside, and if Kayleigh’s there, I’ll see if I can spur her into action. You make yourself scarce. Keep your phone handy, and we’ll see what we can see.”

CHAPTER 76

Sophia reached up to the top of the bookshelf in her studio and took down the framed photograph. It had been lying up there, out of sight and face down for too long, but that had been a necessity. Her mum hadn’t wanted it on display, so Sophia had rescued it.

It ought to have been safe in the studio; she’d expressly told her mum not to venture inside. But every time Sophia came home from uni, the signs of recent tidying and dusting were always there. Once she’d found a coloured feather nestling on top of her books: an escapee from the long-handled feather duster her mother used to flick the dust and cobwebs from hard-to-reach places.

They’d argued but Mum had denied all knowledge, even when Sophia had shown her the evidence, the brightly coloured fragment of feather held up between her finger and thumb.

“I don’t know how that got there,” her mum had said, but they both knew it was untrue. Mum had always been a hopeless liar, unable to keep the guilt from showing on her face. It was what came of her beliefs, her faith, and that was all fine, it really was. But when it came to compulsive cleaning, Mum could not be trusted.

There was no dust on the picture frame’s glass, but even so, Sophia wiped it carefully with the cuff of her hoodie’s sleeve.

In the photo, they were all there, so happy and so alive. Dad’s smile was broad and warm, as though the youngsters gathered at his side were lending him some of their vitality. The photo was almost more real than her memories of him. That was sad, but Sophia had reconciled herself to it. Memories faded and blurred over time, like photocopied pages from a book that had itself been a photocopy. That was the way of it.

Even in this photo, it took her some effort to recall the names of every child. Some of them had been on the fringes, hangers on who just happened to be there at the time. But the important people were all there.

Josh Southgate had been handsome, though she hadn’t realised it at the time. He’d been like a brother to her.

But the girls at school had other ideas. There’d been plenty who’d fawned over Josh, desperate for his attention, and he’d been happy to return the favour. Josh had never been without a girlfriend, but as far as Sophia knew, he’d been kind and respectful to all of them.

Liam Doubleday was in the photo, too. He’d been the steady one, the sensible friend they could all turn to. When he was with Josh, he was one of the lads, but when he was with the girls, they’d all instinctively felt they could trust him. She missed him more than the others, but he couldn’t have stayed; they all knew that.

And there was someone else in the photo, of course. With a fingertip, Sophia traced the outline of a smiling face, the grin so wide it seemed to beam out from the photo: an image of perfect happiness.

“I’m so sorry,” Sophia whispered. “We made a mistake, and now everything’s falling apart.”

Those two men, Dan and Alan, had been to the house again, poking their noses in. She’d heard some of it—enough to know they were asking questions, stirring up trouble. But she hadn’t dared to eavesdrop for too long. She’d sneaked back upstairs and waited until they’d gone.

By the time she’d ventured downstairs, Mum was busily cleaning the already sparkling kitchen, acting as if nothing had happened. But Sophia had seen the signs. Mum was holding it together, but she was deeply worried about something.

Does she know? Sophia asked herself. Has she worked it out?

No. That couldn’t be possible. But something was wrong. Very wrong.

What have we done? Sophia asked herself. Where’s it all going to end?

Sophia sniffed back a tear. Still gazing at the photo, she wandered to the beanbag and sat down. She needed to think.

If all this came out, would she be arrested? Would they take her to court? If that happened and she was found guilty, what would be the punishment?

Whatever the charge, there’d be no hiding it, and who knew what they’d say back at Oxford? The university did not take kindly to anything that might damage its reputation, and this case would make the news. Sophia and her friends would be painted as vigilantes, a bunch of tearaways who’d taken the law into their own hands, as if they’d intended to punish one man as a signal to all other predatory males.

None of this was true, but it would make catchy headlines and clickbait articles. Oxford would be mentioned for sure, and she’d be sent down, unceremoniously cast out from the university and told never to return. Her life would be over.

I can’t let that happen, Sophia told herself. There has to be a way out of this.

But try as she might, she couldn’t come up with a solution. Not on her own.

Sophia hauled herself up from the beanbag and returned the photo to its hiding place. She took a last look around her studio and then headed for the stairs.

Her decision was made. She’d get everybody together and they’d thrash out a plan. Sophia left the house without saying goodbye, her attention on her phone as she tapped out a message. They had to meet. They had to do something.

Sophia’s thoughts were muddled, as though a fog clouded her mind. But they were all in this together and, between them, they could come up with an answer, make it through to the other side. It was her only hope.

CHAPTER 77

Dan and Alan strolled past the pub and then parted ways, Alan marching off to hide while Dan headed for the staff entrance at the back of the pub.

Sam was in the kitchen, and she spied him through the window. She met Dan at the door, but she didn’t invite him in.

“What’s up?” Sam asked. “Is something wrong?”

Dan affected an innocent smile. “Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to see you.”

Sam’s gaze was sharp, but she didn’t reply.

“No kiss?” Dan went on. “Not even a peck on the cheek?”

Sam folded her arms. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Okay. I wanted to have a quick word with Kayleigh. Is she here?”

“That depends.”

Stalemate, Dan thought, but that was optimistic. He was trespassing on Sam’s turf, and besides, he didn’t want to start lying to her.

“It’s a long story,” Dan said, “but it’s in connection with a case I’m working on.”

“What case? You found Josh, so that’s done and dusted. What else is there?” She raised a finger in warning. “You’d better not be poking your nose into what happened to Henry.”

“I’m not, honestly. This is to do with Searle.”

“They’ve arrested him, haven’t they?”

“Yes, but the police don’t have enough evidence. I can help them find it.”

Sam pursed her lips but made no move to allow him over the threshold.

“You told me Searle used to creep about with a camera,” Dan went on. “I’m pretty certain the police haven’t found it, and I think Kayleigh might know where it is.”

“What on earth are you on about?”

Dan held up a hand. “Look, I know it sounds crazy, but Kayleigh might’ve decided to do something about Searle. I think she might’ve lured him into the old quarry, and⁠—”

“Stop,” Sam interrupted. “That’s the daftest thing I’ve heard in my life, but there’s one way to set you straight. You can come in for a few minutes and talk to Kayleigh, but if she says you’re wrong, that’s it. No arguments. And you’d better be nice to her, Dan, or you’ll have me to answer to.”

“That’s fine. I only want to mention it while she’s around, and then we’ll see what she does, okay?”

Sam wasn’t happy, but she stepped back and held the door open for Dan. “Hurry up, then. Some of us are busy.”

“Thanks.”

Dan stepped inside and cast his gaze around the kitchen. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “Where is she?”

“She’s in the front bar, cleaning the place from top to bottom and making a good job of it. I meant what I said, Dan. I don’t want you upsetting her.”

“I’ll do my best. I’ll grab a coffee and hang around for a bit, then maybe you could make an excuse and keep out of the way. You could say you’re going out to the shop or something.”

Sam arched an eyebrow. “And leave you alone with her?”

“Why not? All I’m going to do is talk to her for a few minutes.”

“Kayleigh might not like being here with a strange man. She’s still not herself, what with everything her poor sister went through.”

Dan nodded. “I hear what you’re saying. What about if you go upstairs to the flat? If Kayleigh needs you, she can give you a shout.”

“That ought to be all right, I suppose. We’ll see how it goes.”

Sam led him through to the bar. Kayleigh was rummaging through a box of cleaning materials, but she paused to watch Dan’s arrival, her expression wary.

“Dan’s just popped in for a coffee,” Sam said. “You don’t mind, do you, Kayleigh?”

Kayleigh shrugged. “Me? No. Why would I mind?”

“No reason.” Apparently satisfied, Sam stepped behind the bar and coaxed the coffee machine into life, but Kayleigh seemed reluctant to resume her work.

“Please, don’t stop on my account,” Dan said. “I won’t get in the way.”

Kayleigh looked doubtful, but she resumed her search. She pulled a plastic bottle of bright green detergent and a blue-and-white striped cloth from the box, then she strode over to the nearest window and treated it to a squirt of detergent before going at it with her cloth, her right arm working in furious circles as she polished the pane.

Sam delivered Dan’s coffee, waiting while he took a first sip. “All right?”

“Perfect, as always,” Dan replied. “Are you having one? And how about Kayleigh? She might like a break.”

Kayleigh half turned at the mention of her name, but she carried on polishing as though she hadn’t heard.

Sam gave Dan a questioning look and he replied by way of an encouraging nod.

“Kayleigh,” Sam called out. “Do you want a drink? I can make you a mug of tea or whatever.”

Kayleigh didn’t pause in her work. “No thanks. I’m all right.”

In the ensuing silence, Dan tapped a finger on the bar and then pointed upward, keeping the gesture small and shielded by his body so that Kayleigh wouldn’t see.

Sam wasn’t impressed, but she cleared her throat and said, “I’m just popping up to the flat for a bit. I won’t be long. Will you be all right?”

“Sure, I’ll be fine,” Dan replied.

“I wasn’t asking you,” Sam said. “Kayleigh, will you be okay for a minute?”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Right then.” Dragging her feet, Sam made a slow exit.

Dan stayed by the bar for a minute, sipping his coffee, then he turned around, leaning his back against the bar.

“You’re doing a good job on those windows,” he said. “They’ve never been so clean.”

“Yeah.”

“You must’ve had an early start. The place is looking great.”

Kayleigh made a noncommittal noise.

This is going to be hard work, Dan thought, but he made his tone cheerful and tried again.

“You always seem to be here, Kayleigh. I hope Sam isn’t working you too hard.”

“No. I like it here.”

“Any excuse to get out of the house, eh?”

For a split second, Kayleigh paused, and when she went back to wiping the window, her movements were stiff, her arm jerking as she wielded her cloth.

“Some of us have got to work,” she replied. “We need the money.”

“Oh, of course. I’m self-employed, so I totally get it. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid.”

Kayleigh cast him a brief inquisitive glance, then she moved to another window and sprayed the glass with the lurid detergent.

“Speaking of home,” Dan went on, “I noticed that your parents’ house is up for sale.”

“What about it? You’re not looking to buy, are you?”

“No, I’m happy where I am. But I wondered why you’re moving. Are your parents looking for something bigger, more spacious?”

“That’s right.”

“I thought so,” Dan said. “I’ve seen your family home and it’s lovely, but it’s not large, is it? And you’re an independent young woman—you need your space—even more so if you’re going to carry on living with them after you’ve had the baby.”

Kayleigh tackled the window pane even more vigorously. “It’s none of your business, is it?”

“No, I suppose not. I was just making conversation.”

In the newly cleaned glass, Dan glimpsed the reflection of Kayleigh’s scowl.

“Sam told me about your pregnancy,” Dan went on. “We don’t keep secrets from each other, unlike some.”

Kayleigh turned to glare at Dan. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about you,” Dan replied with a reassuring smile. “I was thinking of a case I’ve been working on with Alan. Roy Searle, do you know him? It turns out he’s been spying on people, taking photographs. But he won’t get away with that anymore. We’ll make sure of that.”

“Right. Good for you.” Kayleigh eyed him for a second then turned back to the window once more, polishing a spot that was already so clean the glass was barely visible.

“You see,” Dan said as though she’d asked for an explanation, “Alan and I know where he’s hidden his camera. We haven’t touched it or anything, because we don’t want to leave fingerprints. But we’ll tell the police, and their forensic team will go and retrieve it.”

“Is that right?” Kayleigh muttered as though utterly disinterested.

“Yes. It’s amazing what they can find out. If Roy Searle has used that camera, he’ll have left microscopic traces: skin cells, hair, fibres from his clothes, all that kind of thing.”

Kayleigh worked in silence, but her head was cocked ever so slightly. She was hanging on Dan’s every word.

“Yes, the police will have him bang to rights,” Dan went on. “But if me and Alan, or anybody else, touches that camera, we’d leave traces of our own. If that happens, the police might get the wrong idea, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“No,” Kayleigh replied, her arm movements slowing. “I suppose not.”

“I would hate to be dragged in for questioning. Alan had to go through that once, and it was very upsetting for him. It took him a while to get over it.”

Kayleigh didn’t respond.

“And you know what it’s like around here,” Dan went on. “People talked. They assumed he’d done something terrible, gave him funny looks. He was mortified.”

“Oh dear.” Kayleigh stepped back as if to admire her work, then she gathered up her cleaning materials. “That’s one job done.”

“And you’ve done it very well,” Dan said. “But do you mind if I ask you something?”

Kayleigh turned to face Dan. “What?”

“This might seem a strange question, but have you ever done any archery?”

Kayleigh’s eyebrows rose rapidly. “No.”

“What about your friends, Ellen and Sophia?”

“Who?” Kayleigh asked, then her lips formed an O. “You mean Ellen Southgate and that lot. They’re not really friends. I mean, I know them, but that’s it.”

“But you must be about the same age.”

Kayleigh wrinkled her nose. “I’m not five years old. I don’t have friends just because we’re about the same age.” She shook her head before adding, “Anyway, I’d better crack on. If Sam wants me, I’ll be out back.”

“Okay,” Dan replied, but as Kayleigh sauntered behind the bar and headed to the kitchen, he thought, Out back? Who do you think you’re kidding?

He called Alan.

“Did it work?” Alan asked.

“Yes. She should appear any moment. Get ready, but remember⁠—”

“Stay back,” Alan interrupted. “I know what to do, and my phone’s set to silent, but I’ll keep an eye on it.” Alan hung up, and Dan imagined him sidling from his hiding place and trying to look casual.

Neither stealth nor duplicity were given much room in Alan’s repertoire, but Dan would join him in a couple of minutes. First, he had to see whether the bird had flown the coop.

Keeping his phone in his hand, Dan silently counted to ten and then made for the kitchen. Of course, Kayleigh wasn’t there, and the back door stood ajar.

I knew it, Dan told himself, and he slipped quietly out to the rear garden. Kayleigh was nowhere in sight, so Dan crossed the patio and sidled up to the pub’s corner, staying close to the wall as he peeked into the alley that led to the road.

There was no one there. Dan crossed to the car park, but it was empty save for Sam’s old car, so he jogged up to the road, scanning left and right. Where was she? Had she taken off at a sprint?

Dan’s phone buzzed in his hand, and he answered Alan’s call, expecting to hear him anxious and out of breath. But Alan’s tone was heavy with impatience. “What’s going on? I can see you but Kayleigh hasn’t appeared. Have you lost her?”

“Me? I haven’t lost her. Aren’t you following her?”

“No. I’m still waiting.”

Dan looked along the road and saw Alan stepping out from a gateway. He gave Dan a wave.

“But she went out a minute ago,” Dan insisted. “Didn’t you see her?”

“She didn’t make it as far as the street,” Alan replied. “I’d have spotted her. I’ve been watching the whole time.”

Dan didn’t know what to say. No doubt Alan had tried his best, but he’d lost their quarry. Both the alley and the car park gave onto Fore Street; there was no other exit. Somehow, Kayleigh had slipped out unnoticed. Unless she’s hiding somewhere, Dan thought. Did she guess I was going to follow her?

Dan turned back and peered in through one of the pub’s spotless windows. The bar was empty. Kayleigh had outwitted him, but how?

Alan interrupted Dan’s thoughts: “Shall I stay in position?”

“No, you may as well come over here, and we’ll see what we can figure out. I’ll go in by the back door. You come to the front, and I’ll let you in.”

“Okay.”

Dan pocketed his phone and stalked along the alley. But when he reached the garden, he halted. On one of the picnic benches, Kayleigh was relaxing with a glass of fruit juice in front of her, her face tilted upward to catch the sun, her eyes closed.

“Kayleigh,” Dan said. “You’re here.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him, a curious smile on her lips. “Yeah. Where else should I be?”

Before Dan could come up with a reply, she added, “Sam said I should have a break. She says I mustn’t overtire myself.” Kayleigh picked up her drink and took a sip. “I’ve got to get my vitamins and all that.”

“Yes,” Dan said. “Right.”

Kayleigh looked him up and down. “Where have you been? Sam came down and asked me, but I didn’t know what to tell her. You disappeared.”

“Oh, I was getting some air.” Dan strolled toward her. “Actually, I thought you’d gone out. The back door was open.”

“We leave it like that sometimes. It gets stuffy in there, and I don’t like all that smell of cooking, especially first thing in the morning. It fair turns my stomach.”

Dan thought back to his arrival. Sam had let him in, but he couldn’t recall her closing the door behind him. He should’ve noticed that detail. He should’ve done better.

“Something wrong?” Kayleigh asked.

“No, but before you came out, where were you?”

Kayleigh widened her eyes. “If you must know, I went to the loo.”

“But… didn’t you have somewhere you needed to be?”

With exaggerated patience as though speaking to a dimwit, Kayleigh said, “I’ll be working here all day. This is my job. I’m having a five-minute break, but only because Sam told me to. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes of course. I thought you were going out, but I must’ve got the wrong end of the stick.”

Kayleigh looked as though this came as no great surprise. Arching an eyebrow, she said, “Sam was looking for you. She went down to the cellar, said she could do with a hand.”

“Right, I’ll go in a minute.”

“Suit yourself.” Kayleigh drained her glass of juice in a few thirsty gulps, then she stood, arching her back.

“I’d better get back to work,” Kayleigh went on. “I offered to go down the cellar, but Sam said I wasn’t to do any heavy lifting. I told her I’m not ill or anything, I’m just pregnant, but there’s no arguing with Sam.” She gave Dan a sideways look before adding, “I expect you know all about that.”

Having delivered her parting shot, Kayleigh headed back inside.

Ah, the teenage putdown, Dan thought. If she had a mic, she’d drop it.

But there was nothing he could say without appearing patronising or churlish, so he trailed along after her, his mind clouded by frustration.

Kayleigh’s complete lack of interest had seemed genuine, and that put a dent in his working hypothesis. Yes, she could’ve put on a show of complacency to throw him off the scent, but if so, she’d done a fine job of it.

Did Kayleigh have hidden acting skills that he hadn’t guessed at? Was she a skilled liar, adept at manipulating the facts to suit her own aims?

I don’t think so, Dan decided with a heavy heart. It was beginning to look as though he’d made a miscalculation, a mental misstep. The scenario he’d conjured had been a stretch at best, but viewed in the cold light of logic, it was nothing more than a leap in the dark.

I need to take a step back, Dan told himself. There’s something I’m not seeing. He needed to rearrange his ideas, but Alan would be waiting at the front door, and Sam was in the cellar, wondering where he’d got to.

Hopefully, the task Sam had in mind wouldn’t take long, and Alan might pitch in. No doubt the job would involve hefting crates of beer or some other manual task. I can think while I work, Dan told himself. And that was just as well, because if he was honest with himself, he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do next.

CHAPTER 78

Sophia headed toward the old quarry, her mind full of questions. Would it be safe? Had the police gone, or would the place still be crawling with crime scene investigators? Even if there was no one there, it might still be dangerous. No sensible person ventures into a place where a crime has occurred. So if anyone saw her, they’d be bound to wonder what she was up to.

She was so lost in thought she didn’t hear the vehicle approaching from behind until it was pulling up alongside her. Sophia turned with a start, and saw the black Jeep, Auntie Jean lowering the window.

“Hello,” Jean said. “Are you okay?”

Sophia nodded. “Fine.”

“That’s good.” Jean glanced at the road ahead. “Where are you off to?”

“Nowhere really. Just out for a walk, stretching my legs. What about you? Are you…”

Jean’s smile was full of regret. “Oh, you know. I take it one day at a time. As a matter of fact I was doing the same as you—heading off with nowhere particular in mind. I had to get away from the farm for a bit, but I didn’t feel like walking, not today.”

“You could’ve gone for a ride. How is Annabelle?”

Jean smiled. “She’s like me, getting long in the tooth. I wasn’t in the mood for a ride. I couldn’t even be bothered to get changed, so I asked Debbie to take her out. Do you know Debbie?”

Sophia shook her head.

“She’s a local girl,” Jean went on. “She mucks out and takes care of the tack, the grooming, everything. She’s horse mad, a bit like you when you were a girl, only she doesn’t have your brains.”

“You can’t say that,” Sophia said with a smile. “It’s rude.”

Jean wrinkled her nose. “It’s the truth. Still, she’s a lovely girl and Annabelle adores her, so that’s good enough for me. I never met a horse who wasn’t a good judge of character.”

“I know what you mean. I’d like to see Annabelle sometime. Maybe I could come over tomorrow.”

Jean brightened. “Come now. You said you weren’t going anywhere, and you obviously need a break from being at home, so hop in and I’ll take you. You can spend some time with Annabelle if she’s back, and if she isn’t, you can wait and keep me company. We’ll have a mug of tea or something, and I’ll give you a lift back when you’re ready.”

“That sounds nice, but⁠—”

Jean didn’t let her finish. “Come on. You can see Liam too. He’d love it. You’ll cheer him up no end. You were always good for each other. You used to be such pals.”

Despite herself, Sophia smiled. “I’d like to see him. I’ve missed Liam.”

“Me too, but he’s home now, so jump in and we’ll be there in no time.”

Sophia stopped herself from looking toward the quarry; that would give the game away, and Jean was watching her with sharp eyes, waiting for a response.

No ready-made excuses came to Sophia’s mind, but there was a reason for that. An hour or two at Seven Springs Farm sounded like heaven. She’d catch up with Liam, and he always made her feel better. Then she could go to the stable to see Annabelle, and there’d be Jess too. There’d be tea and biscuits, and above all, it would get her out of the village for a while, away from her cares.

“Okay,” Sophia said. “I’d love to come over. I’ll have to send Mum a message, let her know where I am, but she won’t mind. She’s busy cleaning.”

“No change there. My dear sister would wash the patterns off the plates given half a chance.”

They shared a smile, and then Sophia went around to the passenger door and climbed in. The Jeep’s interior smelled of hay with a subtle note of wet dog, and the scent took Sophia back to her childhood.

Jean had to drive toward the quarry before the road was wide enough to turn the Jeep around, and Sophia risked a quick look out of the window. She’d send Ellen a message in a second, calling off their meeting. Ellen would be annoyed, but that couldn’t be helped.

For the first time that day, Sophia’s mind was clearing. She needed a break, so whatever else happened in the next couple of hours, the others would have to deal with it on their own.

CHAPTER 79

When Dan and Alan reached their houses, they paused before going their separate ways.

“Sorry about all that,” Dan said.

Alan waved his apology away. “It wasn’t so bad. It was a bit grubby in the old cellar, but I quite enjoyed it. It made a change, using my muscles instead of my brain for a while.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“No apology needed,” Alan replied. “You were wrong about Kayleigh, but so what? You knew it was a long shot, and in a way, you were proved right. We can safely eliminate her from our inquiries, as Spiller would say.”

Dan nodded but without enthusiasm. He shuffled his feet then said, “I’m going to stay at home for a bit and have a think. You’re welcome to join me, but there’s no need. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

“Different things, yes. Better things? I doubt it. But I sense you need a bit of space, so I’ll leave you to it. I might see you later if you fancy nipping out for a pint, but if not, don’t worry. And try not to spend too much time thinking about Searle. The police will deal with him. He’s not our problem.”

“I don’t know about that. I still feel like there’s something I’m missing, but every time I reach for it, it slips further away.” Dan ran a hand across his brow. “What am I not seeing, Alan? What has Searle done that made him run away on the day after Henry’s murder? Does he know who killed Henry, or did he play some part in it?”

“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong direction. Try approaching the problem from a different angle.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know,” Alan admitted. “But whenever I get stuck on a thorny plot point, I take a break. So long as you feel painted into a corner, you won’t be able to see a way forward. Go for a walk, or even better, a run. The answer might come to you, but even if it doesn’t, you’ll feel fresh and ready to have another crack at it.”

“That’s not a bad idea. I went for a hilly run yesterday. I might try it again, see if I can beat my time. If you like, you can⁠—”

“Oh no,” Alan said firmly. “You lost me at hilly. Thanks, but I have plenty of work to catch up on. If you need me later, give me a call.”

“Okay. Thanks, Alan.”

“No problem. See you later?”

“Why not? I owe you a beer,” Dan replied, then he headed for his front door, already thinking of the run he was about to do. But as he slid his key into the lock, he paused.

He pulled the key back out and marched over to Alan’s house, catching him as he was closing his door.

“Hang on,” Dan called out, and Alan reappeared, looking concerned.

“What’s up?”

“I wanted to ask you about something,” Dan said. “I spotted a track the other day while I was out for my run, and I wondered where it went. I thought you would know.”

“There are lots of tracks, Dan. Hundreds. I don’t know them all.”

“But I have a photo of this one. Let me show you.” Dan produced his phone and checked the landscape photos he’d taken, selecting the one with the best view of the track.

“There,” Dan said, handing his phone to Alan. “It’s being used as a bridlepath, but there was no signpost.”

Alan frowned, pinching the screen to zoom in and out. “Hm. This was taken on the hill you get to after Pound Lane, wasn’t it?”

“I’ve no idea. I set out to see where Simon Bellamy was going when we first saw him, and this is where I ended up.”

“I see.” Alan studied the photo for a few seconds more, panning the image left and right, but as he handed the phone back, he said, “I know the one you mean, but I honestly don’t know where it comes out. It’s an old permissive path, so you’re allowed to walk or ride along it, but it’s not a public right of way. From what I recall, it’s very overgrown. I doubt whether it’s even marked on the OS map, but I could go inside and check if you like.”

Dan hesitated. Alan’s offer was genuine, but there was a hint of reluctance in his tone. He was probably looking forward to getting back to his writing.

“Don’t worry,” Dan said. “But while we’re talking about lanes, there is something else that’s been bugging me. When we met Bellamy, he said he was going to run back to Chudleigh, but you said that if he used that lane it would take him a long time.”

“I remember. That’s what I said in the heat of the moment, but thinking about it, there’s more than one way he could get to Chudleigh. If he went along Shameface Lane, past the vineyard, and⁠—”

“There’s a vineyard?” Dan asked. “Around here?”

Alan’s gaze flicked upward. “Yes, there’s a vineyard. It’s tucked away, but even so, I don’t know how it’s escaped your attention. It’s near the Foxlake Leisure Park. There’s an archery range at Foxlake, and the vineyard is on the other side of the road. Anyway, the lane goes down the valley side until it meets the Chudleigh road.”

Dan held up his hands. “Are you teasing me, Alan? I know where Foxlake is, obviously, but I’ve driven up and down the Chudleigh Road hundreds of times, and I’ve never seen a road called Shameface Lane. And with a name like that, I think I’d remember.”

“I’m not joking. There’s no signpost or anything, and it’s a very narrow lane, but that’s what it’s called.”

“Okay, so Bellamy could’ve been telling the truth.”

Alan tilted his hands in the air as though hunting for a balanced response. “Put it this way, he had the distance about right, so there’s every chance he was simply being honest, but we have no way of knowing.”

“He could’ve taken that permissive path. It might be a shortcut.”

“It must go somewhere,” Alan said. “But does it matter? Bellamy is an odd fish, and I don’t like the way he kept quiet about Joshua’s reason for running away, but in his own way he was trying to do the right thing. And when he recognised Hugh, I mean Damian, he called the police. I know you’ve always had your doubts about the man, but are you being entirely objective?”

Dan didn’t reply immediately. Had he been biased against Bellamy from the start? From the moment they’d first met, every encounter had ended in some kind of drama.

Alan’s right, Dan decided. I don’t like Bellamy one bit. But if he put that enmity aside, was there any evidence that Bellamy had committed a crime?

There was nothing Dan could put his finger on, but still he harboured a lingering suspicion about Bellamy, and some part of him didn’t want to let it go.

“Forgetting about Bellamy for a minute, I still want to know where that path leads,” Dan said. “And there’s one way to find out. I’m going to run up there and follow it, see where it goes.”

“Go ahead if you really want to. I’m curious myself, but I’ll tell you one thing for sure—it won’t take you to the nature reserve. It sets off in completely the wrong direction, and there are acres of farmland between the two.”

“I thought as much,” Dan replied. “That’s a shame, but I still want to take a look. It’ll be fun.”

Alan smiled. “Your idea of fun and mine are distinctly different, so if you’re waiting for me to change my mind and come with you, you’ll wait a long time. Sorry, but I really don’t fancy that hill.”

“No worries. I’ll report back, let you know what I find.”

They parted once more, and Dan went straight inside to get changed. Fifteen minutes later he was heading out, running gear on and a bottle of water in his rucksack, a sturdy pair of trail shoes on his feet. A brisk dash along a rugged stretch of untamed, muddy track was just what he needed.

CHAPTER 80

Dan planted his foot in a patch of satisfyingly squelchy mud and pushed off, grinning as he accelerated down the track. This was more like it. He’d worked hard to climb the slope as he’d left the village behind, and this was his reward: a pell-mell, downhill canter with gravity on his side, and his sense of balance the only limit.

To stay upright, Dan had to focus on every step, choosing a line through the chunks of fallen branches and loose stones that littered the trail. Some of the stones had fallen from the earth banks on either side of the track, but judging by the holes in the bank, some of them had been pushed out by badgers or foxes intent on tunnelling through.

But it was nothing Dan couldn’t deal with, and he loved every minute. He was free, living moment to moment, his mind empty save for the trail and the contact between his feet and the good earth.

This was how it was supposed to be.

But something snagged at his mind, and he jogged to a halt, then turned around and jogged back uphill, retracing his steps until he stood over the patch of mud he’d just run through.

Most of the trail was rocky and rough, but here and there, dead leaves and soil had accumulated in dips in the surface and turned to mud. At the start of the trail he’d noticed that the mud had been pocked with hoof marks, but here, he’d spotted something different.

Dan squatted on his haunches. There was his own footprint, and there were some marks left by horse hooves, but this patch of mud stretched across the trail’s width, and like him, the horses had stayed in the centre. It was a different story at the trail’s edge. The ruts on either side could only have been carved out by a car’s tyres.

Here’s something Alan didn’t know, Dan thought. People do drive down here. But who would take such a rough track and why? The permissive path was in the middle of nowhere, and barely wide enough to admit a car. Certainly, some rural byways were used by off-roaders: drivers, largely from nearby towns and cities, who treated the countryside as a playground, tearing up the tracks with their four-wheel-drive monstrosities.

But the tracks left by these tyres were neither wide nor particularly deep. And there were none of the hallmarks of rugged, off-road tyres.

Dan stood, looking back along the lane. Had this driver been heading to the village or away from it?

He had no way of knowing, but he could at least find out where the trail led.

Dan set off once more, but this time taking it easy, looking around as he went. And it wasn’t long before he glimpsed something sparkling in the sunlight: a sizeable chunk from a mirror was tangled amongst the knotted roots that sprang from the hedge to snake down through the earth bank.

Dan stopped and bent over to take a closer look. The mirror’s surface was crazed from an impact, and Dan spotted the likely culprit: a sturdy branch protruding from the hedge’s base.

Just another wing mirror, Dan thought. It was not an uncommon sight. Those who weren’t used to Devon’s lanes and their high banks didn’t always emerge with their cars unscathed, especially if they’d been forced to reverse by oncoming vehicles. The wild hedgerows took tribute from the unwary in the form of wing mirrors, hubcaps, pieces of bumper and fragments of coloured lenses from indicators and tail lights.

Was that all there was to it? Was this evidence of nothing more than a bewildered tourist or a confused courier? Many a driver had taken a wrong turn, their satnav systems flummoxed by unnamed lanes and the maps on their phones rendered almost useless by the lack of phone signal.

Still, Dan’s intuition told him something was amiss, and this trail led from the road Simon Bellamy had run along. He’d claimed he was heading back home to Chudleigh, but as Alan had pointed out, the road would’ve been pitch black and not entirely safe for a lone runner in dark clothing. Had Bellamy harboured an ulterior motive for running along the lonely road in the dark? Could he have been meeting someone, a person who’d arrived by car via a little known and unregarded track?

Another leap in the dark, Dan told himself, and he resumed his downhill journey. He saw further evidence of a car passing through: more tyre tracks and a smear of blue paint across a rock that jutted from the bank. If the broken mirror and the scraped bodywork had been meted out to the same driver, they’d surely have cursed their luck.

But Dan didn’t stop. His curiosity had gone into overdrive. But where did the trail lead?

I’ll find out soon enough, Dan decided. Before long he ought to meet another lane or a road, and then he’d be able to get his bearings. He was sure of it.

But five minutes later, Dan realised he was wrong.

The permissive path was a dead-end, terminated by a wide gate made from metal bars.

Beyond the gate there was nothing but a field of grass. And beside the gate stood an old, hand-painted sign, the letters daubed on a wooden board by an inexpert hand. The paint had faded and been partly worn away by the elements, but its message was plain enough:

KEEP OUT

PRIVATE PROPERTY.

Dan paused for a moment, catching his breath. He slipped off his rucksack and took a drink, then he slung the bag back onto his shoulders and tightened the straps.

Alan had said the permissive path was very old, and it ran through private property, so perhaps the landowner had decided to close it off. The track might once have led to a different destination, but not anymore. It looked as though the track was only used by riders as a way of taking horses to the lane for some exercise.

But what about the tyre tracks, the broken wing mirror and the trace of paintwork he’d seen? Who’d been driving this way?

The gate was fastened with a heavy chain and a no-nonsense padlock, but the trail continued on the other side, the rough track cutting straight across the uncut pasture. There may have been horses in residence at one time, but the field was empty.

Dan chose a spot next to the hinge where his weight wouldn’t put too much strain on the gate, then he set his foot on the bottom bar and climbed over, dropping silently onto the long grass on the other side.

Right, he thought as he set off at a brisk jog. Let’s see where you lead.

It wasn’t long before Dan met another gate, and he climbed over, landing in another empty pasture. The track was better here, the hardcore compacted and easier underfoot, so he set off running, much faster than before.

At first, he’d half expected to be confronted by an angry farmer or an inquisitive horse, but there’d been nothing but the empty expanse of grass and the track leading through it. Dan grew in confidence with every stride, his sense of direction telling him exactly where he was headed.

He crested a rise, and before him, the landscape unfurled in a patchwork of rolling fields and hedgerows. And tucked away behind what looked like an old orchard was a fine farmhouse, its stone walls standing proud like a fortress at the centre of its domain: Seven Springs Farm.

This couldn’t be a coincidence. The track, the tyre marks, the broken mirror, even the scrape of paint: all pointed to a hurried journey that had started or begun at Seven Springs Farm. And he could think of one good reason why someone might want to take that route: to get away from the place where Henry’s body had been found.

The clues would be somewhere on that farm. All he had to do was look in the right place.

CHAPTER 81

DI Spiller drove his trusty Volvo saloon to Seven Springs Farm, DS Collins beside him in the passenger seat. He parked in the empty farmyard and both policemen exited quickly, scanning their surroundings.

Collins had his tablet clamped under his arm, and Spiller was tempted to say something about the device being glued to him, but he kept quiet. Laptops and tablets lacked the elegance of the pocket notebook, but they could do so much more, and today, the tablet was going to be extremely useful.

“No sign of Liam’s Vauxhall Astra,” Collins muttered. “Maybe he’s gone out. We should’ve called.”

Spiller treated him to a stern frown. “Ask questions all you like, son, but if you want to get on, never tell your boss what he should’ve done, okay?”

“No offence, Guv. I was thinking out loud, that’s all.”

“Bad habit. Keep it in here.” Spiller tapped his temple. “Anyway, I had my reasons for not calling. I wanted to catch him by surprise, put him on the back foot.”

“Right, Guv. And we might be in luck.” Collins cocked his ear. “Hear that?”

Spiller listened. His ears weren’t as sharp as they once were, but over the breeze in the hedgerows and the birdsong in the air, he picked up the faint strains of pop music drifting across the yard.

Collins hooked his thumb toward the workshop where Henry had kept his MG.

Spiller nodded, and they strode toward it together.

The workshop’s wide double doors were closed, but Spiller pulled one of them open and stood in the doorway, Collins taking up position immediately behind and to his left. If anyone was tempted to dash for freedom, they’d find their way barred.

But there was only one person in the workshop, and he looked too startled to move. Dressed in dark green overalls, the man stood by the dark blue Vauxhall Astra, an oily rag in his hands. The car’s bonnet was open, and a small, cantilevered toolbox lay open at his feet.

“Liam Doubleday?” Spiller asked.

Before he could reply, Collins said, “That’s him.”

“What’s all this?” Liam asked, his voice wavering. “Are you…”

“We’re police officers,” Spiller replied, taking care of the introductions while he and Collins stepped inside and showed their warrant cards.

Liam nodded, his tongue darting over his lips. “Right. My mum mentioned you, but she’s out at the moment. Is there any news?”

“Not yet,” Spiller said. “But we do have some questions for you. Shall we go up to the house?”

“Can we talk here? Only, I’m in the middle of this, and if it’s only a few questions, it won’t take long, will it?”

“That depends.” Spiller quickly checked the room. “Are you here on your own?”

Another nod.

He’s clammed up already, Spiller thought. And we’ve barely begun. This was going to be interesting.

Gesturing to the radio, Spiller said, “Mind if we turn that off?”

“No problem.” Liam obliged then stood facing them, waiting.

Spiller let the silence build for a second, then he said, “Is this your car, Liam?”

“Yes, but I expect you know that already.” Liam attempted a smile; Spiller did not return it.

“We know you’re the registered keeper, certainly,” Spiller replied. “But we didn’t find a driving licence in your name.”

“That’s because I haven’t got one. I never learned to drive.”

“So why do you have a car?” Collins asked.

“My partner needs it for work, and when his old car broke down, he couldn’t afford to replace it, so I paid for this one. He’s insured and everything, but it’s in my name.”

Spiller nodded. “I see. What’s your partner’s name?”

“Mark. Mark Kearney.”

Collins made a note on his tablet, asking Liam to spell out Mark’s surname.

When they were done, Spiller said, “I presume Mark is here.”

“Not right now. He went out for a walk. He’ll be ages. It’s a change after the city, and he likes to explore.”

“Is he a tall chap, Mark?” Spiller asked.

“Yeah, I suppose so. He’s taller than me.”

Spiller offered a pleasant smile. “Tall, dark and handsome? A full beard?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity,” Spiller replied. “Making conversation. So many young people grow a full beard these days, don’t they? It’s the fashion.”

“Yeah, I suppose so, but Mark has cut his short. It was getting difficult at work. He has to wear a mask sometimes. He works for the NHS.”

“Good for him,” Spiller replied. “When did he decide to trim it?”

Liam shrugged. “A few days ago, I’m not sure when.”

“I can ask him myself,” Spiller said. “I need to talk to Mark, but we’ll catch him sooner or later. Oh yes, we’ll catch him.”

Liam’s face fell, and Spiller let out a chuckle. “Sorry, Liam, that was a poor turn of phrase. I just meant we’ll catch up with him for a chat.”

“Right. Sure. I mean, Mark will help if he can, but we don’t know what happened, so we can’t tell you much. We’ve already spoken to Anisha, and there’s nothing more to say.”

“Yes, I’ve read DS Kulkarni’s report, but I like to get to know people properly. A report can only go so far, but you can learn so much more from a proper conversation. It’s more personal, don’t you think?”

“Okay,” Liam said slowly, one eyebrow lifted and a bemused smile on his lips.

That’s an affectation if ever there was one, Spiller decided. Liam might’ve controlled his expression, but he hadn’t stopped his hands from toying with that oily rag, and his fingers wrapped around the fabric, pulling it tight, twisting the rag as though to wring it dry.

“You know, I really am surprised you can’t drive,” Spiller said. “You told DS Kulkarni that you grew up on the farm, so I imagine you would’ve had plenty of opportunity to practise.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But my dad didn’t want to teach me, and he wouldn’t pay for an instructor. I couldn’t afford the lessons on my own, so that was that.”

“You fell out with your father,” Collins suggested. “You rarely saw each other.”

“That’s right, but I told all this to Anisha. I don’t see the point in⁠—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Spiller interrupted. “I’m old school, you see, and I like to hear things from the horse’s mouth. Bear with me, and we’ll wrap this up as quickly as we can.”

“All right.” Liam looked back to his car, and once more, he began wiping his hands with the rag. His jaw was set, and Spiller sensed he was preparing himself, getting ready to turn them away.

In a more conversational tone, Spiller said, “Changing the oil?”

“No, the cam belt.”

Collins let out a low whistle. “Rather you than me. That’s a big job, isn’t it?”

“It’s not so bad once you know how. I can do most things. I’ve always liked working with cars.”

“Like your father,” Spiller said.

Liam nodded sadly. “Yeah, it was the one thing we could do together. He taught me a lot, and it came in handy when I couldn’t afford the garage bills, and I definitely couldn’t go out and buy a new car.”

“Things are different now though,” Spiller stated.

Liam’s head snapped around, his gaze sharp. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re free to come home,” Spiller replied. “And your mum might help you out. I understand that in addition to this farm, she owns a lot of land.”

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but I’m not here for a handout.”

Spiller bowed his head a little. “I wasn’t implying any such thing. But let’s talk about your mum. The two of you are close, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Mum’s always been there for me. We kept in touch, even when my dad was being a…” his voice trailed away. “Well, like I said, I’ve already explained all this to Anisha. I don’t want to go through it again, not now.”

“I understand,” Spiller said. “But neither you nor your mother saw fit to mention your meeting in Sainsbury’s.”

“Erm, this is hard to explain.”

“That’s all right,” Spiller replied. “I’m in no rush.”

Liam’s lips turned downward. “It’s like this. Whenever Mum came to see me, she always worried what people might think. She was going behind my dad’s back, you see, and she’d rather say nothing than be thought dishonest, so she never mentioned it to anyone, and she told me to do the same.”

“Dear, oh dear,” Spiller said. “That was a serious omission, Liam.”

“I was worried you might see it that way, but that wasn’t…” Liam sighed, his expression even more downcast.

“You have to understand,” he went on. “My mum is very principled, very private. She doesn’t approve of people going on about their family arguments. She calls it washing your dirty linen in public. So when she told me to keep quiet, I went along with it. I didn’t want to upset her any more, and anyway, what would’ve been the point? We’re neither of us suspects, are we?”

“We’ll see,” Spiller replied. “Both you and your mother have withheld information, and I have to ask myself why you would deliberately interfere with a murder inquiry.”

“But we weren’t even thinking straight. To be honest, everything went out of my head when I heard what had happened, and—” Liam broke off abruptly, perhaps aware that his voice had risen, becoming shrill.

He lifted his chin as if pulling himself together, then he went on in a more measured tone. “Okay, Mum and me met in Sainsbury’s in Newton Abbot. We sat in the cafe and then I went home, and Mum came back here. I forget what time I got there, but⁠—”

“You arrived in the cafe at ten minutes past six,” Collins said. “Does that jog your memory?”

“Okay, that sounds about right,” Liam admitted. “But I can’t swear to it. I’m not really with it right now. Things have been very difficult. I haven’t been sleeping properly, and I’m worried about my mum. She’s distraught.”

“Of course,” Spiller replied. “But let’s talk about that meeting on Monday evening—the day your father was murdered.”

“If we really have to, I’ll try. I’ll do my best.” Liam’s tone had grown more sombre, and his gaze lost focus. “You know, I keep thinking, what if I’d arranged to meet Mum another day? She’d have been here, she might’ve been able to do something. Dad might still be… He might still be alive.”

“We can’t know these things in advance,” Spiller said. “All we can do is look at the facts, and there are a few troubling details we haven’t been able to explain. I’m hoping you can help.”

Liam snapped out of his reverie. “Sorry, what was that?”

“We think you can help,” Spiller replied. “We’d like your assistance in tidying up a few loose ends.”

“Okay, but like I said, I’ve already⁠—”

“Do you know what ANPR is?” Spiller interrupted.

Liam shook his head.

“It stands for Automatic Number Plate Recognition,” Spiller said. “Special cameras pick up the number plates as vehicles pass by, so we can build up a picture of when and where those vehicles have been used.”

Spiller waited for a response, but none came.

“DS Collins has been having a look at the ANPR records for your car, and he has some questions for you,” Spiller went on. “Go ahead, Detective Sergeant.”

Collins stepped forward, his tablet in his hands. “On Monday, you travelled from your home in Plymouth to meet with your mother in Sainsbury’s at Newton Abbot, correct?”

“Yes, I thought we’d established that.”

“We have, but I’m wondering why the journey took you so long. You arrived at Sainsbury’s car park at 6:05, but we have you leaving Plymouth at 4:43. That’s over an hour and 20 minutes for a journey that shouldn’t have taken more than about 45 minutes.”

“There was traffic.”

“I’ve checked the traffic reports and made allowances,” Collins stated. “There were no road closures along your route, but even if you were held up for a few minutes, you approached Sainsbury’s from the wrong direction. You must’ve been somewhere else first.”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” Despite his oily hands, Liam scratched at the side of his jaw. “We stopped for petrol, and there was a big queue, so it took ages.”

“There’s a filling station at Sainsbury’s,” Spiller said. “You could’ve bought petrol there, and they don’t charge as much as some places.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to top up the car before we got there. I don’t like the tank getting low. There’s probably all sorts of gunge in there.”

Collins shook his head. “Then why did you stay on the A38? There are several garages in and around Newton Abbot, but you and Mark drove past the town altogether.”

“I don’t know. Habit, I suppose. There are a couple of garages near Bovey Tracey. When we’re in this neck of the woods, we usually go to one or the other.”

“So you didn’t want the petrol tank to get low, but the pair of you drove further than necessary,” Spiller said. “Are you hearing the problem with that?”

“Look, Mark was driving, and he chose the garage. I didn’t mind, so that’s what we did. We went to the one on the right as you go towards Bovey, okay?”

Spiller turned to Collins. “Let’s get the CCTV from that garage.”

“Yes, sir,” Collins replied. “I’ll do that today.”

“He’s very thorough,” Spiller said to Liam. “He’ll find you and your car, assuming you’re telling the truth, of course.”

Liam lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Whatever. I don’t see what the big deal is. Does it matter where we fill up the car?”

“Not necessarily,” Spiller replied. “But we still can’t make the times add up, can we, Collins?”

“No, we cannot,” Collins said. “The thing is, Liam, we know you were late for your meeting with your mum. When you arrived in the cafe, you found your mum waiting. She gave you a slice of cake.”

Liam stared at Collins in mute disbelief.

Undeterred, Collins carried on. “Do you see what I’m getting at, Liam? You left Plymouth with plenty of time to spare, but you still managed to be late. Why was that? And please, don’t give us that story about going all around the houses to buy petrol. It doesn’t make any kind of sense, and you know the CCTV won’t back you up because it didn’t happen.”

“We did stop to fill up the tank,” Liam protested. “Look, maybe I got the garage wrong. I don’t know. I’m tired. We might’ve gone somewhere else.”

“How did you pay for your petrol?” Spiller asked. “Credit card? We should be able to find that transaction in your financial records. And we are going to go through them, believe me.”

“Why? What am I supposed to have done?”

Spiller nodded thoughtfully. “Well now, that is a good question—an excellent one in fact. Let’s look again at the events of that evening and see if we can come up with an explanation that fits the facts, shall we?”

Without waiting for a response, Spiller said, “You lied about going to the garage. In fact, you were coming here. That explains the direction your car was going when you turned up at Sainsbury’s. You’d been here first.”

Liam let out an exasperated groan. “No, you know I’d arranged to meet my mum in the cafe. Why would I come here?”

“To be honest, we’re not entirely sure, but whatever the reason, you changed your plans. You wanted to catch your mum at home before she left, but when you arrived, she’d already set off. You’d just missed her. And those timings fit perfectly. That all makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Liam shook his head firmly.

“But your father was here, wasn’t he?” Spiller went on. “And something happened. You argued and lost your temper. Maybe you didn’t mean to hit him, but you did.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Liam demanded. “This is nonsense. I was with my mum. You know that.”

“We know you were dropped off at 6:05,” Collins replied. “And we know you were picked up again at 7:25.”

“That was a nice long chat you had with your mum,” Spiller said. “Were you drawing it out, keeping her distracted?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We were talking. That’s not a crime, is it?”

“No, but in all that time, what did Mark do?” Spiller asked. “Where did he go?”

“Nowhere. He waited outside.”

Spiller shook his head. “ANPR, Liam. Remember that? Your Astra clocked up a few miles that night, belting up and down the A38. That’s going to take some explaining. How many times was it Collins?”

“Six, sir,” Collins replied. “Three times each way.”

Spiller raised his eyebrows as though impressed. “Six. And some of those journeys took place while you were in Sainsbury’s with your mum. Is your partner moonlighting as a courier, Liam?”

“No, of course not.”

“Delivering takeaways, then,” Spiller suggested. “Pizza perhaps.”

Anger flushed Liam’s cheeks, and he glared at Spiller in silence.

“Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we?” Spiller said. “Having dropped you off, Mark hightailed it back here to clean up the mess, and he really went to town. He sloshed chemicals all over the place, then he drove back to Sainsbury’s, picking you up at 7:25. The pair of you came back here, put your father’s body in the MG and Mark drove out to dump him by the road. Meanwhile, you jumped in the Astra and moved it out of sight. After all, I reckon you can drive—you grew up on a farm with a father who loved cars. I’m sure you know the basics, and you didn’t want your mum to come home and find your car still here. She thought you were on the way home to Plymouth. How am I doing?”

Liam scowled, but then his gaze slipped past Spiller and his eyes went wide.

CHAPTER 82

Spiller wheeled around to see a figure in the doorway: a man silhouetted against the brighter light outside.

“I’m sorry to say you’ve got that wrong,” the man said, stepping into the workshop. “But I can help you with that.”

“Mr Corrigan,” Spiller intoned, “what are you doing here?”

“Helping the police with their inquiries,” Corrigan replied. “Hello again, Liam. Working on your car, I see.” Corrigan tilted his head to peer at the Astra’s wing. “Oh, that’s a nasty scratch. You didn’t get to the other end of that track in one piece, did you?”

Liam pointed at Corrigan but addressed himself to Spiller. “Why is he here? Did you bring him with you?”

“No, we certainly did not,” Spiller stated. “And he can’t be here. Time to leave, Mr Corrigan.”

“Okay, I’ll go in a minute. But first, could you have a quick look at the wing mirrors on Liam’s car? You’ll find one of them has a piece missing. He hit it against a branch, and I can show you where it happened. The piece of glass is still on the track.”

“Why would I be interested in that?” Spiller asked.

“You’ll see. Indulge me, DI Spiller. It’ll all make sense when you see that mirror.”

Spiller caught Collins’ eye, and the unspoken message was understood.

Lowering his tablet, Collins moved carefully around the car, using the tablet’s camera to take a few photos of the wing mirrors.

“Ah, that must mean I’m right,” Corrigan said.

Collins rejoined Spiller before he replied. “Not exactly. Both mirrors are intact, but one of them has been fitted with brand new glass, and there is a mark on the back of the mirror’s housing, so it might’ve hit a branch.”

“Is that what happened, Liam?” Spiller said.

“Yeah, it was the other day when Mark was driving up to the village.”

Corrigan tutted. “That won’t do, Liam. I’ve found the missing piece of mirror and it’s on a track that leads from this very farm yard. But you’ve tried to cover that fact up by changing the glass, so I presume you’ve thrown the broken one away.”

“Obviously,” Liam replied.

To Spiller, Corrigan said, “I’d look for that broken mirror if I were you. And you’ll need a sample of this car’s paint so you can match it with the mark I found.”

“You’ve said more than enough, and none of it gets us very far,” Spiller replied. “Now, if you have any useful information, call the station like everyone else. In the meantime, you need to⁠—”

“But I can explain where you’re going wrong,” Corrigan interrupted. “Forgive me, but I overheard what you were saying as I crossed the yard. And I can give you the correct version—the sequence of events that ties everything together.”

There was a brief silence, and then Collins moved toward Corrigan.

“I’ll get rid of him, Guv.”

Corrigan was about to argue, but Spiller raised a hand to cut him off.

“Hold on, Collins,” Spiller said. “Let’s hear what he has to say.” To Corrigan, he added, “You’ve got one chance, so no beating around the bush. And if you even so much as whisper any wild accusations, you’re out of here, is that understood?”

“Perfectly.” Corrigan clasped his hands together as if preparing to make a speech, and then he began.

“The MG wasn’t used to move Henry’s body, and when you think about it, it’s obvious. The MG was an attempt at misdirection. The car is noisy, it attracted attention when it roared through the village and past the pub. No one in their right mind would move a body that way.

“Then there’s the difficulty of containing the unfortunate victim during transit. The sports car has a tiny boot and virtually no room in the back, so Henry’s body would’ve had to be propped up in the passenger seat. That would’ve been difficult to achieve and far too risky. Once you accept that, Simon Bellamy’s account of his near miss with the speeding car finally makes sense. We know why the driver stopped to check on Bellamy after almost running him down. There was no corpse in the car, nothing to hide.”

Corrigan looked to Spiller for approval, and after a moment, Spiller nodded.

“That realisation quickly leads to another. The murderer had an accomplice, the driver of the second car.”

Corrigan pointed to the Astra. “This car was used to move Henry’s body, and the driver took a track that runs all the way from the farm until it meets the road. On the track you’ll find the piece of broken mirror and a smear of paint where the wing scraped against a rock in the bank.”

Spiller turned his stare on Liam. The younger man’s anger had faded, and his cheeks were pale, fear in his eyes.

“Go on, Mr Corrigan,” Spiller said without taking his gaze from Liam. “We’re listening.”

“Okay,” Corrigan replied. “While Henry was being moved in this car, the MG set off on the road and travelled through the village. Alan heard the car go past when we were in the pub, and we assumed Henry was going for a drive, which no doubt was the killer’s intention. The two vehicles met on a quiet stretch of a little used lane, and the body was moved. Perhaps they wanted to make it look like Henry had broken down and was working on his car when someone attacked him. That might’ve fooled the police, for a while at least, and that delay would’ve been valuable to the culprits. It gave them time to get rid of their clothes and any other incriminating evidence.”

“But something went wrong,” Spiller said. “They were disturbed before they could get Henry into the MG. They heard a noise from behind the hedge, so they ran away, leaving Henry in the road.”

Corrigan nodded. “That’s certainly plausible. At this point, the Astra became a getaway car, and the pair of them drove away.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Liam blurted. “I’ve never heard such a load of…” He pulled a face as though the words on his tongue were too bitter to spit out.

“Liam, you can’t talk your way out of this,” Corrigan said, his tone sincere. “The evidence is there. As well as the piece of mirror and the paint, there are tyre tracks. Someone drove this car along that track, and the gates are all locked, so it had to have been someone who had access to the keys.”

“It wasn’t me,” Liam replied. “I can’t drive.” To Spiller, he said, “I’ve already told you—I never learned.”

Spiller nodded. “Yes, but as I’ve already said, I don’t believe that. Kids who grow up on farms start driving at an early age. I’ve met people who were driving around the fields as soon as they could reach the pedals. And I’m willing to bet that a man who knows how to change a cam belt knows how to take it for a test run around the yard or along a track.”

“No, I can’t,” Liam replied, but there was no conviction in his voice. “Listen, I’ve had enough of this. You’d better go.”

“I think not,” Spiller said. “You see, we’re just getting started.” He took a step closer to Liam, his stare locked on the younger man’s eyes. “Where’s the weapon, Liam? Where did you get rid of it?”

Liam said nothing.

“Come on, Liam,” Collins said, “where’s the spanner?”

Spiller shot his colleague a look, but it was too late. Collins had tipped his hand too early, and he’d left Spiller no choice; he’d have to play the cards he’d been dealt.

Moving even closer to Liam, Spiller said. “You’re a keen mechanic, just like your dad, so you had your own set of tools, good ones too. Is that something you picked up from your father? Always buy good tools and they won’t let you down—is that what he said?”

Reluctantly, Liam nodded. “He bought me some tools once, for a birthday present, a nice set. I was so happy.” Liam broke off abruptly, his eyes moist. “But that doesn’t mean anything. I don’t know what spanner he’s talking about.”

“Let me explain,” Spiller replied smoothly. “We’re interested in a large ring spanner, 18-20 mm, made by Snap-on.”

“My dad had a complete set of Snap-on spanners, but as far as I know, they’re all here.”

“But they’re not, are they?” Collins said. “You got rid of the one you used as a weapon, but you knew we’d notice, so you switched it with another. You even left it in the boot of the MG to throw us off. But you made a mistake. The one you planted was Imperial, but the rest of his set was metric.”

Liam’s expression crumpled in confusion. “No, I… I don’t understand. Where are you getting all this stuff about a spanner?”

“It wasn’t him,” Corrigan chimed in. “Either it’s a coincidence, and Henry happened to have a spanner in the boot, or someone else put it there.”

“That’s enough, Mr Corrigan.” Spiller exhaled slowly, then he refocused on Liam.

“Liam Doubleday,” Spiller began, “I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

Liam blinked like a man stepping out of darkness and into the light. He looked down at his car, and in a faint voice said, “I suppose I’ll never finish this now. It’ll sit here, rusting away. Dad would’ve hated that. What a waste, he’d say. What a waste.”

“Liam, we’re going to take you to the police station,” Spiller said. “But I’d like you to tell me if you’ve understood your rights.”

“Yes, I kind of knew it had to happen sooner or later. I knew you’d figure it out.” He looked up. “If I cooperate, if I confess, will I get off easier?”

“That’s hard to know,” Spiller replied. “You didn’t come forward straight away, but if you see sense and do the right thing, it might help. It’s not for me to say. You need to talk to a solicitor.”

Liam bit his bottom lip but said nothing.

“Okay, Collins,” Spiller said. “Escort Liam to the car. I’ll be right with you.”

Collins stepped forward, but Liam suddenly perked up and started speaking, his words coming in a rush.

“I did it. It was an accident, but I did it. I lost my temper, and I hit him.”

“We’ll talk about this at the station,” Spiller said. “You’ll have the chance to tell us everything.”

“But I want you to understand,” Liam insisted. “We came here early. We wanted to see Mum and Dad. We had news. We’d decided to get married, Mark and me, and I wanted Mum and Dad to come to the service. I thought, if he could see us properly married, he might finally understand. So we changed our plans at the last minute and came straight here to face up to him. I didn’t tell Mum because she would’ve talked me out of it, or she would’ve told Dad and he would’ve made sure he wasn’t around.”

Liam shook his head as if amazed at his own stupidity. “It was a crazy idea, and it went wrong from the start. When we arrived, Mum had already left, but we found Dad in here, so we went ahead and told him our news. He was furious. Do you know what he said? Over my dead body—those were his exact words.”

Spiller found himself holding his breath. This wasn’t how he’d wanted to play it, but Liam was in full flow, unburdening himself. It would be better to let him speak.

“Go on,” Spiller said. “What happened?”

“I was angry,” Liam said. “The way he sneered, the way he looked at me like I was nothing, it brought it all back, all the shame he’d piled on me. I lost control. I didn’t know what I was doing, and I lashed out.” Liam’s voice faltered. “It was like you said. I grabbed a spanner and I hit him with it.”

Liam’s gaze flicked to the tool bench, and there was something hesitant in that glance, something uncertain that gave Spiller pause.

Corrigan broke the silence. “He’s lying. I told you, it wasn’t him. Liam did not kill his father. He didn’t even know about the spanner until just now. It must’ve been Mark.”

Spiller turned on Corrigan. “Outside. Now.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” Corrigan glanced at Liam and then he walked out, leaving the workshop door open.

“And don’t touch anything out there,” Spiller called out to him. “Stand still and do nothing.”

If Corrigan replied, Spiller didn’t hear it. He let a few seconds pass, watching Liam as the young man fidgeted like a schoolboy brought before the head master. Liam was guilty of something, but was he a murderer?

I think not, Spiller decided. He’s feeding me a story. Much as Spiller hated to admit it, Corrigan might well have stumbled onto the truth.

When he judged the moment was right, Spiller said, “Carry on, Liam. You were angry and you picked up a spanner. Where was it?”

Liam pointed to the bench. “Right there. He must’ve been using it, because it wasn’t in the cabinet. I picked it up and hit him.”

“I see,” Spiller said. “So this happened where, exactly?”

“Right here. He was standing here by his car, and I was where you are now.”

Spiller waited, observing Liam all the while, watching as the young man’s confidence faded away leaving bewilderment in its wake. It was there in the droop of his lips, the slump of his shoulders, the nervous twitching of the fingers on his right hand.

“The thing is, we have specialist officers who’ve checked every building, and there were no signs of violence in here,” Spiller said. “And neither were there any indications that someone had cleaned this workshop. So there’s really no way I can believe your story. And that’s what is, isn’t it, Liam? A story that you’ve made up.”

“No, it isn’t. I didn’t hit him all that hard. There wasn’t much blood, and we… I was very careful.”

“You didn’t hit your father hard?” Collins said. “Then how do you explain the fact that his skull was fractured?”

The last trace of colour vanished from Liam’s face. He opened his mouth to speak, but his lower lip wobbled, and he clamped his mouth shut.

“We believe that your father was killed in the large barn,” Spiller said. “That floor was cleaned up very thoroughly. But that could’ve happened while you were still in the cafe with your mum.”

Liam shook his head, more in confusion than denial.

“We’ll take you to the police station,” Spiller went on. “And I suggest you have a good think on the way, because once we begin your formal interview, it won’t look good if you keep changing your mind. Do yourself a favour and tell the truth.”

“It was me,” Liam said, though his voice was weak. “I told you, I did it.”

Spiller shook his head firmly. “Don’t throw your life away for someone else, son. I presume it’s your partner, Mark, you’re trying to protect, but you can’t help him now. We’ll pick him up very soon. In the meantime, get yourself a solicitor and listen to their advice.”

“Come on, Liam,” Collins said, taking Liam by the arm. “The car’s outside.”

But as they made for the door, a shout rang out from across the farmyard: “Help!”

“Corrigan,” Spiller growled, and he dashed outside.

CHAPTER 83

Dan paced across the yard. Why wouldn’t Spiller listen to him? There was only one solution to this case, and it was as clear as day: Mark had killed Henry Doubleday.

Speak of the Devil, Dan thought, because the man striding across the field of llamas toward the farmyard might well be Mark Kearney. The man wore a flat cap, the peak shading his features, and the upturned collar of his dark green waxed-cotton jacket hid his hair, but Dan could make out a dark beard.

For a split second, Dan thought Damian was making a surprise appearance. After all, Spiller had more or less confirmed Damian had an alibi, so he might well have been released.

But no, this was Mark. Dan hadn’t noticed the similarity between the two men until now. He’d met Mark only once and in a very different context. Answering his door in Plymouth, Mark had been barely awake, and he’d looked smaller in his baggy T-shirt and jogging bottoms, his feet bare.

Another piece of Simon Bellamy’s story fell into place. While still recovering from the shock of almost being run over, Bellamy had seen Mark at a distance, and when he’d subsequently met Damian, he’d made a simple mistake.

Marching across the field, Mark’s attention was on the llamas, but as he reached the gate, he spotted Dan, and his movements were slow as he opened the gate and let himself in.

Dan lifted his hand in acknowledgement and smiled, but Mark did not return the gesture. Mark strolled across the farm yard as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but his gaze slid sideways and fixed on the black Volvo.

“New car?” Mark asked, his tone casual, but his body language tense.

Dan shook his head. “It’s not mine.”

“I thought so. When you came to Plymouth, you had a Toyota. Blue.” Mark halted, a good few paces between him and Dan. “So we have company then,” he suggested. “Anyone I might know?”

Dan gestured toward the workshop. “Come and see. They’re in there.”

“They?”

“Liam and his visitors.”

“That car looks kind of official,” Mark said. “Is it the police again?”

Dan did his best to look disinterested. “I don’t know what gives you that idea. It’s an ordinary car, isn’t it?” He inclined his head toward the workshop. “Why don’t you come and talk to Liam? He’ll explain.”

Mark pushed out his lower lip as though thinking this over. He was about to say something, but they both turned at the sound of a vehicle rattling over the cattle grid.

A dark SUV had turned in from the lane and was rolling toward the farm, its tyres crunching on the gravel track.

Reinforcements, Dan thought, but then he remembered where he’d seen that SUV before. This was the Jeep he’d seen parked on the yard on his first visit, and a second later he could make out Jean Doubleday behind the wheel, a passenger sitting beside her.

“It’s Jean,” Mark said. “I’ll just go and…” He turned away and made for the gate leaving his sentence unfinished.

Dan followed, taking long strides to catch up. “Mark, wait. Stay here.”

But Mark did not appear to have heard. He reached the gate just as Jean was stepping down from her Jeep.

“I’ll get it,” Mark called out to her, and he broke into a run.

Dan darted after him, but Mark grabbed the top bar of the gate and vaulted over.

Jean froze, bewildered.

Dan was right behind Mark, and he too vaulted over the gate. He lunged toward Mark, grabbing him by the arm, but Mark turned on his heel, breaking free and lashing out with his right fist. The blow caught Dan’s cheekbone, but he stood his ground.

“Don’t even think about it, Mark,” Dan said. “You can’t run away from this. The police are here, and Liam has told them everything.”

Mark’s answer was to take another swing, and this one landed on Dan’s eye, sending a jolt of pain through his skull.

Dan stepped back, raising his fists, but Mark was fast, and he lunged at Dan, throwing his weight into an uppercut that slammed into Dan’s jaw.

The world turned white, and Dan staggered back, stumbling over his own feet. Before he could stop himself, he fell hard on his backside, his ears ringing.

Mark was climbing into the Jeep, but as Dan hauled himself back to his feet, he saw someone moving inside the SUV: a figure moving fast, a glimpse of wild hair. Sophia!

The Jeep’s engine stopped suddenly, and Sophia brandished the keys.

Mark was in the driver’s seat now, but Sophia turned to face him, leaning back. She must’ve kicked out with both feet because Mark roared in pain, his hands clutching his chest.

Mark was still in the driver’s seat, but Dan would soon see about that. In two strides he was at the car door, and he grabbed Mark’s coat with both hands, yanking him from the Jeep.

Mark slid from his seat, his arms flailing, but he managed to land on his feet. He swung a fist at Dan’s ribs, but this time, Dan was ready, and he used Mark’s momentum against him, turning him around while sweeping Mark’s feet from beneath him. It wasn’t quite judo, but it worked, and Mark fell heavily on his back, the breath knocked out of his chest as his body hit the concrete yard.

Mark groaned and tried to get up, but Dan was on him, rolling him onto his front and keeping him there, one knee pressed against Mark’s spine. He grabbed both of Mark’s arms and pulled them back, but someone suddenly tugged at Dan’s ear.

“Get off him!” Jean shouted. “Leave him alone!”

“Mrs Doubleday, it’s—” That was as far as Dan got before Jean slapped him hard on the cheek.

There was only one thing for it. Dan lifted his chin and shouted: “Help!”

CHAPTER 84

Dan raised his arm to fend off another swipe from Jean Doubleday. It meant he had to release one of Mark’s arms, but Mark wasn’t going anywhere.

“Please stop,” Dan started to say, but another voice rang out, and DI Spiller came running across the yard, his face full of thunder.

“That’s enough of that,” Spiller called out as he opened the gate. “Step back, madam.”

Jean wasn’t going anywhere, but at least she’d stopped hitting Dan.

“That man attacked my son’s partner,” Jean stated, her voice shaking with anger. “He’s been here before, harassing my family, and he has no business being here.”

As he joined them, Spiller gestured for her to calm down. “It’s all right, I’m a police officer, and⁠—”

“I know who you are,” Jean snapped. “I’m not stupid.”

Before Spiller could reply, Mark started to struggle, pushing himself up with his one free arm. “Get him off me,” Mark pleaded. “He attacked me.”

“Stay still, Mr Kearney,” Spiller said. Producing a pair of handcuffs from his jacket pocket, Spiller kneeled beside Dan and took hold of Mark’s free arm, rattling off the man’s rights as he cuffed Mark’s wrists and arrested him for murder.

Jean paled, her hands going to her stomach. “No. No, you can’t…”

Spiller hauled Mark to his feet, and the man stood there in silence, head down.

“Mark,” Jean said, “tell me this isn’t true.”

When Mark didn’t respond, Jean stepped in front of him. “Look at me. Tell me you didn’t do this.”

Mark shook his head.

“My God,” Jean murmured, then her voice grew harder. “How dare you? I took you into my home. I accepted you. I was happy for you. And all the time, you…”

“Mrs Doubleday, this must be very upsetting for you,” Spiller began, “but please step aside. There’ll be time for you to ask questions later. I’ll send someone to make sure you’re all right.”

Jean squinted at Spiller. “Me? I’m all right. But where’s my son? Where’s Liam?”

“I’m afraid Liam has also been arrested,” Spiller replied. “We’ll be taking him back to the station as soon as we can. There’ll be another car here in ten minutes or so.”

Jean stared at Spiller. “Where is he? Is he all right?”

“He’s okay,” Spiller replied. “My colleague is holding your son in the workshop, but I need you to stay away for the moment. The best thing you can do right now is to go inside and have a cup of tea, plenty of sugar.”

“I can do that,” Sophia said.

Dan hadn’t noticed her exiting the car, but Sophia stood to one side, an unwilling spectator.

“And you are?” Spiller asked.

“Sophia is my niece,” Jean said. “She has every right to be here.”

Spiller nodded. “Okay, that’s fine. We’ll have to take your details, Sophia, and you’ll need to come to the station and make a statement—we’ll arrange transport for you if you like. In the meantime, if you could look after your aunt⁠—”

“I can look after myself,” Jean interrupted. “And I don’t need tea, I need to see my son, and you’re not going to stop me.”

Before Spiller could reply, Jean stalked away.

Spiller watched her go, then he turned to Dan. “Mr Corrigan, you’ll need to come to the station as well, but you can come later and under your own steam. For now, I suggest you go home.”

Dan nodded, but he kept his gaze on Mark. “Why did you do it, Mark? Did you hear Liam arguing with his father, was that it? Did you want to protect Liam, or was it simpler than that? Did Liam’s dad threaten to disown him, was that it? Did you think Liam’s inheritance was slipping away?”

Mark didn’t respond.

“Unfortunately, you didn’t know the farm belonged to Jean,” Dan went on. “It was never Henry’s, and in the unlikely event that Jean died before her husband, I’m sure she would’ve looked after Liam in her will. After all, she never turned her back on her son. She was always there for him.”

Mark looked up, his eyes glazed with horror as he stared into space.

Dan expected Spiller to interrupt, but he was watching Mark like a hawk.

Making the most of the opportunity, Dan said, “You thought you were being clever, didn’t you, Mark? I hear there was a spanner in the boot of Henry’s car, but it doesn’t make sense for it to be there. It’s an obvious red herring. Liam would never have made that mistake. He knows his way around cars, just like his father.”

Mark snorted. “He’s nothing like his father. Nothing.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Dan replied. “He’s definitely not much of a driver, but you persuaded him to drive his car along the track, his father’s body in the back. What did you tell Liam, that it was an accident?”

Mark stared at Dan for a long second, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “Everybody would’ve blamed Liam. Everyone knew they’d argued, so I had to make it look like his dad was killed somewhere else. I had to make sure Liam was in the clear, but I needed his help. I was trying to protect him.”

“I don’t believe you,” Dan stated. “You were trying to save yourself, and you drew Liam in. The sad thing is, Liam did his best to cover for you. I don’t know what lies you told him, but he was totally taken in. He tried to take the blame himself.”

Mark shook his head. “Look, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. When we got here, Liam went to find his dad, and a minute later he was running back to me in pieces. His dad had disowned him, and Liam was devastated.”

“So you went to take revenge,” Dan said.

“No. It wasn’t like that. I told Liam to forget about his dad and get into the car. We could still go and see his mum. But while I was turning the car around, I saw him. Liam’s dad was standing there, staring at us with his nose in the air, and I knew I had to do something.

“I dropped Liam off and came back here. I saw his dad going into the barn, so I followed. He didn’t like that. He called me every name he could think of, and he picked up a metal bar, waving it at me like he was going to kill me. So I took it off him. I took it off him, and I…”

Mark’s head drooped and he let out a noisy breath. “What’s the use? We may as well get this over with, but you can leave Liam out of it. He drove the car up a track, but only because I persuaded him. It was all me. Liam didn’t really do anything.”

“You’ve both committed serious crimes,” Spiller said. “But you won’t be seeing each other for a very long time. Come on, Mark. Let’s go.”

Spiller nodded to Dan and then led Mark away.

Sophia made to follow them, but Dan said, “That was quite something, the way you fought him off.”

Sophia halted and half turned. “Self-defence classes,” she said. “I did a course. You never let somebody drive you away. Never.”

“That’s good advice.” Dan watched her for a moment. Sophia was calm and collected. She wasn’t even breathing hard.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Dan stated.

Alarm flashed in Sophia’s eyes, but only for a split second. “What are you talking about?”

“You threatened Roy Searle.”

“Never heard of him.”

Dan almost laughed. “Come on, you can’t expect me to believe that.”

“That’s your problem.”

“If it makes any difference, I don’t disapprove,” Dan said. “Searle has a lot to answer for, and I think you stood up to him. You’re tough, Sophia, and you don’t mind getting physical. I expect you put the fear of God into him.”

Sophia gave Dan a withering stare. “I have no idea what you’re trying to say, but you sound confused, and you’re looking pretty rough. Maybe you’ve got a concussion. You should get yourself checked.”

“I’m fine. The only thing that’s worrying me is the fact that Searle might get away with everything he’s done. The police need evidence. They don’t even have his camera.”

“Fascinating.” Sophia turned her back on him, saying “I’d better go. My aunt needs me.”

Her posture erect and her head held high, Sophia walked away.

“I’ll figure it out,” Dan called after her. “I always do.”

Sophia strode onward. She gave no sign of having heard.

Alone, Dan gingerly touched his cheek and the skin below his eye. It was sore, but he’d got away lightly. Mark was young and strong and deceptively fast. If Mark had managed to grab a weapon, the outcome could’ve been different.

One of these days, I’ll hang back, Dan told himself. I won’t jump in with both feet.

But that wasn’t to happen any time soon.

The farmyard was empty now, but soon police cars would arrive, and Liam and Mark would be taken away.

Until he went to give a statement, there was nothing for Dan to do, so he closed the gate and set off toward the road.

A dull ache radiated from his cheekbone, and as the adrenaline faded, he was seized with the need to go home for a hot shower and a change of clothes.

Time to get out of here, Dan decided, and since he was still wearing his running gear, he broke into a jog.

CHAPTER 85

Penny Robbins stood by the counter in her spotless kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. A cloud of steam rose up and the kettle turned itself off, but Penny made no move to pick the kettle up. Truth be told, she didn’t even want a cup of tea. She was only in the kitchen because… well, there was nowhere else for her to be.

She stared out of the window. The garden was neat and tidy, but it was empty. There’d been children playing once, and laughter. The memories were so bright she could almost see the girls in their summer dresses, giggling with joy as they ran round and round, arms waving, hair flying, heads tipped back toward the sky.

Perfect, she thought. Three perfect girls. How lucky she’d felt. Every day had been a blessing, a joy. But not now.

Her life had been like a three-legged stool; take one leg away and it toppled over and couldn’t be set straight.

There’d been days, weeks, when it was as if a hole had opened up somewhere inside her and she’d fallen headlong into the emptiness. The world had turned drab and grey, a permanent foggy day, every sound muffled and disconnected, every smell bitter, every breath hard to take.

There weren’t so many days like that anymore, not after all this time, but still, they came. A song on the radio could set her off, or the sound of a child’s voice, or even the sight of a young woman walking along the street. What would Sue look like now? Penny might wonder. What would she be doing?

A noise came from the front room, and Penny snapped back to the present. It had only been the TV. Dave was at home again, sat in his armchair, his glassy eyes fixed on some stupid daytime show. Why he sometimes didn’t go to work, she didn’t know. He would never explain or complain, never admit to illness. It was probably his back again. It gave him grief sometimes, but he’d be damned before he’d see the doctor. It was best to leave him be.

Silently, Penny crept into the hall and up the stairs. The small bedroom still had Sue’s name on the door. Penny hesitated on the landing, then she slipped inside and sat on the bed, closing the door behind her.

The room was cramped with barely enough space to walk around the bed, but Sue had loved it. Her posters were still on the wall, her clothes still in the small wardrobe. By rights, this should be Julie’s room by now. It must be hard for Julie and Kayleigh to share a room, but the girls never complained, they never even talked about it. They all understood.

Penny stood and moved over to the small wardrobe. There was no door—there wouldn’t have been room for it to open—so the clothes were laid bare, waiting for a chance to be worn, a chance that would never come.

She ran her hands along the row of dresses and tops and skirts. There was a shelf over the hanging space, and Penny reached up to touch the neat pile of clothes. She found a winter jumper and took it down, pressing the wool to her face and breathing in. Was the scent of her daughter still there, or had it faded?

It smells of her, Penny told herself. I’d know it anywhere. She wasn’t imagining it. She was Susan’s mother and she knew.

Penny found herself sitting back on the bed, the jumper pressed against her breast. And time slipped away from her.

When the door opened, it made her jump.

“There you are,” Dave said, loitering in the doorway. “I wondered where you were.”

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.” Dave looked at her: really looked at her. And his voice was soft when he said, “Hey, you’ve been crying.”

“Have I?” Penny sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Sorry. I must look a right mess.”

“Don’t be… I mean…” Dave stepped gingerly into the room. He sat beside her and wrapped his arms around Penny’s shoulders, holding her tight.

“Come here, love,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Love. He’d called her love. He hadn’t done that for so long that the word seemed strange coming from his lips. Strange but wonderful.

Penny pressed herself against him, Sue’s jumper still between them. She cried properly now, hard tears forcing their way out, a dark ache breaking free from her with every sob.

Dave didn’t speak. He held her, soaking up her tears, her pain.

When she had no more tears, she leaned against her husband, and he gently rubbed her back.

When he spoke, it took her by surprise. “It’s hard,” he said. “So hard.”

She nodded. “I miss her.”

“We all do, love. Me included.”

Penny looked up at him. “You never said.”

“No. I’m not good at this stuff. But I think about our Sue all the time. Every day.”

“I didn’t know.”

She felt Dave’s chest expand as he drew a long breath. “Me and the girls, we talk about Sue, but only when you’re not there.”

She pushed herself back from him, staring.

“That’s not what the girls want,” Dave went on. “It was my idea, not theirs.”

“Why?”

“Because it upsets you, and I don’t want to set you off. When you get like that, I don’t know what to do.” Dave swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, love. I get so worried about you, and I never know what to say, so I don’t say anything.”

“Oh, Dave. I thought you didn’t care.”

“No. Don’t say that. Never.”

Penny let out a sigh, then she looked around the bedroom. “We should give this room to Julie.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think she wants it. That’s why we ought to move. Start fresh.”

“I don’t know. It might help, but it’s a lot of upheaval, a lot of change.”

“We needn’t go far,” Dave said. “And we can still come back and visit Sue whenever you like.”

It was Penny’s turn to draw a breath. “I go to see her sometimes. At night.”

“I wondered. I know you’ve been going out, but I reckoned you’d tell me if you wanted me to know. And I thought, maybe there was someone—another man.”

“No. Not in that way. Never. But sometimes, I wanted somebody to talk to, that’s all.”

“I can’t say as I blame you,” Dave mumbled. “I’ve not done too well on that score, have I?”

“You’ve been here,” Penny said. “That’s the most important thing. But it’s me who should be apologising. While you were holding it together, I’ve been…” She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t know where I’ve been.”

After a moment, Dave said, “But you’re here now, right? Here to stay?”

“Yes. I’m here. Always.”

“That’s all that matters, love,” Dave replied. “That’s all that matters.”

* * *

That evening, the family ate dinner together. That was nothing new, but this time there were none of the sombre silences that had haunted their meals for so long they’d become part of the occasion.

Penny asked the girls about their day. She told them how she’d had part-time jobs when she was young, and she’d saved the money to buy records from a shop in Newton Abbot. She talked about meeting with her friends and travelling on the bus, going round the shops and trying the perfume testers in Boots.

But the thing she’d enjoyed the most, she told them, was standing in the record shop and flicking through the album covers, spending ages on deciding which one to buy.

When she’d finished, Kayleigh said, “Have you still got your old albums? I wouldn’t mind a look. Vinyl’s cool these days.”

“Is it?” Penny replied. “Well, I never threw them away, so they’ll be in the loft, won’t they, hon?”

At the term of endearment, Kayleigh and Julie froze with comical looks on their faces, but Penny pretended not to notice. She shared a smile with her husband. They could still surprise their kids, and that was something.

“Yeah, I think so, sweetheart,” Dave replied. “I’ll get them down. There should be my old deck up there too. I reckon it’ll need a new belt, but it should work. It’s a good one. Technics. There’s an amp too, and speakers. They’ll be all right.”

“No need to bother,” Julie said. “We don’t want all that old stuff. Don’t worry about it, Dad.”

Kayleigh stared at her sister. “Are you kidding? I’d love a deck. And it’s not old, it’s vintage. I could help you get it down, Dad. It’ll be great.”

Julie shook her head. “No, it’s daft. Where would we put it? We’ve got no room.”

“I’d like it in the lounge,” Dave replied. “Me and your mum could play our old records. What do you say, love?”

“Yeah, great idea.” Penny started to laugh. “We could show you some moves, me and your dad.”

Kayleigh pulled a face. “No thanks, Mum. I don’t need that picture in my head.”

Dave was laughing now too, and Kayleigh joined in. But Julie banged her fist on the table, making them stop and stare.

“We’re not getting it down,” Julie snapped. “It’ll be no good. It’s all dusty up there.”

“It’ll be all right,” Penny began, then she hesitated. “What’s up, Jools? What’s the matter?”

Julie pushed out her lower lip. “Nothing. It’s you two, acting all soft. You’re doing my head in.”

Penny made a sympathetic noise, but Dave was watching Julie from beneath lowered eyebrows.

“How do you know it’s dusty up there?” Dave asked. “You’ve never been in the loft. You never liked that ladder. You said it was too wobbly.”

“I dunno.” Julie folded her arms. “It’s bound to be dusty. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Penny studied her youngest daughter. Julie’s cheeks were bright pink, and she was gazing intently at her empty plate. Julie had never been able to hide her feelings, not from anyone, but especially not from her mum.

Julie was feeling guilty about something; there was no doubt in Penny’s mind.

My poor sweet child, Penny thought. What have you done?

Patting Julie on the shoulder, Penny said, “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Whatever it is, we can sort it out.”

“That’s right,” Dave said. “But we can only help if you tell us what’s wrong.”

Kayleigh looked at each of them in turn as though seeing them anew. “Dad,” she began, but Dave shook his head.

“Not now, Kayleigh,” he said. “Let your sister talk. She’s got something to tell us.” Making his voice gentle, he added, “Julie, what’s in the loft? Have you found something up there, is that it?”

Julie didn’t respond in any way, and a heavy silence settled over them.

After a few seconds, Dave pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “Well, there’s one way to sort this out. I’ll fetch my torch and I’m going up in the loft.”

“No!” Julie blurted. “You can’t!”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but your dad’s right,” Penny said. She stood, lifting her chin, a new sense of energy flowing through her. She was strong, ready to defend her daughter from whatever trouble she’d landed herself in.

“I’m coming with you,” Penny went on. “I’ll hold the torch while you look.”

Dave’s eyebrows shot upward. “Maybe you ought to stay with the⁠—”

“No,” Penny interrupted. “I’m coming with you.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” Dave went to the old dresser and opened the drawer where they kept all kinds of odd things that were rarely used. He retrieved the small torch and tested that it still worked.

“Let’s go,” Penny said, and she led the way to the stairs.

The hatch that led up to the loft was above the landing, and Dave wasted no time in opening it up and pulling down the aluminium ladder.

“I’ll go first,” he said. “I know where to step.”

Penny nodded, and Dave began climbing, switching on the torch when he reached the top.

As soon as Dave’s legs disappeared from view, Penny followed him up.

Only part of the loft had been fitted with boards, and Dave shuffled along to make room for her, aiming the torch’s beam at the floor so Penny could see where she was putting her feet.

“Here,” he said, passing the torch. “We’ll start over there by those crates.”

Penny lit the way, and they crossed to the stack of plastic crates. Three were labelled XMAS, the word spelled out with a bold black marker. A couple apparently contained TOYS, and Penny felt a pang of grief. These were the good toys, the expensive birthday presents that had been treasured and kept. And most of them had once been precious to all three of her children.

Dave seemed to understand. “Lego,” he said. “Do you remember that Harry Potter set? It took us ages.”

“Yeah.”

By the torch’s glow she could see him smiling. Good times, she thought. Maybe they’ll come again.

Dave was lifting a crate and setting it aside. From the sound of it, there was crockery inside. Why had they kept it? What was the point of having extra plates and bowls if they were up in the loft, gathering dust?

“Could you shine it over here, love?” Dave asked. “There’s something at the back.”

“Okay.” Penny moved closer and held the torch higher.

“Ah. What’s this?” Dave bent over, and when he straightened his back, he was holding a cardboard box. Wide but not high, the box was unmarked, and its top had been clumsily sealed with several strips of parcel tape.

“I definitely didn’t put this up here,” Dave stated. “This must be Julie’s.”

He set it down on top of the plastic crates and began picking at the plastic tape.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Penny said. “It might be private.”

Dave halted for a second, then he shook his head. “Whatever it is, we have to know. Otherwise, how can we deal with it?”

Penny didn’t have an answer for him, so she held the torch ready while Dave worked at the tape.

He had it open in no time, and when he opened the cardboard flaps, they stared for a moment before sharing a look.

“Bloody hell,” Dave muttered. “Where’s that come from?”

“I don’t know,” Penny replied. “I really don’t know.”

* * *

They all sat in the lounge, the whole family, the opened cardboard box in the middle of the room.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Julie began. “It was all that man’s fault. Searle. Sneaking around. Spying. We had to do something.”

Dave’s expression turned to stone. “I’ll kill him. I’ll⁠—”

“Hush,” Penny interrupted. “Listen to Julie.”

To her daughter, Penny said, “Go on, sweetheart. Tell us what happened.”

“We scared him, that’s all, just like we did before, but that was ages ago.”

Dave leaned forward in his armchair. “Hang on. How long has this been going on?”

“He’s been doing it for years,” Kayleigh replied. “We all know about it, but nobody does anything. We just stay away from him.”

“We did something,” Julie said. “We paid him back. We ganged up, threw stones at him, made him run away.”

Penny pressed a hand against her brow. “You did what?”

“We were all right,” Julie replied. “He didn’t see us or anything. We were hiding in the bushes.”

“When was this?” Dave said. “And why did you never tell us?”

“It was just after Sue died. You were all so sad. I couldn’t tell you.”

Penny let out a moan. “It’s my fault. I should’ve been keeping an eye on you. I should’ve been there for you.”

Julie shook her head. “I was all right. I had my friends, and they looked after me.”

“Some friends,” Kayleigh snapped. “Anything could’ve happened. You could’ve been hurt.”

Julie put her hand on her sister’s arm. “But we weren’t. We stopped him. And it was all right for a long time. He left us alone. But when I started cleaning for Mr Higgs, Searle was there, staring, and he started again, spying, taking pictures.”

Dave curled his fingers around his chair’s armrests, looking as though he’d like to tear them free and use them as weapons.

“He’ll pay for this,” Dave growled. “I don’t care if they lock me up. It’ll be worth it.”

“And what will that solve?” Penny demanded. “No. We’ll have to be smarter than that, love. We’ll stick together on this, fix it between us.”

“No, you don’t have to do anything,” Julie protested. “We scared him proper this time. We didn’t throw stones. We did something better.”

Penny’s mouth was dry. There was something gleeful in the way her daughter had spoken, and it terrified her. One look at Dave was enough to know he felt the same.

“Jools, sweetheart,” Penny began, “what did you do?”

But it was Kayleigh who spoke next. Raising her voice, she cried, “Oh no! You didn’t! Tell me you didn’t!”

“She didn’t do what?” Penny said.

“Dan came to the pub,” Kayleigh replied. “He was asking about archery. He wanted to know if me or any of my friends had done it, only he wasn’t asking about my friends, he was asking about Ellen and Sophia. And we all know who used to hang around with those two. When you said your friends looked after you, Jools, that’s who you meant, wasn’t it?”

All eyes were on Julie.

“So what?” Julie demanded. “I’m allowed to have friends, aren’t I?”

“But they’re so much older than you,” Penny replied. “They’re grown-ups now. And they’re not like us.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Kayleigh said. “They always treated her like a project, like a toy doll.”

“No, like a sister,” Julie blurted. “The little sister they never had, that’s what they said. What’s wrong with that?”

Julie glared an accusation at her sister, and Kayleigh recoiled from the force of it.

“Come on, girls,” Penny said, her voice wavering. “Don’t be like that. You’ll always have each other. Say sorry, the pair of you.”

She got no reply.

“Listen,” Dave began, “this is getting us nowhere. All we really need to know is that you haven’t gone and done something daft, Jools. So please tell me you haven’t been mucking about with bows and arrows.”

“Can’t do that,” Julie stated. “It’s all right though. I only fired a couple at him, but they were real ones. Sharp. He ran away, dropped his stuff.”

Penny’s head sank into her hands.

“I didn’t hit him,” Julie went on. “I’m a good shot, I am. Liam taught me ages ago, but I remember how to do it. And I used Josh’s bow. It’s a really good one. I couldn’t go wrong. And you should’ve seen that man’s face. He practically wet himself.”

A strangled burst of laughter broke the silence, and Penny stared at her husband. “Dave, it’s not funny.”

“No, love. Sorry. It’s serious, I know, but…” Dave clamped his lips shut, but another suppressed guffaw broke free. “Sorry, but I can’t help picturing it—that little creep running for his life. It serves him right, doesn’t it?”

He laughed, and despite herself, Penny joined in.

“Stop it,” Kayleigh snapped. “Just… stop it, okay? This is serious.”

“I know,” Dave replied, but Kayleigh wasn’t listening.

“The police might have to let Searle go,” Kayleigh said, her voice stern. “They haven’t got enough evidence. Dan told me.” She waved her hand at the cardboard box. “They need that camera, but we’ve got it, and we can’t give it to them, not now.”

“Why not?” Penny said.

“There’ll be fingerprints and all that,” Kayleigh replied. “Trace evidence, that’s what he said. Maybe DNA. And…” Kayleigh clamped a hand across her chest. She was flushed, breathing hard, her eyes wild.

Penny rushed to her, wrapping her arms around Kayleigh’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? What’s the matter?”

“I can’t… I don’t…”

“It’s all right,” Penny said softly. “I’ve got you. You’re all right. Take a deep breath, let it out slow. You’ll be okay.”

Kayleigh did as she was told, and as she exhaled, Penny felt her daughter’s shoulders begin to relax.

A few more deep breaths and Kayleigh seemed to recover.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” Kayleigh murmured. “I keep freaking out. One minute I’m fine, then I get so I can hardly breathe. I can’t help it.”

She tried to push her mother away, but Penny held tight.

“Hush now,” Penny said. “It’s just a bit of a panic. It’ll be your hormones, I expect. You used to get like this when you were little, do you remember?”

Kayleigh shook her head.

“Well, we didn’t make a fuss about it. We used to give you a hug, sing a song, do something to take your mind off it. And it worked, especially with your dad. He could always make you laugh.”

Kayleigh looked to her father, and a snatch of music prodded at the edge of her memory: an old song but with silly words. And the voice she heard was her father’s.

“She’ll be coming round the mountain,” Kayleigh said. “Only you said something about mashed bananas.”

“That’s right. I’d almost forgotten.”

Dave chuckled, and in a lilting voice he warbled the made-up lyrics to the familiar tune:

“Singing ooh ah mashed bananas in your hat.

Singing ooh ah mashed bananas in your hat.

Singing ooh ah mashed bananas, shove ‘em up your pyjamas, ooh ah mashed bananas in your hat.”

Kayleigh couldn’t help but laugh along with her father. Even Julie joined in, and Penny watched them, smiling.

“Honestly, what a family,” Penny said. “We’re as bad as each other.”

“No,” Dave replied gently. “We’re as good as each other.”

Penny met his gaze, and something passed between them, something she couldn’t put into words, but she understood it, nonetheless.

Kayleigh stepped back from her mum, then she tidied her hair, checking her appearance in the mirror over the fireplace.

“You’re okay, love,” Penny said. “It’s over now. You’re fine.”

Kayleigh nodded, but she still looked subdued.

“What’s up?” Dave asked. “Are you still worrying about the camera, because it’s all right. We can hand it in, but I’ll give it a good clean first.”

“You can’t,” Kayleigh replied. “If you wipe off all the evidence, how will they know it belonged to Searle?”

“I don’t know,” Dave admitted. “The police can figure it out, I expect.”

“But you can’t know that for sure,” Kayleigh said. “It’s complicated. They have all sorts of tests. And what if they find DNA or fingerprints from Jools? They took a swab after she was locked in that shed, and her prints too.”

Julie looked crestfallen.

“That was just for elimination,” Penny replied. “Anisha explained all that. She said they don’t keep the records for long.”

“That’s not a chance we can take,” Dave said. “Kayleigh’s right. We can’t take this to the police.”

Kayleigh and Penny immediately began to argue, but Dave held up a hand for silence.

“Your mum was right,” Dave went on. “We have to be smart. For starters, what did you do with the bow and arrows?”

“Ellen took the bow. She was going to clean it up and put it back.”

“Okay, but what about the arrows?” Dave asked. “You didn’t leave them lying around, did you?”

“No. I… I was supposed to get rid of them. Next time you had a bonfire, I was going to chuck them in, but you haven’t had one, so I put them in a bin bag. They’re under my bed. But…”

“But what?” Penny asked.

Julie looked down at the carpet. “That Dan bloke didn’t just go to the pub. He’s been asking around, wanting to know who did archery.”

Once again, they were all looking at Julie.

“How do you know?” Dave asked. “Has Dan been pestering you?”

Julie shook her head. “Sophia told me. We’re in a group. WhatsApp.”

“Show me,” Penny said. “If we’re going to sort this out together, we need to know everything.”

“Can’t,” Julie replied. “I deleted it all. Sophia told me to.”

In the ensuing silence, Kayleigh let out a low moan. “Dan must know something. And even if he doesn’t, he won’t stop asking questions. You don’t know him. Sam says he’s like a dog with a bone.”

“Then we’ll have to beat him to it,” Penny said. “We’ll go straight to the police. We can’t hide from this and we can’t lie. It wouldn’t be right.”

Kayleigh and Julie began talking at the same time, both protesting as loudly as they could.

Raising his voice, Dave said, “Hang on a minute. Let me think.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Dave rubbed his chin, then Dave looked at each of them in turn.

“I reckon I know what to do,” he said. “I’ve got an idea, anyway. Let’s see what you think.”

FRIDAY

CHAPTER 86

Dan awoke after a restless night’s sleep and made his way to the kitchen. Coffee, he thought. And a mountain of toast.

He busied himself making breakfast, and when he’d eaten his toast and polished off his coffee, Dan sat quietly at the kitchen table and waited for his tiredness to dissipate.

What had disturbed him in the night? Were there mice in the attic again? Or had the wind been whistling through the trees? Then again, it might simply have been the throbbing bruises on his cheek and around his eye.

But no, he’d kept himself awake, a muddle of ideas swarming through his mind. Henry’s killer was under lock and key, as was Liam, but still, there were threads in the case that had gone unresolved.

Where did Roy Searle fit in? And what about the piece of red feather the police had found?

His theory about Kayleigh firing arrows at Searle had been wide of the mark. Sophia seemed like a more likely candidate, but he had no real evidence to suggest she’d done anything wrong.

Still, someone had frightened Roy Searle badly enough to make him take a prisoner, steal a car and head for the hills. There had to be a reason for that, an external force Dan had somehow missed.

It’ll come to me, Dan decided, and he recalled Alan’s advice: Take a break. So long as you feel painted into a corner, you won’t be able to see a way forward.

His last attempt to achieve mental clarity had ended in chaos and a fist fight, but it was worth trying again. A walk would clear his head, and what could go wrong on a walk?

Dan cleared away his breakfast things and got ready to go out. But when he opened the back door, he found a black plastic bin bag sitting on the step, the top tied in a knot. The bag shifted in the breeze, and Dan saw the outline of a box or container within the thin plastic shroud.

Instinctively, he stepped over the bag and scanned the garden, but there was no one there, so he made for the garden gate. His house was separated from Alan’s by a narrow alley. It was the only way to get to the back of Dan’s house, but whoever had deposited the bag on his step, they’d left no other clue.

Dan jogged up to the road, but aside from a few parked cars Fore Street was empty.

He returned to inspect the bag. He gave it an experimental nudge with his foot and came up against something flat that yielded slightly when he pressed harder. A cardboard box, he decided. But what’s inside?

Couriers would sometimes leave deliveries in a plastic bag, but this was a simple bin liner, and it had been crudely knotted rather than sealed properly. Besides, he hadn’t ordered anything.

Dan thought for a moment, then he marched down the garden. A couple of minutes later, he was in his home office and firing up his computer.

On his desk was the wildlife camera. He’d set it up in the back garden, deciding he may as well make use of it. Now it was going to come in handy, especially since he’d pointed it back toward the house.

He connected the camera to his computer and downloaded the footage. There were only a few clips, and it didn’t take long to find the one he wanted.

In monochrome, the high-definition video crystal clear, three ghostly figures came into view. They moved swiftly and stuck together as though they shared a sense of purpose. As far as Dan could tell, all three were women. That much was obvious for two of the figures: the camera had caught their faces in profile as they made for the back door. The third figure wore a shapeless dark hoodie, but even so, there was something feminine about the way she moved.

One of the women half turned as if talking to her companions, and Dan recognised her immediately. Sophia Parkhurst’s wild hair was plain to see. On the other side was a young woman of the same height but with long straight hair. Dan didn’t think he’d seen her before, but there was something familiar about her. Dan hit pause.

Of course. The heavy oversized overcoat, her hands in the pockets, the head slightly bowed: it was Ellen Southgate.

But who was the third young woman?

The figure in the centre held the bag. She was more slightly built than the other two, and not quite so tall. She set the bag down by the door, and then all three moved swiftly away. The clip ended abruptly.

Dan played the clip again, focusing exclusively on the third figure. She laid the bag down, and as she stood, something caught her attention. Perhaps one of the others had spoken, or she may have heard a noise, but whatever the cause, she glanced to the side. The movement of her head had lasted less than a second, but it might be enough.

Dan froze the playback and slowly hunted back through the clip until he found the right place. Freezing the image, Dan leaned close to the screen. And there it was, a glimpse of her profile.

“I should’ve guessed,” Dan muttered. “It’s Julie Robbins.”

He headed for the back door, but he halted in the kitchen. He’d bought a box of disposable gloves some time ago, and he retrieved them from the cupboard under the sink.

Suitably gloved, he fetched the bag inside and carefully set it down on the kitchen floor before opening it. Holding the bag’s mouth open wide to peer inside, he saw an unsealed cardboard box. With the fingertips of one hand he pulled open the flaps in turn and saw a camera with a telephoto lens. And something else.

Dan froze, unsure what to do. Then, very slowly, he pulled an arrow from the bag. One of a pair, it was beautifully made but had been damaged. Its polished shaft was scuffed, and its gleaming metal tip had been flattened as though from an impact with a hard surface. The arrow’s fletchings were dark red, and though they’d been elegantly shaped, a piece had been torn from one of the feathers, leaving a gap like a missing tooth in an otherwise perfect smile.

He set the arrow down on the table, the ramifications running through his mind. Had he been right all along, or rather, almost right?

I picked the wrong sister, Dan thought. But why would Julie threaten Searle?

Dan’s blood ran cold. To a cowardly predator, Julie had been an easy target. What had he done to drive her to such drastic action?

Cold rage rose in Dan’s throat. Whatever Searle had done, he must be made to pay.

Dan grabbed his phone and called DI Spiller.

“Mr Corrigan,” Spiller began. “You don’t need to call me before you come in. Just turn up at the station and⁠—”

“It’s not about that,” Dan said. “I found something on my doorstep this morning. A bag. Inside was…” Dan glanced at the arrow where it lay on his kitchen table. Why had they given him the arrows? The camera would’ve been enough on its own. But the arrows meant something. They were a message, a kind of confession. They said, ‘This is what we did. The rest is up to you.’

Spiller’s voice broke through Dan’s thoughts. “Are you still there, Mr Corrigan?”

“Yes, I’m here. Sorry, the signal isn’t great. I was saying that inside the bag was a camera with a long lens. It must belong to Searle.”

“Have you touched it?”

“I brought the bag inside to have a look. I had to see what it was. It could’ve been a load of rubbish for all I knew. But I wore gloves and I was very careful. I didn’t touch the camera at all, only the bag.”

“Okay,” Spiller replied. “Any idea who put it there?”

Dan hesitated. “No. No idea whatsoever. They must’ve come when I was asleep.”

“All right. I’ll send someone to deal with it. Thanks, Mr Corrigan.”

“That’s okay,” Dan said. “I hope it helps.”

“If it is Searle’s camera, it will focus his mind, I’m sure. He’s been holding out, and we’re still looking for his computer, but I’ve got a strong feeling this will tip the balance.”

“That’s good. If there’s anything I can do…”

There was a pause before Spiller replied. “You’ve done your bit and more. Thanks again, Mr Corrigan. Bye.” Another pause, and then, in a warmer tone, Spiller added, “Or should that be, bye for now?”

Spiller rang off, and Dan pocketed his phone.

He plucked the other arrow from the bag and took both through to his home office. A while ago he’d put up a few shelves in an alcove, and if he cleared a bit of room, the arrows would have a new home. And when they caught his eye, they would serve as a reminder.

Julie Robbins was a victim, and she deserved help and support. But Dan couldn’t give her name to the police. DI Spiller would want to know the source of his knowledge, and he couldn’t reveal that without implicating Ellen and Sophia. From then on, it would get messy. The story behind the arrows would come out, and that would do Julie no favours. It might even be helpful to Searle. He might claim he’d acted under duress, say he’d been harassed, turn himself into the victim. He might even try to claim diminished responsibility.

As for Julie and her friends, the press would hang them out to dry, and that couldn’t be allowed to happen.

I’ll figure something out, Dan told himself. I’ll have to.

* * *

It was DS Collins who arrived to take custody of Searle’s camera and lens, his expression betraying no emotion as he stood in the kitchen and listened to Dan’s account.

“I see,” Collins intoned. “And you’ve really no idea who could’ve left these items? No clue at all?”

“None,” Dan replied. “It’s a mystery.”

“Why were they given to you, do you suppose?”

“People know I’m a private investigator. It’s common knowledge. They assumed I’d know what to do.”

“They?”

“A turn of phrase,” Dan said. “Person or persons unknown.”

Collins nodded, then he gazed around the room as though suspecting the culprit may be hiding somewhere.

“The camera will help, won’t it though?” Dan went on. “You should be able to charge Searle, make it stick.”

“We’ll see.” Collins focused his gaze on Dan, and there was a gleam in his eye that Dan couldn’t interpret.

Dan was just about to speak, when Collins suddenly said, “Do you know what we like? Devices. Phones, computers. It’s amazing how much evidence we get from, say, a laptop.”

“Ah, you still haven’t found Searle’s laptop.”

Collins feigned innocence. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Dan said. “And from the look on your face, I’d say that the search has been called off, even though you came out empty-handed. I suppose you had to concentrate on Henry’s murder.”

“I can’t comment on that.”

“Okay. Leave it with me.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Collins said. “Now, I need to get this camera back to the station, so thanks for your help, Mr Corrigan. Goodbye.”

Dan stood in the kitchen for a minute, thinking, then he made for the door.

CHAPTER 87

Under the watchful gaze of DI Spiller and DS Collins, the line of uniformed officers picked their way slowly through a stretch of heath on the outskirts of Bovey Tracey, poking into the gorse and heather with long sticks. Bovey Heathfield didn’t cover a large area, but it had been made a Site of Special Scientific Interest, so it remained largely untouched. There were a few trails and a cycle path, but since it backed onto the ugly metal warehouses of an industrial estate, it didn’t conform to most people’s ideas of the Devon countryside. Visitors were few and far between.

“What do you reckon?” Collins said. “Give it another hour?”

“At least,” Spiller replied. “You saw the CCTV, Collins. It’ll be here somewhere.”

Collins nodded.

The search for the murder weapon had taken on a new importance. Mark Kearney was in custody and had been charged with the murder of Henry Doubleday, but he was insisting that he hadn’t been in his right mind on the night in question. He claimed he’d taken a metal bar from Henry in self-defence, but he had no memory of what happened next, and no idea what he’d done with the weapon afterwards. The moving of the body, he’d said, was a symptom of his panic, and the same went for the cleaning of the crime scene.

He’s not fooling anyone, Collins thought. Except maybe his solicitor.

Spiller and Collins had clashed swords once again with Roger Cunliffe who was acting for Kearney. On behalf of his client, Cunliffe was demanding psychological evaluations and all manner of expert witnesses, but DI Spiller had a plan to put paid to all that nonsense.

He’d instructed Collins to look at another set of CCTV recordings. Liam Doubleday had inadvertently given away a valuable clue as he’d spun his tale in the workshop. He’d said they tended to use a petrol station near Bovey Tracey, and like many liars, he’d fallen back on a grain of truth.

CCTV from the petrol station showed that Mark had been there on the day of Henry’s murder, but not on the way to Newton Abbot. According to the recordings, Mark had called in for petrol when he and Liam had been travelling back to Plymouth after they’d moved Henry’s body.

The Vauxhall Astra had moved from the petrol pumps to a parking space, and while Liam had gone into the shop and returned a short while later with a plastic carrier bag of supplies, Mark Kearney had slipped out of sight, cleverly avoiding the cameras.

But Spiller knew the area, and he was very well aware of the heathland just a short walk from the forecourt.

“He came this way for a reason,” Spiller said. “And he had to get rid of that weapon.”

“Wouldn’t he have been better off in the industrial estate? Plenty of places where no one would’ve noticed a bit of scrap metal.”

Spiller shook his head. “High fences, security patrols, cameras all over the place. He’ll have looked for somewhere quieter, less chance of being seen.”

Collins settled in for a wait, wondering vaguely if the filling station had a decent coffee machine. But a scant quarter of an hour had passed when one member of the search party raised a hand and called out.

“Probably nothing,” Spiller said, but Collins heard the restrained excitement in his voice.

“Shall we?” Collins asked.

Spiller looked doubtful, but he only held out for a second. “Go on then, Collins. Let’s see what they’ve got.”

They marched along the rough track and joined the officer who’d called out: a young PC by the name of Diana Mace. She hadn’t been in the police very long, and Collins thought she might be trying not to look too pleased with herself. But the hint of a smile gave her away, and her brown eyes sparkled in triumph.

“It’s a metal bar, sir,” she said. “He must’ve tried to hide it. It was pretty much jammed under this rock, but the end was sticking out. I haven’t touched it.”

Spiller nodded in acknowledgement, then he squatted on his haunches to get a better look. Beneath a flat stone, the soil had been washed out by the rain or removed by some tunnelling animal, leaving a hollow that extended some distance into the ground. Only a hand’s width of a sturdy metal bar was visible, the rest was lost from view.

“Torch?” Spiller said, and Collins squatted next to Spiller and handed him a pocket torch.

Spiller shone the light, and the metal bar gleamed. It seemed to be as long as a man’s arm, and it clearly hadn’t been there long. It was clean and smooth with no sign of rust.

“Is it the weapon?” Collins asked.

“It’s promising,” Spiller replied, and he sniffed the air. “Smells like that chemical Kearney used in the farm yard. He probably cleaned it before he tried to get rid of it, but still, we might get some trace evidence.”

“Or prints,” Collins said. “He must’ve touched it as he put in there.”

“Maybe. Time will—” Spiller broke off suddenly and moved even closer to the hole.

“Something else?” Collins asked.

Spiller let out a noncommittal murmur, but then he shifted his position and said, “Yes. Some kind of rubbery material. Orange. If it’s the missing gloves from the barn, I shall be very pleased indeed.”

Spiller stood and handed the torch back to Collins. “You can take it from here. Let’s get everything bagged and back to the station, and if the gloves are in there, be very careful. There’ll be DNA on the inside, and that’s worth its weight in gold.”

“Yes, Guv.” Collins pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and PC Mace handed him a large transparent evidence bag.

“I’ve got more bags and a marker pen when you’re ready,” Mace said.

Collins smiled. “Thanks. You’ve come prepared.”

“Always,” Mace replied.

“You’ll go far, constable,” Spiller said. “You’ve done a good job. I never underestimate the value of a sharp pair of eyes.”

Nice eyes too, Collins thought. And a nice smile. But he pushed those thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the task at hand.

Already squatting, Collins rested a knee on the ground and used his phone to take a few photos of the hole and its contents, then he set to work, sliding the steel bar gently from its hiding place and into a bag. He passed the bag to PC Mace, and she handed him another.

“Thanks,” Collins said, and reached gingerly into the hole. Pinching the rubbery fabric between finger and thumb, he slid it out, all the while being acutely aware that Spiller and Mace were watching him with bated breath.

The heavy-duty waterproof glove had been crumpled into a ball, but it unfurled when Collins held it up, and the smell of cleaning fluid made Collins twitch his nose. “Bingo.”

“Here, let me.” Mace kneeled beside him and held the mouth of the bag open while Collins dropped it in.

Without being asked, she took the bag and began labelling it.

“Thanks,” Collins said. “Thanks very much.”

Mace smiled. “No problem, Detective Sergeant.”

“Thanks anyway.” Collins felt his cheeks flush, so he turned his head and reached in for the second glove.

They repeated the process, and by the time they were done, Spiller was smiling from ear to ear.

Collins was about to stand up, but he took one more look into the hole, poking the torch further inside. There was nothing but hard-packed soil.

Unless…

“Hang on,” Collins muttered. Something had caught the beam from his torch: a tiny gleam in the darkness.

He reached further in until his whole arm was inside the hole. His fingers found grit and gravel. If he wasn’t careful, he’d tear the glove. But then there was something smooth and hard, and he gripped it as best as he could.

“Got it,” Collins said, and very slowly, he pulled out the remains of a mobile phone. It was damaged, the screen crazed and cracked, but it was more or less intact.

“Henry’s phone,” Spiller said. “Game, set and match. Well done, Collins.”

Holding the phone delicately between his fingertips, Collins turned to Mace and discovered she was already holding a smaller bag out for him.

Whatever you do, don’t say ‘thanks’ again, Collins told himself, but the word slipped out anyway, and he found himself sharing a moment of self-conscious eye contact with her.

Spiller cleared his throat. “Anything else hidden down there?”

“I’ll check.” Collins shone his torch into the hole, but this time it really was empty.

“Nothing there,” Collins said.

“Right, we’re done.” Spiller rubbed his hands together. “I’ll go and have a word, send everyone back to base. I’ll see you in the car.”

“Yes, Guv,” Collins replied. “Won’t be a minute.”

Collins got to his feet and Mace followed suit.

“You make a good team,” Spiller said, then he walked away.

After a second of awkward silence, Collins indicated the bags that Mace was still holding. “I’ll need to take those.”

“Yeah, sure, obviously.” She handed them over, and Collins checked the labels.

“Perfect,” Collins said. “Like the DI said, you did a good job today. It’ll make a difference. Especially those gloves. And we wouldn’t have those unless you’d spotted that metal bar.”

“Well, I hope you get a result.” Mace hesitated. “Do you think there’ll be Kearney’s DNA?”

“There’s a very good chance. People don’t realise it, but they shed skin cells all the time. Kearney wasn’t the only person to use them, but as luck would have it, the only other person to wear them is already in a cell, so we can eliminate his DNA from the outset.”

“That’s good,” Mace said. “Kearney did a pretty good job of hiding them, didn’t he?”

“Yes, that’s why the DI is so pleased. This shows he was in control. He knew exactly what he was doing, otherwise why would he come all the way out here to get rid of the evidence?”

“I heard he’s denying all knowledge, is that right?”

Collins nodded. “Something like that. He wants to see a psychologist or three, but whatever they come up with, no one’s going to believe it, not now. This was a deliberate attempt to cover up the murder, and any jury will understand that.”

“Plus you’ve got the weapon.”

“I hope so. We’ll have to do some tests, but with the phone and the gloves, it’s all looking good. Produce all this in court, and Kearney will have some explaining to do.”

Mace smiled. “He’s sunk, isn’t he? I’d like to see the look on his face when he finds out.”

“Yeah, I reckon Mr Kearney might change his tune.” Collins hesitated. “You seem a bit more switched on than your average…”

“Plod?” Mace suggested. “Woodentop?”

Collins laughed to cover his embarrassment. “No, I meant you’re thinking like a detective. And you’re keen. Look around. Everyone else has gone.”

Mace turned on the spot. “The buggers! They won’t wait for me. By the time I get to the van, they’ll have gone.”

“I could give you a lift,” Collins said. “We’re both going to the same place.”

“Won’t your governor mind?”

“The DI? No, not at all.” Collins leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Don’t tell anyone, but he’s not as bad tempered as he makes out. He’ll make some remark about not being a taxi service, but he won’t mind a bit. Anyway, I’m driving.”

“Well, if you’re sure, DS Collins.”

“Positive. And my name’s Ben, by the way.”

“I know but the DI never uses your first name, so I thought…”

“You thought I might be a chip off the old block.” Collins suggested. “I’ve got a lot of respect for the DI, but we’re not the same.”

“Not yet, maybe.”

Collins laughed. “Is that insubordination, PC Mace?”

“Not really. And I’m Diana, by the way.”

“Yeah, I know.” Collins wished he could bite back the words, but it was too late. “I’ve noticed you before,” he admitted. “At the station.”

Mace arched an eyebrow. “Well, Ben Collins, we’ll make a detective of you yet.”

“Bloody cheek,” Collins said, but he couldn’t help himself from laughing. “Come on, Diana Mace. Let’s get out of here. I’ve got a stash of good coffee back at the nick.”

“That makes all the difference. After you.”

She’s trouble, this one, Collins thought. But some kinds of trouble he could live with. Some kinds of trouble made you want to take a tight hold of every moment before it slipped away.

And with his mind in a whirl and Diana Mace at his side, Collins picked out a path across the deserted heath.

CHAPTER 88

Dan found Brad Higgs at home in The Old Bakery, and he wasted no time in explaining why he’d come, giving the full story as soon as Higgs answered the door.

Higgs shook his head. “I understand, but I can’t help. The police have been through every inch of my place, and they didn’t find anything.”

“Do you have a printer?” Dan asked.

“Of course. A laser printer. Colour.”

“I thought as much. Searle burned his pictures in your garden because he’d printed them here.”

“It’s unlikely. I never gave Searle access to it.”

“Where is your printer?” Dan interrupted. “I presume it’s in the house somewhere.”

“No, it’s in my office in the paddock. But the police have already been through it.”

“You have an office outside? I didn’t see it in the garden.”

“I own a field. It came with the house. It’s right next to the garden. There was a little stable in there, but I had it pulled down and put an office in its place. I sometimes work down there. It has power, and I had a network cable put in too.”

Dan searched Higgs’ expression. “You kept very quiet about it.”

“Not really. I showed the police where it was because they wanted to search everywhere, but there was no reason to mention it to you. As I was trying to tell you, I never gave Searle a key.”

Dan peered past Higgs, looking meaningfully at the hallway table where Higgs had kept his car keys until Searle had stolen them.

Higgs followed his gaze and looked uncomfortable.

“Searle knew where the keys were kept,” Dan stated. “Let’s go.”

Higgs led the way to the corner of the garden. There, screened by a stand of mature shrubs, a small wooden gate led to a level field of mown grass.

“Searle used to cut the grass,” Higgs said. “I’ll need someone else to do it now. I have a ride-on mower, but…”

Higgs shrugged as if it was obvious that he couldn’t do the work himself.

Dan nodded, but his attention was on the only structure in the field.

Higgs’ office was no mass-produced log cabin, but an impressive modern structure clad in smooth, slate-grey panels with a curved roof and floor-to-ceiling windows.

Higgs let them in, folding back the glass doors in a concertina fashion until the front of the building was open.

“It brings the garden indoors,” Higgs said. “That’s what the designer said, anyway.”

Dan stood in the centre of the office and turned around slowly. The place was tidy, the glass desk free from clutter. There was an office chair, and beside the desk, the laser printer sat on a small storage unit that held two drawers. The walls were lined with tongue-and-groove planks painted in a subtle shade of pale yellow, but the floor was covered by a hardwearing blue carpet. There were paintings on the walls, and two corners of the room were occupied by impressive hi-fi speakers. There was also a two-seater sofa, so the office wasn’t purely for work.

“Did the police leave it like this, or have you tidied up?” Dan asked.

“It’s always neat and tidy. I never leave any documents or anything that might be stolen.”

“Apart from the printer and the speakers.”

“The printer isn’t valuable, and it’s quite heavy. As for the speakers, they’re just an old pair I had lying around. Nothing special.”

Higgs pointed to the sofa. “That’s not quite in the right place. I never leave it against the wall like that in case it gets damp. The walls and ceiling are insulated, but even so, it gets cold in winter.”

“Let’s put it back where it belongs,” Dan said, and between them, they lifted the sofa away from the wall.

And on the newly exposed stretch of carpet, Dan spotted a few pale crumbs. He squatted down to examine them.

“Someone must’ve been eating in here,” Higgs said. “The police, I expect, taking a sneaky break while they were out of sight. It’s hardly professional, but I suppose it doesn’t⁠—”

“This isn’t food,” Dan said, rubbing the crumbs between finger and thumb. “It’s some kind of foam.”

“From the sofa? I hope there haven’t been mice in here.”

Dan shook his head and stood. “It’s not from the sofa. I think it’s insulation. You said the room is insulated. Is that with rock wool or insulating boards?”

“Thick blocks with a silver facing. I saw them being installed.”

Dan moved to the wall and rapped it with his knuckles to make a hollow thud, then he moved along, repeating the process.

“He couldn’t have hidden anything back there,” Higgs said. “There’s no room. The whole space is filled with insulation.”

“Unless it isn’t,” Dan said, cocking his ear as he went on tapping along the wall.

Higgs grumbled about wasting time, but Dan was intent on the sound of the boards. Each one sounded identical.

But then he reached the area beneath a side window, and his knock brought a different response: a quiet but distinctive cracking sound as the wood yielded.

Dan tried again in the same spot, harder this time, and wood scraped against wood as the board shifted in its place.

Squatting next to the wall, Dan scraped his fingernails over the wood, feeling for somewhere he could get purchase, but the joints between the boards were too tight.

“Do you have a knife or a screwdriver?” Dan asked. “We need something with a thin edge.”

“Let me look.” Higgs strode over to the storage unit beneath the printer and slid open a drawer to rummage inside. A moment later he turned on his heel, a long thin blade gleaming in his hand. “Perfect.”

The gleam in the man’s eyes gave Dan pause. “What the hell’s that? A stiletto?”

“It’s only a letter opener,” Higgs replied, bringing it closer to Dan. “It’s pointed, but the edge isn’t sharp.”

Dan kept his eyes on the blade. “Who has a letter opener these days?”

“It was a gift. It’s vintage.”

Higgs flipped the blade around, offering the handle to Dan. “Take it.”

“Okay.” Dan took the letter opener and relaxed. Higgs was right: slim but strong, the tool was perfect.

Forcing the point into the join between two strips of timber, Dan eased the handle side to side, coaxing the blade further in, widening the gap.

Wood splintered and creaked, giving way.

“You’d better be right about this,” Higgs protested. “Otherwise⁠—”

His words were lost in a sudden snap as a section of the wall fell inwards, showering pale dust on the blue carpet.

“Bloody hell,” Higgs muttered. Because there, only partly visible in its hiding place carved out from the insulation, was a black laptop.

“I wasn’t quite in the right place,” Dan replied. “I did more damage than was necessary.”

“Never mind about that,” Higgs replied. “Fetch it out.”

Dan hesitated. Now that he’d released the tension, the rest of the pre-cut panels would come away easily, but that wasn’t the right thing to do.

“No, we’ll call the police,” Dan said. “They’re best equipped to handle this.”

“Of course. Why don’t you pop out and make the call now. I’ll keep an eye on this.”

“Sure. Give me a minute.”

Dan set the letter opener down then used his phone to snap a few images of the laptop nestling in its layer. As he worked, he became aware of Higgs squatting next to him.

From the corner of his eye, Dan saw Higgs pick something up from the carpet, and when Dan glanced down, the letter opener was in Higgs’ hand.

“You go outside and make that call,” Higgs said. “I’ll wait here.”

Dan surreptitiously tapped on his phone’s screen as he replied. “No, it’s all right, Mr Higgs. I’ll stay here. You should be the one to call the police. After all, we found Searle’s laptop on your property.”

“Exactly, which is why I’m taking charge. Please, do as I ask, Dan.”

“No.” Dan moved closer to Higgs, hoping to make him back away, but the man stayed exactly where he was, and a prickle of apprehension needled the back of Dan’s neck.

Making his tone neutral, Dan said, “You kept very quiet about the existence of your garden office.”

“No, I didn’t. I told the police about it.”

“Did you? Did you also tell them that Searle didn’t have access to it? That’s what you said to me, but it was very misleading. You knew Searle could’ve taken the keys at any time, but you didn’t want the police to look too closely in here, did you?”

Higgs stared at him. “What are you saying? Do you think I knew the laptop was here?”

“No, I don’t think you knew exactly where it was. You might’ve had your suspicions, especially after I found the photos Searle burned. You knew he could’ve used your printer, but you didn’t say anything to the police. That can only be because he had a hold over you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“We’ll see,” Dan said. “I suppose this must’ve given Searle quite a kick. He hid the evidence under your nose. It’s the last place you’d look.”

“I didn’t even know he had a laptop. Why would I be looking for it?”

“Because it might hold pictures of you.”

Higgs’ expression hardened, and he lifted the letter opener, pointing the metal blade at Dan’s face.

“You’re wrong, Dan. Dead wrong. But do as I say and get out of the way.”

Dan jumped to his feet, and Higgs followed suit, still clutching the letter opener between them.

“You’re being stupid,” Higgs snapped. “Why do you have to be such a pain in the arse?”

“You’re the one holding a weapon.”

“I’m trying to make you see sense.”

Dan locked eyes with Higgs. “I don’t know what your problem is, Brad, but this is no way to solve it. Talk to me. Does Searle have photos of you? Is that what you’re worried about?”

“No, I…” Higgs was nervous now, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “This is stupid. All I want is for you to step aside.”

“I’m not going to do that,” Dan stated. “So what’s next? Are you going to have a go at me with a letter opener? It isn’t even sharp.”

“But it’s strong though. Stainless steel. It’ll do some damage.”

Dan shook his head. “You can try, but you’ll come off worse.”

“I wouldn’t bank on it. And I’ll blame it all on you. I’ll say I found you down here. You took the keys. I tried to stop you, but you went for me. It’ll be my word against yours.”

“You know, for a clever man, you can be very stupid,” Dan said. “But you had me fooled for a while. You played down that graffiti on the shed, and you seemed to be truly concerned for poor Julie Robbins.”

“I was. I still am. For God’s sake, she’s a child.”

“But when we let her out of your shed, you butted in even though DI Spiller told you to keep quiet. Maybe you were trying to warn her, to plant ideas in her head. And then you said she could go into the house and freshen up. That would’ve been a neat way to remove any incriminating evidence, wouldn’t it?”

Higgs grimaced. “You’re sick. That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Save it for the police.”

“You’ll be the one with a case to answer, Corrigan. You’re trespassing, you broke into my office, you threatened me, and I have a right to protect myself. Say what you like, but no one will believe you.”

“Do you really think so? Do you think I came here without telling someone where I was going and why? I was talking to DS Collins just minutes before I turned up on your door. And more importantly, there’s this.”

Dan raised his phone, showing the screen to Higgs.

“I’ve been recording everything you said since I saw you pick up that weapon,” Dan went on. “And as you’d expect, the file has already backed up to the cloud.”

Higgs allowed his gaze to flit to Dan’s phone, and Dan stepped in fast. Higgs had the letter opener in his right hand, and Dan grabbed that arm with both hands, twisting hard.

Higgs was strong and he resisted, but Dan took hold of Higgs’ thumb and wrenched the man’s wrist around at an unnatural angle, forcing him to bend double.

Higgs cried out, dropping his weapon. He was wailing now, begging for mercy, but Dan held on to him for a few seconds more.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Dan said from between clenched teeth. “But in the last few days I’ve been punched and slapped, and I almost fell from the church tower, so my patience is paper thin. If I sit you down, you’d better stay put, okay?”

“All right,” Higgs whined. “Just let me go. You’re breaking my arm.”

With a dismissive grunt, Dan guided Higgs to the floor and let him go.

Higgs slumped, cradling his arm.

“Don’t move a muscle,” Dan went on. “I’ve got a call to make. I advise you not to make matters worse.”

His head bowed, Higgs raised a hand in a feeble gesture of surrender.

Keeping his watchful gaze on his prisoner, Dan placed a call.

“DS Collins,” Dan began, “how far away are you from Embervale?”

“Not far. Why?”

“If you can make a quick U-turn, I have something for you. A laptop that almost certainly belongs to Searle and another potential suspect. Brad Higgs. It’s possible he was working with Searle or⁠—”

“Never,” Higgs spluttered. “It’s not what you think. That man spied on me. I’m a victim.”

Dan ignored him. Let the police deal with him, he thought. I’ve heard enough from that man to last a lifetime.

“I’m with Higgs now,” Dan went on. “We’re in a small field adjoining his property. How soon can you be here?”

“Ten minutes if I put my foot down.”

“Then please do that,” Dan said. “The sooner you get here the better.”

CHAPTER 89

Back at home, Dan went to his own little office and took one of the arrows down from the shelf. They had served their purpose, so he probably ought to hide them away, somewhere where Sam wouldn’t stumble across them.

But he wouldn’t forget Julie nor the lessons she’d taught him. People were so much more than the face they showed to the world. They carried the past with them, their lives a muddled mixture of memories and emotions, dreams and disappointments, laughter and tears. Moments of happiness might endure or slip away, but terrors could not so easily be forgotten.

Contentment ought to be grasped with both hands, and sometimes, if you wanted peace of mind, you had to fight for it; Julie Robbins and her friends had certainly thought so.

Dan placed the arrow back on the shelf. He’d been wrong a moment earlier; the arrows had not yet served their purpose. Now more than ever, he wanted a touchstone: something to anchor his thoughts. But still, an unsettling sense of disquiet lingered in his mind.

He was at a crossroads. Sam had moved in, and Alan seemed ever closer to Natalya. That was all wonderful, but life wasn’t going to be the same. Change was in the air, and Dan would have to adapt, to be flexible, to be open to a new way of life. The arrow, perhaps, would remind him to aim true.

Unfinished business, Dan thought, then he grabbed his car keys and headed out. A few minutes later he parked his Toyota RAV4 outside a detached house on the outskirts of Hennock.

The vicarage was a fine stone building that might’ve been modelled on a townhouse.

The door was answered by a handsome man in his twenties, and Dan smiled and introduced himself.

“Oh,” the man said. “You’re the guy who put up the notices. And you found my dad when he fell.”

“That’s right,” Dan replied. “Good to meet you, Joshua.”

“Josh, please.” He hesitated. “Thanks for what you did. It was…”

Joshua seemed unable to go on, so Dan saved him the trouble. “I was happy to help, and I’m so glad you were able to see your father again.”

Joshua nodded, then he glanced over his shoulder as if keen to go back inside.

“Have you got a minute?” Dan asked. “This needn’t take long.”

“If you want to see Dad, he’s not up to visitors right now. Maybe tomorrow.”

“I understand. Please send him my best wishes, but actually it’s you I’ve come to talk to. I wanted to see how you are.”

“Me? I’m okay.” Joshua looked at Dan as if weighing him up. “You know, it’s funny. We’ve had lots of visitors, but all they ever say is, ‘How’s your dad?’ or ‘How’s the vicar?’ They never mention anything about me leaving home. It’s like it never happened.”

“I can imagine. But I wondered if you might like a break. If you can spare an hour or so, I could drive you over to Bovey. There are a couple of cafes where we can get a proper coffee and a cake. There’s a nice one in the Parke estate, and we could go for a walk while we’re there.”

Joshua smiled as if at a memory. “I know Parke, but I haven’t been there for a long time.”

“Not much has changed, but you’ll see that for yourself. What do you say?”

“I don’t know. It’s a kind thought, but I don’t really know you. I’m grateful and everything, but it seems a bit weird.”

“I understand,” Dan said. “But the thing is, Josh, I know why you left home, and I think you might need to talk about it. With everything that’s going on, that must be hard for you.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I was young and I was stupid and I ran away.”

“There may be some truth in that, but there was an incident that pushed you into leaving so suddenly. You see, I know about Roy Searle and about what he did.”

Josh shook his head firmly. “No. No, you don’t. There’s nothing to know.”

“It’s all right,” Dan said gently. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You were wronged against, but you didn’t run away to save yourself; you ran away to protect your father from embarrassment. There’s only one person who should feel any shame—Roy Searle. When you argued with him in the street, I suspect he said something to you, threatening to make his pictures public.”

Joshua said nothing. He stared past Dan’s shoulder as though unable to look him in the eye.

“You were young and afraid, and you didn’t know where to turn, so you did the only thing you could,” Dan went on. “You took yourself out of the equation, and once you’d left, you couldn’t face speaking to your family. You didn’t know how to break down that wall, and the longer you left it, the harder it became.”

Joshua shook his head once more, though not with any conviction.

“I didn’t come here to reopen old wounds,” Dan said. “Searle is in police custody, and that’s that. I’m here to ask if you’d like someone to talk to, someone outside of your family.”

Joshua’s gaze settled on Dan. “You?”

“Yes. Feel free to say no, but I thought we could go for a walk. There’s a path at Parke that follows the route of an old railway track. It’s nice at this time of year, and it might do you good to get out of the house. If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. We can just walk. It’s totally up to you. I won’t ask any questions.”

“Seriously? Do you mean that?”

“Absolutely. Sometimes, it’s important to have someone just to be there. It’s something I’m learning.”

“You sound like my dad.”

“No, he’s much brighter than I’ll ever be,” Dan said. “I think you’re rather like him.”

“Not at all,” Joshua said, but the glint in his eye showed he was secretly pleased.

For a few seconds no one spoke, then Joshua made a decision. “I’ll have to check with my girlfriend first. And with Mum too. But a walk might be okay.”

“I’m ready when you are,” Dan replied. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here.”

Joshua disappeared inside, but he didn’t close the door completely.

While he waited, Dan strolled along the drive and admired the front garden. When he glanced back at the house, he saw a face at an upstairs window. Ellen Southgate was watching him intently. Dan nodded in acknowledgement, but Ellen didn’t react. She watched him for a few seconds, then she stepped back and out of sight.

A couple of minutes later, Joshua reappeared, donning a coat as he strode over to join Dan.

“This coffee,” Joshua began, “you’re buying, right?”

Dan smiled. “Of course. And don’t forget the cake. My treat.”

“We’ll see,” Joshua replied. “Walk first, yeah? If you’re up to it.”

Dan raised his eyebrows, but he stopped himself from mentioning his ability to run. Instead, he said, “That’s fine by me.”

The drive to the Parke Estate in Bovey Tracey took less than a quarter of an hour, and throughout, Joshua seemed content to sit in the passenger seat and gaze out of the window as the Toyota bowled along the hedge-lined lanes.

When they arrived, Dan parked up and paid for a couple of hours of parking, then he and Joshua set off side by side, the younger man establishing a brisk pace.

Dan was as good as his word; he didn’t ask a single question. But it wasn’t long before Joshua began to talk, and when it looked as though he was fighting back the tears, Dan didn’t interrupt.

When they reached the end of the path and turned around, Joshua said he’d changed his mind about the cafe.

“I want to go home,” Joshua said. “I’d like to be with my family.”

“That’s absolutely fine,” Dan said. “I know a shortcut.”

“Yeah, I know where you mean. I’d forgotten. I brought you the long way around, didn’t I?” Joshua gave Dan a sideways glance. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Dan smiled. “It’s hard to explain. Let’s just say, I’ve taken too many shortcuts, and more often than not, they’re not worth it. I’m starting to realise that the journey is more important than how quickly you get there.”

“You’d get on great with my dad, you really would.” Joshua hesitated. “When we get back, I can ask if it’s all right for you to pop in and see him. I think he’d like that.”

“So would I,” Dan said. “I’d like that very much.”

As they walked back, Dan thought about the case that had started with a mysterious visitor to the churchyard. It had been a tangled affair, but he’d muddled his way through.

In the process, he’d somehow missed the burgeoning romance between Alan and Natalya, and he hadn’t been spending enough quality time with Sam, but he silently vowed to make amends and do better.

And when he looked at Joshua, he saw that the younger man was walking with easier strides than before. His shoulders were relaxed, his posture upright, and when a squirrel darted across their path and up a tree, Joshua watched the little creature until it dashed out of sight.

Joshua didn’t seem to realise that Dan was watching. The young man smiled to himself and then looked ahead, his eyes on the path ahead.

Dan couldn’t know whether Joshua and Julie and everyone else involved in the case was going to be all right, but for the moment, Joshua seemed at peace. And that, Dan decided, was enough.

EPILOGUE

For generations, a wooden bench had stood in front of The Wild Boar, and Dan stationed himself there, pint in hand. It was a warm evening, and it would’ve been a pleasant spot to sit and relax. But Dan had a different motive in mind.

This was business.

There was someone Dan wanted to see, and he didn’t have to wait long. He’d timed it just right.

A young man strode along the pavement toward the pub, scowling at the world in general: Damian Barnsley.

“Hello there,” Dan called out, and Damian paused, his glare now directed at Dan.

“You again,” Damian grumbled. “You’ve caused enough trouble.”

“That’s not very friendly. I heard you were back in the village, and I wanted to have a quick chat, Damian.”

“Well, you’ve got the wrong bloke. I’m not Damon or whatever.”

“Oh? Which name are you using at the moment?”

Damian pulled a face. “What kind of stupid question is that?”

“A simple one. One minute it’s Damian, the next it’s Hugh. I thought you might be changing your name once a week.”

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re on about, but I’m not interested, okay? So you can jog on, pal.”

Dan did his best to look disappointed. “That is a shame. I only wanted to have a chat with a newcomer to the village. I see you have a bandage on your hand. Have you hurt yourself?”

Damian glanced down at his hand. “It’s nothing. A burn from a hot pan.”

“Oh dear.” Dan offered a sympathetic smile. “You see, I’m only being friendly. Embervale is that kind of place. But the funny thing is, this village isn’t very well known. We’re not exactly on the tourist trail, so how did you find it?”

“I was passing through,” Damian replied, his tone less confrontational. “I was on my way to the campsite at Hennock.”

“You didn’t quite get that far, though, did you?”

“I like it better here. It’s quiet.”

Dan nodded. “It is. But you found Marjorie’s place, and that’s really tucked away. No passersby there. It’s a dead-end road.”

“I asked around. Someone told me she sells eggs and such at her gate, so I went to get some.”

“I see. Who told you about that?”

Damian half shrugged. “I don’t know. Someone in the shop.”

“The woman behind the counter?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“And there it is,” Dan said. “That was almost too easy.”

“What’s this now?”

“I’ll tell you. The village shop has only one employee at the moment, and he’s a young man.”

“Okay, I remembered it wrong. It must’ve been someone else. So what?”

“So you’ve just lied to me,” Dan stated. “That’s what.”

Damian’s expression changed in an instant, a cold glint in his stare. “Listen, mate, you’d better⁠—”

“It’s okay, Damian,” Dan interrupted. “There’s no need for you to get upset. Why don’t you just admit that you’ve never been to the shop?”

“No. Mind your own business, pal.”

“But this is my business.” Dan placed his glass on the table and rose to his feet, stepping closer to Damian, squaring up to him. “I’m a private investigator and you, my friend, are currently the subject of my investigation.”

Damian narrowed his eyes and looked Dan up and down.

“Let’s start with your real name,” Dan went on. “Why didn’t you correct me just now? I called you Damian, and you didn’t bat an eyelid.”

Damian opened his mouth to argue, but Dan didn’t give him the chance.

“You know, you’re not even very good at this,” Dan said. “You’re transparent.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. Let me tell you how it was. You rented a room from Liam and Mark in Plymouth. Liam told you about the village and some of the local characters, including Marjorie, but you didn’t pay your rent to Liam and Mark, and they were getting tired of your excuses. You decided it was time to disappear. You knew Liam stayed away from Embervale, so it seemed like an ideal place to hide. You helped yourself to their camping gear, stole a touring bike from a neighbour, and off you went. Quite a long ride from Plymouth, but you’re young and fit. You might even have enjoyed it.”

Damian grunted in contempt. “This is bullshit.”

“No. I can smell it in the air, but it’s coming from you, Damian. You reek of it. Oh, you can pull the wool over the eyes of a vulnerable old man, but I’m not so easy, am I?”

“I’ll tell you what you are, pal—a nutter.”

Dan tried not to laugh. He’d expected Damian to put up a decent defence, but this was pathetic.

“Right, I’ve had enough of this,” Damian snapped. “Get out of my way.”

“Oh, I’ll leave you in a minute. First, I want to ask after Mr Marshall. You’ve been staying with him, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. I’m his carer.”

Dan wrinkled his brow. “That’s strange because, as far as I know, Mr Marshall can look after himself pretty well.”

“Most of the time. He has good days and bad days.”

“I see. And this must be a good day, because you were happy to leave him while you went to meet with Penny Robbins.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Dan stated. “And don’t try to deny it because I know exactly where you’ve been. You were supposed to meet Penny outside the village hall, but when you arrived, Penny wasn’t there.”

Resentment flared in Damian’s eyes. “Have you been spying on me? Because if you have⁠—”

Dan raised his hand to cut Damian short. “There was no need to spy on you or follow you. You see, we arranged the whole thing between us.”

“What the hell are you on about? You’ve lost the plot, mate.”

“No, it’s simple. Some of us wanted you out of the house while we had a word with Mr Marshall, so Penny made a call, and you dashed off to meet her. You were so predictable I was quite disappointed.”

Damian blinked, and though his lips moved, he seemed unable to form the words he needed.

Dan waited, savouring the moment, but it didn’t last long.

“This is ridiculous,” Damian grumbled. “If you wanted to talk to Charlie, all you had to do was knock on his door.”

“Yes, but you would’ve done your best to keep us out. You know, you confused poor old Charlie to the point where he was ready to defend you to anyone, even the police. When they took you to Exeter, they sent a detective to Charlie’s house, but he wouldn’t talk to her, wouldn’t let her in.”

“Good for him. You can’t trust the pigs.”

“I disagree,” Dan said. “The police have all kinds of rules they have to follow. But I don’t. So after a bit of negotiating, Charlie let me and my neighbour have a look in his spare room, the room where you’ve been staying.”

Damian was angry now, his fingers forming into fists. “You did what?”

“Calm down, Damian. We had good reason. You see, Mr Marshall has been missing a few things, but we found them for him. They were in your room. A silver candlestick and a silver tray, both given to Mr Marshall and his wife on their silver wedding anniversary. And there was some jewellery that had belonged to his wife too. Who does that? What kind of revolting little sneak thief robs an old man of the few things he has to remind him of his beloved wife, his happy marriage?”

“Do me a favour and bugger off.”

Damian pushed past, and Dan let him go. Damian wasn’t going to get far, and Dan turned to watch the show.

From the alley beside the pub, two men emerged, stepping in front of Damian, barring his way.

“You’ve already met Alan,” Dan said smoothly. “But this other gentleman is Dave Robbins. You know his wife, Penny.”

Dave Robbins flexed his fingers, but he said nothing as he stared at Damian.

Damian held up his hands. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want any trouble, okay?”

“Then you shouldn’t start it,” Alan replied. “Stealing from an elderly gentleman? That’s low, even for a specimen like you. Naturally we’ve returned Charlie’s property, and we’ve spoken to the police too. They’re on their way.”

Damian tried to make a break for it, but Dave caught him by the arm, spinning him around and pushing him back against the wall, pinning him there by his arms.

Dan brushed his hands together. “Our work here is done, Alan. Shall we go?”

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Alan replied. “We should stay until the police get here.”

“There’s no need. We’re leaving Damian in safe hands.” Dan strolled over to join Alan. “They’ll be fine. Isn’t that right, Dave?”

“Oh yes,” Dave growled. “This feller isn’t going anywhere until the police come. I’ll make sure of that.”

“Okay, but don’t get carried away,” Dan said. “We don’t want him to wriggle out of this by pressing charges against you.”

Dave nodded.

“Right, we’ll leave you two to chat,” Dan went on. “Lots to talk about I expect.”

“What about your drink?” Alan said.

Dan wrinkled his nose. “I’ll leave it. We can pop back later, get a fresh one.”

Alan wasn’t convinced, but when Dan started to walk away, Alan fell in beside him.

From behind them, they heard Damian cry, “You can’t—” but the rest of his protest was cut short by a muffled yelp.

“Welcome to Embervale,” Dan called over his shoulder, and he kept walking.

Alan stopped briefly to glance over his shoulder, but he quickly caught up with Dan and kept pace until they arrived at Charlie Marshall’s house.

“I hope Charlie’s going to be okay,” Alan said as they made their way to the front door. “This must’ve been difficult for him.”

“He’s tougher than you might think,” Dan replied. “And Marjorie will be looking after him.”

Marjorie Treave had visited Dan that afternoon, and he’d put the plan together straight away. He’d called Penny Robbins on the phone, and she’d been happy to help. She’d sounded so genuine, so concerned, that Dan hadn’t mentioned Julie nor the bag she’d left on his doorstep in the dead of night. If Penny knew what Julie had done, she was keeping it to herself, and that was fine with Dan.

He hadn’t expected Dave to pitch in, but Penny had insisted. She’d been adamant, saying that she and her husband faced any problem together. It was both of them or nobody at all.

Dan had given in. He’d only met Dave once, but he’d seemed like a good man to have in your corner. Besides, it felt right to get Dave involved. Damian had picked out Penny as a target, and if Dave wanted to protect his wife and family, that was all to the good. The man was owed a measure of justice.

The plan had worked beautifully, and they wouldn’t be seeing Damian any time soon.

But despite Dan’s words of assurance, he was still worried about Charlie, and Dan’s mood was sombre as he knocked on Charlie’s door.

A short while earlier, when Dan, Alan and Marjorie had called on Charlie, their meeting had been tense, almost confrontational. But Marjorie had worked wonders, and Charlie had given in, showing them Damian’s room.

The stolen property hadn’t been hard to find, most of it simply stuffed into a chest of drawers. But this victory wasn’t without consequences.

When they’d shown Charlie the precious items Damian had tried to steal, tears of rage and humiliation had sprung to the older man’s eyes. Charlie had been betrayed, his home violated, his hospitality abused, and on top of all that, his most treasured memories had been trodden upon.

It would take Charlie some time to regain his confidence and his faith in human nature.

He’ll still be shaken up, Dan thought as he waited for his knock to be answered. But when Marjorie opened the door and ushered Dan and Alan through to the front room, they found a happy scene.

Charlie was sitting on the sofa, looking a little tired but relieved. On the small table in front of him were two empty mugs and a couple of plates bearing nothing but crumbs.

“We’ve been having a right old chat,” Marjorie said cheerfully as she took her place beside Charlie. “A walk down memory lane, you might say.”

“That’s right,” Charlie said. “Good times. Life was simple back then, wasn’t it? We never had a worry, not from one day to the next.”

“That’s right,” Marjorie stated. “And it’ll be like that again. You’ll see.”

To Dan and Alan, Marjorie said, “Sit down, you two. You’re making the place untidy.”

“Thank you, but we won’t stay,” Dan replied. “We just wanted to let you know that Damian won’t be troubling you anymore. The police will be fetching him soon. In the meantime, Dave Robbins is keeping an eye on him.”

Marjorie chuckled. “A good thing too. He won’t stand for any nonsense, won’t Dave. He’s all right.”

“Thank you, Dan,” Charlie said. “Alan too. You’ve been very helpful. Proper neighbours.”

Dan didn’t know what to say. For some reason, Charlie’s last two words had struck home.

Alan stepped into the breach. “You’re very welcome, Charlie. The police will send someone over to take a statement from you, and if you want us to sit in with you, please don’t hesitate to call.”

“No need,” Marjorie said. “I can take care of all that.”

Dan and Alan shared a look. When Marjorie had the bit between her teeth, there was absolutely no sense in standing in her way.

“It looks as though we’re not needed,” Alan said. “We’ll leave you two to catch up. Unless you want us to stay, Charlie.”

“No, that’s all right, young man,” Charlie replied. “But thanks again for everything you’ve done. It was a good thing you did, coming to help me like that. You didn’t have to do it, but you did.”

Looking to Marjorie, Charlie added, “And you’ve been kind to me, too. Very kind.”

“Well, that’s what friends are for, isn’t it?”

Marjorie and Charlie gazed at each other, a twinkle in their eyes, and Dan had a vision of them in younger days, running wild and free through the fields, scrumping for apples and jumping into the cold waters of the River Teign for the sheer joy of it.

“We ought to be going,” Dan said. “Take care, Charlie. I’ve left you my number. If you ever need anything, give me a call.”

“He won’t need to go bothering you,” Marjorie replied. “Charlie can call me any time he wants.”

Beaming, Charlie said, “I’ve been invited over to Marjorie’s for lunch tomorrow. And she’s a good cook is Marjorie. The best in the county.”

Marjorie patted the back of Charlie’s hand. “Flatterer.”

“I’m envious,” Alan said with a smile. “Do you need a lift?”

Charlie sat up a little straighter. “No thank you. I reckon I can walk. It’ll do me good.”

“Okay then,” Alan said. “We really are going this time. But don’t get up. We can see ourselves out.”

Dan and Alan left Charlie and Marjorie chatting happily, getting on like a house on fire.

“Those two, eh?” Alan said as they headed for home. “It sounds as though they’re old friends. I bet they went to school together.”

“You’re probably right,” Dan replied. “But I suppose they drifted apart over the years. They were both married, and their lives changed, even though they didn’t live far apart.”

“But their friendship survived. All that shared history, it was still there.”

Dan nodded.

“But who’d have thought they’d get on so well in the first place?” Alan went on. “I mean, they’re so different, but it’s as if they’re stronger together.”

“It’s odd how that can sometimes work out.” Dan smiled to himself, waiting for Alan to say, ‘Just like you and me.’

But instead, Alan said, “Natalya and I are going to get married.”

“Oh. Wow. Congratulations. That’s amazing.”

“It is,” Alan replied. “I hope you’ve still got a decent suit.”

“You know I have. Does that mean I’m invited?”

“No,” Alan stated. “It means I’d like you to be my best man.”

Dan took a moment to find his voice. “I’d be honoured, Alan. Thank you.”

“Good,” Alan replied. “That’s settled then.”

And as they headed homeward, it seemed that neither of them felt the need to say a word.

* * *

Thank you for reading A Must-Have Murder.

I hope you enjoyed it.

Now skip back in time to meet DI Spiller on his first day in CID

Lawful Duty - a Devonshire Crime Thriller

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AUTHOR NOTES

ARE THE LOCATIONS REAL?

The village of Embervale is fictional and not based on, nor inspired by, any single village. We might think of it as an amalgam of many rural English villages. In my imagination it resides in the Teign Valley, which is where I live and work, an area named for the river Teign (pronounced ‘teen’).

Other locations referred to, such as Chagford, are real but are presented in a fictionalised way. For instance, there really is a Shameface Lane. I came across it while researching locations online, and I knew I had to use it in the story. From there, it was a short step to referring to it in the title.

The lane is near a leisure park that includes an archery range, and there’s a vineyard in the area, but I invented the bridal path, and Seven Springs Farm is entirely fictional. 

Where I use pubs, cafes, restaurants and other businesses, I use fictional names and I conjure these places up from my memories of similar establishments in the area.

The abandoned quarry being used as a nature reserve is not based on a site in Devon, but I have visited similar places elsewhere. In one of them, which shall remain nameless, I found a discarded pregnancy test, and that made its way into the story.

The Heathfield industrial estate and the nearby Site of Special Scientific Interest are both real but fictionalised.

In Exeter, there are several shops serving the European and Polish communities, but I don’t use their real names so I felt free to invent their locations and the shopkeeper.

Whilst I’m on the subject, to the best of my knowledge, ‘kochanie’ is a Polish term of endearment similar to ‘darling’. Alan and Dan pronounce it incorrectly because Dan didn’t hear it clearly, and anyway, neither of them understood it.

WHY DOES THE VICAR SERVE SO MANY TOWNS AND VILLAGES?

This is a detail borrowed from real life. Like many rural areas in the UK, most villages boast at least one church and sometimes a chapel as well, but the population density of surrounding areas is too low to support a vicar for every church.

ARE THE BRANDS OF BEER AUTHENTIC?

Yes. Throughout the series, Dan and Alan sample many pints of beer, and I always treat the duo to real ales from real breweries. Where I can, I mention local breweries and producers, but I don’t receive anything in return.

ARE SECOND-HOME OWNERS SUCH A BIG PROBLEM?

In my tiny corner of Devon, the answer is yes and no. Rural economies have changed drastically over time, and cottages that once housed workers are now sold to those who have the means to move to an attractive village. This can bring benefits, incomers breathing new life into communities, but it may leave some young people feeling as though they’ve been priced out of the property market.

In other parts of Devon, particularly near the coast, the number of holiday homes and second homes leaves some areas without permanent residents, and this can cause resentment among the locals.

ARE THE POLICE PROCEDURES ACCURATE?

I research police procedures where necessary for the book to work and for the plot to feel reasonably believable. That said, these aren’t crime thrillers, so I keep the details down to a minimum.

I’ve grown fond of Tim Spiller, and he stars in his own spin-off series, the Devonshire Crime Thrillers – more on that below.

WILL THERE BE MORE DEVONSHIRE MYSTERIES?

At the time of writing, I’m not sure. I’ve spent so long in the company of Dan and Alan that they’ve become like friends to me. Friends who never visit, perhaps, but even so, I like to know what they’re up to. It would be hard not to spend time with them again.

In the meantime, I’m working on the spin-off series that takes Tim Spiller back to the 90s and his early career in CID. These books are police procedurals, and while they are set in Devon, they are very different in tone to the Devonshire Mysteries.

They are grittier, darker and there are no amateur sleuths to interfere with Spiller’s investigations. Instead, there’s a whole new cast of characters to meet, with only Spiller and his wife Sheila from the Devonshire Mysteries, although the first book contains an Easter egg for fans of Embervale to enjoy.

It's a change of pace and tone for me, and it’s great fun to  revisit the nineties when the life of a detective was not all about CCTV and mobile phones. Spiller and his colleagues rely on good, old-fashioned police work, pounding the streets and knocking on doors.

The first book is called Lawful Duty, and second book is currently in progress.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE?

Please consider becoming a member of my VIP Readers Club. You’ll receive email newsletters in which I share news and photos, often featuring the real-life locations that inspire places and events in my stories. You’ll receive some free books and other content: michaelcampling.com/freebooks

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael (Mikey to friends) is a full-time writer living and working on the edge of Dartmoor in Devon. He writes stories with characters you can believe in and plots you can sink your teeth into. Join Michael’s VIP Readers’ Club and receive free books and stories plus a newsletter that’s worth reading. Learn more and start reading today at:

michaelcampling.com/freebooks

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ALSO BY MICHAEL CAMPLING

One Link to Rule Them All:

michaelcampling.com/find-my-books

The Devonshire Mysteries

A Study in Stone

Valley of Lies

Mystery at the Hall - only available from the author

Murder Between the Tides

Mystery in May

Death at Blackingstone Rock - only available from the author

Accomplice to Murder

A Must-Have Murder

A Shamefaced Murder

Devonshire Crime Thrillers

Lawful Duty

The Darkeningstone Series:

Breaking Ground - A Darkeningstone Prequel

Trespass: The Darkeningstone Book I

Outcast—The Darkeningstone Book II

Scaderstone—The Darkeningstone Book III

The Darkeningstone Trilogy

Copyright © 2025 by Michael Campling

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, or events is entirely coincidental.

Published by Shadowstone Books