A Place Of Safety

Chapter Four

When her husband did not return at his usual time from his late-night walk with the dog, Mrs Leathers went to bed. Occasionally he would do this. Call in at the Red Lion where closing time was elastic to say the least, have a throw of darts and cadge a drink or a smoke. Sometimes she thought he’d stay the night if they’d let him. So she drifted off to sleep, pleasurably aware of the empty space by her side.

When she woke, the room was full of brightness. Mrs Leathers sat up blinking, looking round. She seized the bedside clock. It was ten past eight!

Mrs Leathers gasped and climbed quickly out of bed. Charlie never forgot to set the alarm. Six thirty on the dot, always. And he never got up until he’d drunk his tea either.

More puzzled than worried, Mrs Leathers put on a shabby candlewick dressing gown. She glanced back at the room as she was leaving, as if he might have slipped down between the furniture. The bed looked huge. She hadn’t realised quite how much space it took up.

Down the narrow, twisting stairs and into the kitchen where the harsh smell of Charlie’s cigarettes fouled the air, killing the fragrance of bread left to rise overnight on the Rayburn. Automatically Mrs Leathers filled the kettle and put two Typhoo tea bags in the pot.

She had never thought of herself as an imaginative woman but now her mind started running every which way. All those stupid soaps - that’s what Charlie would have said. They turn your mind, woman. And it was true that she was constantly enthralled by their exciting twists and turns. If this was television, her husband would have run off with another woman. Mrs Leathers’ heart, which had leapt briefly in her flat chest at the very notion, got a grip on reality and thudded back into its usual place. Let’s face it, she sighed aloud, who in their right mind would want Charlie?

Perhaps he had secretly become involved in a crime and had had to run away. That was more likely although he was so stupid he’d probably never know it was time to run away until it was too late. And who would he be involved with? A handful of boozy cronies down at the pub? He didn’t have a real friend in the world.

The kettle boiled over. Mrs Leathers filled the pot and called, ‘Tea time, Candy.’

But the dog did not come out of her basket. Mrs Leathers bent down, wheezing slightly, to peer under the table. Candy was not there. Which meant they had both been out all night.

Much more alarmed at the absence of the little dog than she had been over her husband, Mrs Leathers took the big iron key from behind the door and ran out into the front garden.

She stood at the gate under a lovely hibiscus (a Mother’s Day present from her daughter Pauline over twenty years ago) but its beauty, and indeed the beauty of the whole morning, was wasted on her. All she could think about was the whereabouts of Candy.

The red mail van appeared at the end of the lane. There was rarely any post for the Leathers and what they did get was usually addressed to Occupier, urging bookkeeping courses or the building of a double-glazed conservatory. And today was no different. The van wasn’t coming down.

Mrs Leathers ran out to stop the postman and just caught him. He couldn’t help staring. She looked so wild, grey hair sticking out everywhere, the bottom of her dressing gown caught up on brambles, slippers soaking wet.

‘Morning, Mrs Leathers. You all right?’

‘You haven’t seen my little Jack Russell, have you?’ Then, when the postman hesitated, ‘She’s mainly tan with black markings and white paws.’

‘I’ll keep an eye out,’ he promised through the van window. ‘Cheer up. Dogs - they’re always running off.’

Not my Candy. Mrs Leathers flung on some clothes, buttoned any old how, pulled on her gardening clogs and ran off leaving the gate ajar, just in case.

She hurried onto the Green, her face screwed up with anxiety, staring first into the distance and then almost at her feet as if she might fall over the dog without noticing. One or two people, including Evadne Pleat, were out with their own dogs and all were deeply sympathetic. They asked if there was any special place they could search and promised to check with their neighbours the minute they returned home. Evadne offered to do some posters in bright colours to put on trees and the village noticeboard.

Mrs Leathers could only guess at her husband’s exact route the previous evening. But whether turning left or right at the top of Tall Trees Lane, he would have covered roughly the same territory, working his way round in a circle to come home.

Arriving at the churchyard she decided to go all the way through and down the Pingles. This was a narrow alley running along the backs of around a dozen houses and much favoured by lovers and youngsters sniffing, swallowing or jabbing assorted illegal substances.

And as she walked, Mrs Leathers continued to call. Occasionally a garden shed was within reach and then she would tap on the walls and cry out, ‘Candy?’ She knew it was usually cats that got trapped in sheds but you couldn’t not try.

The Pingles led almost directly into a small coppiced wood which backed onto fields of wheat and barley now harvested and bound into vast, golden wheels to be rolled away for winter storage.

Mrs Leathers entered the wood making the soft clicking sound, tongue behind teeth, that she knew the dog would recognise. She stood very still, listening intently. There was the river gurgling and rushing over the stones. A swift scuttering by some frightened animal. Creaking branches and whispering leaves. A sudden whirring and a cloud of wood pigeons exploded into the air, fanning out and wheeling away like aircraft in formation.

Mrs Leathers wondered whether to venture more deeply, penetrating the heart of the wood. She knew it was unlikely that her husband would have been walking there in the dark but could not bear to leave even the most implausible area uninvestigated. She stepped forward a few paces, silent on the thick leaf mould, called again. And waited.

There was a thread of fragile sound. Almost inaudible. You couldn’t even call it a whimper. Mrs Leathers’ first impulse was to rush about madly, looking, calling, looking. Then, realising she might tread on the dog, she forced herself to stand still and be calm.

She tiptoed, murmuring gentle reassurances, backwards and forwards, parting nettles and dry old cow parsley, delicately shifting dead twigs and the occasional drinks can. She found Candy lying behind a fallen branch from an oak tree. The branch was large and very heavy and Mrs Leathers could not reach the dog without dragging it away. The sensible thing was to fetch help but she could not bear to leave Candy for a single minute. So she struggled and heaved and pushed. Splinters rammed down her nails and into the palms of her hands until she wept with pain and frustration.

Eventually she was able to move the log just enough to climb through. Until she could see Candy properly. Could bend down and lift the little dog into her arms. And then she wept indeed.

That morning being dry, bright and sunny, Valentine Fainlight had ridden his twenty miles in the open. He had just re-entered Ferne Basset and was slowing down when a woman ran out from between some houses and straight into the road. He swerved, braked hard and was about to yell at her when he recognised the Lawrences’ cleaner. She was cradling something, pressing it to her breast which was spattered with bright red stains.

‘Mrs Leathers? What on earth ...’ He came closer. ‘Oh God.’

‘It’s my ... I have to ... the vet ... must ... must ...’

‘Stay there. I’ll get the car. Two minutes - all right?’

But she was making her way towards the house as he backed out the Alvis, no doubt hoping to save precious seconds. He had brought a travelling rug, for she was shivering with distress and cold, and tucked it round her knees.

‘My sister’s ringing to say it’s an emergency.’

He put his foot down and the car leapt forward and shot out of the village. Causton was twelve miles away and he covered it in under ten minutes.

Mrs Leathers didn’t move during the journey. Or speak. Just murmured crooningly to the sad wreckage in her arms.

Valentine wondered if it was still alive. After all, it was not unknown for the newly bereft to carry on talking to their loved ones when they could no longer hear. Presumably it had been run over. But in that case, why was she carrying it out of a siding?

A woman with a tortoiseshell kitten, having been told what had happened, gladly gave up her own appointment. She sat in silent sympathy next to Mrs Leathers, even taking her hand at one point. Val, never having owned a pet of any sort, felt rather awkward.

After about ten minutes the vet, looking rather like an animal himself with his long nose, excessively hairy hands and dark-brown intelligent eyes, came out. Mrs Leathers sprang up and ran over to him.

‘Well, Mrs Leathers,’ said the vet. ‘She’s still with us.’

‘Ohh ... Thank you, Mr Bailey. Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything yet.’

‘I just thought ... all that blood.’

‘You found her like this?’

Mrs Leathers nodded. ‘In a wood not far from where we live.’

‘Water nearby?’

‘A river, yes. What happened to Candy, Mr Bailey?’

A tremendous blow to the head, a savage kicking which had damaged all her ribs and broken one of her back legs, then thrown into the river to drown. That’s what had happened to Candy.

‘I’ll examine her more closely when she’s had a good rest. She’s not in any pain. Don’t worry - we’ll look after her.’

‘When will you ...?’

‘Ring in the morning. That would be best.’

As they were getting into the car, Hetty Leathers said, ‘What day is it, Mr Fainlight?’

‘Wednesday.’

‘I should be at work. I’ll have to let Mrs Lawrence know what’s happened.’ She hesitated then said, ‘He sounded very optimistic, didn’t you think? The vet?’

‘Very optimistic indeed,’ lied Valentine, seeing her safely settled before climbing into the driving seat. ‘You must be very relieved. And I expect your husband will be too.’

Ann had not expected to sleep after delivering the blackmail money. She had run wildly away from Carter’s Wood, round the house into the conservatory and straight up to her room.

Having flung off her coat and shoes she jumped into bed fully clothed, pulled the duvet over her head and buried her face in the pillow, overwhelmed by fear and the sense of a narrow escape from unknown terrors. To her later amazement she immediately fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It was nearly eight o’clock when she came round and sat up in bed staring down at arms encased in green knitted wool and a rumpled tweed skirt. She remembered everything immediately. Every emotion, every movement, every frightened breath.

Ann got up straightaway, washed, put on a clean linen shirt, jeans and a rather felted Fair Isle cardigan and went down to the kitchen. It was beautifully warm from the Aga. There were evening primroses in a stone jug on the table, and on the dresser what was left of the willow pattern plates, cups and saucers her parents had always used. Almost everything in the room gave the comfort of continuity right down to the old-fashioned wall clock with the Roman numerals her father had bought when the village school closed.

Usually this was a favourite time. Lionel not yet down, Hetty still to arrive. The day advanced enough to vanquish any anxieties that had beset her mind when night fell but not yet so busy she had lost all understanding of herself as an individual with interests and dreams and a will of her own. Sometimes this precious sense of self was so fractured by what everyone else seemed to want and need, Ann felt she might never reassemble it again.

But this morning was something different. No peace in the kitchen today. Or perhaps ever again. She walked over to the window and stared out at the cedar tree. Early sunlight spilled over the autumn crocus scattered around its massive trunk. And threads of silvery mist still clung to the great upper shelves of spreading branches. When she was a little girl it had seemed to her that the vast tree never ended but grew upwards for ever and ever, finally disappearing into the heavens.

Suddenly she had a tremendous longing to call back those times. The years before her mother died now seemed to Ann full of golden simplicities. Tears over the death of a pet were tenderly mopped and a convincing story told of its continuing happiness in a better world. Squabbles with friends were sorted without blame or punishment.

Where was the person who could help her now? Who could kiss wickedness better? No human being, certainly. Rather did it flourish, if memory of her father’s sermons did not lie, as did the green bay tree. She had never felt so lonely.

‘Good morning, my dear.’

‘Oh!’ Ann wheeled round. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

‘Where’s my tea?’

‘I’m sorry.’ She looked at the clock. It was nearly nine. ‘Good gracious. I wonder what’s happened to Hetty?’

As Lionel had no idea, he remained silent. Just stood in the doorway in his checked dressing gown and slippers, looking expectant.

‘Tea, yes.’ Ann filled the electric kettle. ‘Do you want it down here?’ She hoped he would say no. There was something very depressing about his unshaven cheeks, the snowy stubble catching the light and the tousle of whitish locks. Somehow he always looked older in his dressing gown.

‘No. I don’t have time to sit and chat,’ said Lionel, holding up his right hand with beneficent sternness. He looked like a Vatican official holding back hordes of agitated supplicants. ‘Bring it up and I’ll drink it while I dress. There’s a great deal to do. We must start the search again immediately after breakfast.’

Ann stared at him. Search?

‘I’ll just have bacon and egg today with a small piece of fried bread and tomatoes.’ He was already turning to go. Then, over his shoulder, ‘And some of those mushrooms growing in the churchyard, if they haven’t already been stolen.’

It was on the tip of Ann’s tongue to point out that, as her husband no longer had any connection with the church or its surroundings, he also had no divine right to the mushrooms. But, like so much that was constantly on the tip of her tongue, it was swallowed or just withered on the air, unspoken and unsung.

She went to the fridge and got out the Tupperware container of back bacon and two eggs. Returning to the table, her eye was caught by the red mail van. An image of letters falling into the wire cage caused a rush of nausea which threatened to overwhelm her. Ridiculous, she told herself. Get a grip. The vile thing you received was hand delivered. And anyway, you’ve done what he wanted. Why should he be writing to you again?

She watched the postman get out of the van and, as he did so, Jax turned into the gate returning from his jog. He stopped and collected the letters, running up the drive and pushing them through the flap in the front door before jogging off to his own apartment.

Ann made herself get on with the breakfast. There would be nothing for her. There hardly ever was. Lionel would pick up the post, study it importantly as he ate his toast, getting buttery crumbs over everything, then take it to his writing desk and study it importantly some more.

So, that was all right then. Ann put the eggs in boiling water, set the kitchen timer for four minutes and slid the bacon under the grill. By the time Lionel came down it would all be sorted.

She imagined him, surprised, calling from the hall, ‘Something today for you, Ann.’ If he did, and if it proved to be more of the same, how would she dissemble? She would give herself away, unable to help it. How much more sensible then to anticipate such a situation by checking the post herself.

Now it seemed to Ann impossible that she should have contemplated any other course. Quickly, before her husband could come back downstairs, she ran to the hall.

Although she could see straightaway that there was nothing to disturb or frighten her - all the envelopes had some company logo or professional heading and all were franked - she turned them over once or twice in trembling hands, even studying the back lest they had been opened and resealed after something wholly foreign to their normal sane enclosures had been slipped inside.

But all was well. Not realising she had been holding her breath, Ann now let it out: a slow, steady exhalation. She relaxed, leaning back against the door. This peaceful moment was interrupted by an angry shout coming from the direction of the kitchen. There was a strange smell, too, which she recognised as burning bacon. An apology already on her lips, Ann hurried away.

‘I seem to be putting you to an awful lot of trouble.’

‘Not at all. I wasn’t doing anything special this morning.’

To tell the truth, Valentine was quite enjoying himself. Few things, he thought, were more satisfying than vicarious involvement in other people’s misfortunes. No cost of any kind to oneself, lots of interesting running about and the sort of emotionally vibrant conversation that he would, in normal crcumstances, run a mile from.

He only wished he’d had a camera at the moment his remark to Mrs Leathers about her husband had sunk in. In spite of a gift for mimicry, Val knew he would never be able to capture exactly that priceless expression of guilty remembrance. She actually said, ‘I knew there was something else.’ How he kept a straight face he would never know.

It was generally agreed then that as they were in Causton it would be sensible to go to the police station and report Charlie missing. They took the precaution of ringing home first to check he had not turned up while they’d been out.

Val thought they would be taken to a special room but a constable in reception simply put a yellow form down on the counter for Mrs Leathers to complete after indicating that he was available if she needed any assistance.

‘There’s a lot of weird questions here,’ remarked Mrs Leathers, dutifully filling it in. ‘Scars, stammering and suchlike. Ethnic appearance code. Charlie wouldn’t like that.’

Val studied the posters, none of them very cheery. A young girl’s stitched up, cut and battered face: Have None For The Road. A golden labrador panting behind a closed car window: By The Time You Get Back She Could Be Dead. And a broken syringe over a Crackdown Hotline number. He had just begun to discover more than he actually needed to know about the Colorado beetle when he realised Mrs Leathers was asking a question.

‘What do they mean, peculiarities?’

‘Oh, you know. Wearing a tutu or a mink G-string at evensong. That sort of thing.’

A mistake. Mrs Leathers moved just a little distance away and never quite met his eye again. She wrote for almost another ten minutes then handed the form over.

‘Section four, madam,’ said the constable, easing it back. ‘Informant?’

‘Oh, yes. Sorry.’ Mrs Leathers included her own name, address and telephone number. ‘Do I let you know if he turns up?’

‘If you would, please.’

‘He only went out for a walk.’

The constable smiled, wishing he had a fiver for every time he’d heard that one. He’d be snorkelling in the Caribbean before you could say Piña Colada. He felt sorry for the old duck, though. She’d obviously been having a good old cry before she’d been able to bring herself to come in.

He retrieved the four two eight, passed it to a civilian clerk who was answering a non-stop telephone and was just going about his business when the bloke with the old lady spoke up.

‘Excuse me.’

‘Sir?’

But it was not the policeman Valentine was speaking to. He had taken Mrs Leathers’ arm and was gently drawing her back towards the counter. He said, ‘Tell them about the dog.’

This made all the difference, as Mrs Leathers explained to Evadne shortly after she had been brought back home. Evadne, unaware that Candy had been found, had called round to check on Mrs Leathers’ telephone number to add to her poster.

As it was nearly lunchtime Mrs Leathers had offered a bowl of soup and some toast. Evadne, who wanted to hear exactly what had happened, accepted. She felt rather apprehensive when a tin was produced but thought one bowl wouldn’t hurt. The soup was vivid orange-red, velvety in texture and rather sweet. It resembled no vegetable she had ever tasted in her life.

But Evadne’s curiosity as to the origins of her lunch vanished as soon as Mrs Leathers began to tell the story of Candy’s misfortune. She listened in empathetic horror, imagining it happening to one of her beloved Pekes and wondering how on earth she would bear it.

‘She will recover, Hetty. She’s a brave dog with great heart.’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Leathers and burst into tears.

Evadne abandoned her exotic lunch, came round the table and took Mrs Leathers in her arms. She rocked her backwards and forwards murmuring, ‘There, there,’ just as she did for Piers when he became melancholy, overwhelmed by all the troubles of the world.

‘You must let me know when she’s coming home. I’ll take you to Causton myself.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And are you ...? Forgive me but these things can be ... I mean, aftercare, medicines. I hope ... any problem ... um ...’

‘You’re very kind, Evadne, but I am insured for her.’ And what a fight there had been with Charlie over that.

‘Excellent.’

Mrs Leathers took a deep breath, mopped the moisture from her cheeks and said, ‘Oh dear, your soup’s got cold.’

‘Not to worry. What was it, by the way?’

‘Tomato.’

‘Good heavens,’ said Evadne. ‘Now, are you going to be all right? Would you like me to stay for a while? Or I can come back after I’ve walked the boys.’

‘Actually, my daughter should be here soon. From Great Missenden.’ Mrs Leathers was quite used now to Evadne’s dogs being called the boys when one of them was a girl. Evadne had explained that Mazeppa was very sensitive and would hate to be singled out. ‘Pauline’s just sorting out someone to look after the children.’

There was a knock at the door and Mrs Leathers said, ‘That’ll be either her or the police.’

‘My dear.’ Evadne was entranced and intrigued. ‘Why on earth are they coming?’

‘They want me to show them exactly where I found Candy.’

‘Well, I must say,’ said Evadne, ‘that is encouraging. To show such concern over a little dog.’

‘Charlie’s missing too,’ explained Mrs Leathers, checking her tear-stained face in a small mirror before opening the door.

‘Oh, yes?’ Evadne had seen Mr Leathers dragging Candy furiously back and forth across the Green and sincerely hoped he stayed missing.

A uniformed sergeant and a young policewoman were on the step. Mrs Leathers asked them in to wait while she got her coat on. Evadne engaged them in conversation, putting them at their ease. When Mrs Leathers returned, the police woman seemed to be having some sort of coughing fit.

‘I will come with you,’ said Evadne firmly. Then, when Mrs Leathers hesitated, ‘Pauline would if she were here.’

Mrs Leathers had to admit this was true and that she would be glad of the company. The police car was parked at the top of the lane and a couple of women with pushchairs were already standing nearby staring curiously.

Mrs Leathers stumbled over a tussock of grass as the four of them emerged and the sergeant took her arm. Convinced everyone would think she was being arrested, she blushed scarlet. Evadne, on the other hand, stepped out with great panache, striding along and waving at any passerby. It was she who led the way to Carter’s Wood.

Once inside Mrs Leathers took over. But the closer she got to the spot where she found Candy the more reluctant her steps became. During the final moments she had to hold Evadne’s hand. To her surprise, once she had pointed the place out, the policewoman said she could go home.

Evadne was rather disappointed that the adventure seemed to be over almost before it had begun. A small crowd had gathered at the building site next to the pub, gazing around with the happy nosiness of the completely uninvolved. As Mrs Leathers pushed through, several people asked her questions.

Seeing her daughter’s car parked beside the Green, Mrs Leathers hurried home. Evadne did the same, making a pot of Lapsang Souchong as soon as she got in to wash away the extraordinary taste of her lunchtime snack. After this she took the Pekes out for a long run. Every few yards, remembering Candy, she would stop, pick one of them up and squeeze it to her relieved bosom. Though surprised, the dogs, courteous as always, did not protest.

On the way back she noticed several more police cars and one or two plain ones. The crowd was much larger now but was being compelled to keep its distance behind a barrier of fluttering blue-and-white tape.

Charlie Leathers lay in a leafy hollow about fifty yards from where Candy had been found. The video team and photographer had already left. And George Bullard, the Force Medical Examiner, had also almost finished doing what he had to do. Two mortuary attendants sat on a nearby log smoking, cracking jokes and guessing at the best way to pick a lottery winner.

Detective Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby, having taken one quick look at the corpse, did not feel inclined to take a second.

‘Sometimes, George, I don’t know how you keep your food down.’

‘It’s a knack.’

‘What happened to his face?’ asked Sergeant Troy, bag carrier and persistent gadfly to the DCI. ‘What’s left of it.’

‘Midnight feast in the dorm,’ said Dr Bullard. ‘Some sort of animal, I’d say.’

‘Christ, I hope it is a bloody animal.’ Barnaby sounded ready to explode. ‘Cannibalism we can well do without.’

‘OK, boys.’ Dr Bullard peeled off his gloves and stuffed them into a disposable bag. ‘You can cart him off.’

‘How long’s he been lying there, do you think?’ asked Barnaby.

‘Ohh ... probably since last night. Certainly no longer than twenty-four hours. That’s the joy of the garrotte. Immediate asphyxiation helps pin the time down.’ He got up, brushing leaf mould off his trousers. ‘Well, I’m off. Give my best to Joyce. How’s the sprog?’

‘Thriving, thank you.’

‘Should have something on your desk by morning.’

Barnaby watched the doctor stride away, head back, gazing at the sky, inhaling the peaty autumn scents with every appearance of satisfaction.

‘That would make a good title for the autobiography I’ve no doubt he’s secretly scribbling.’

‘What would?’ Sergeant Troy stood well aside to let the graveyard shift get moving.

‘The Joy of the Garrotte. Come on, let’s get back to the station.’

‘It’s gone lunchtime, chief. What about the pub? I could just get outside some sausage, egg and chips.’

‘Your guts must be made of cast iron.’

The news spread through Ferne Basset like lightning. A body had been removed from Carter’s Wood. The Scene of Crime officers arrived and, after removing all sorts of interesting paraphernalia from the back of their van, put on plastic overalls, gloves and bootees and disappeared into the trees.

The sergeant and young policewoman who had called on Mrs Leathers before called again. This time the door was opened by a stout, dark-haired girl who looked about sixteen but turned out to be Mrs Leathers’ 23-year-old daughter.

‘Now what?’ she said, arms akimbo.

‘Could we have a word with your mother?’ asked the policewoman. She was still at the stage where she put on a special voice as the possible bearer of bad news. Kind, gentle, slightly solemn. A dead giveaway, the sergeant thought, but you had to make allowances. She’d grow out of it.

‘I reckon she’s had enough upset for one day, don’t you?’

‘It’s all right, Pauline,’ called Mrs Leathers from the kitchen.

They all went into the front room where the sergeant declined the offer of a cup of tea. Just as well, thought Pauline, ’cause I certainly won’t be making any.

‘You reported your husband missing earlier today, Mrs Leathers. We were wondering if you have a photograph of him.’

‘Not a recent one, I’m afraid.’ She looked nervously at the sergeant then went over to the sideboard and took out an album. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just to help us with our inquiries, Mrs Leathers.’

‘Is this something to do with all those cars over by the Green?’ asked Pauline.

‘That’s the latest.’ Mrs Leathers handed over a picture of a choleric little man glowering at the camera. He was holding a shotgun and there were several dead birds at his feet. ‘Taken about eight years ago.’

‘Thank you.’ The sergeant stowed the photograph in his wallet.

Pauline said, ‘I asked you a question.’

‘Yes, it is.’ No point denying it. Half the village would have seen the stretcher brought out. The sergeant chose his next words carefully. ‘We have actually discovered the body of a man in the woods. Who he is or how he died we can’t say at the moment.’

Mrs Leathers tried to speak but her lips had become suddenly stiff. She couldn’t form the words. She stared at Pauline who reached out, took her hand and squeezed it hard.

‘I’ll show them out, Mum. Be right back.’ On the doorstep she said, ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

‘We don’t know for—’

‘Best not to get excited though, eh? Just fingers crossed.’

‘Pardon?’ said the policewoman.

‘The life that bugger’s led her. Tell you the truth, I’d have done it meself years ago if I’d thought I could get away with it.’

Valentine and Louise were having dinner on the top floor of their crystal palace. The house was extremely flexible and sleeping could be accomplished or food consumed almost anywhere.

Beds were in all the rooms: single divans covered with brilliantly coloured silk or fur throws. The kitchen was in the basement on a level with the garage. Sometimes they ate there. More often they would make use of the dumb waiter, an elegant heated cube of stainless steel suspended on black rubber cables. This glided smoothly up and down inside a transparent shaft which thrust, like a powerful obelisk, straight up through the centre of the house.

Most days they shared the cooking but tonight Valentine had spent so much of his time looking after Mrs Leathers that Louise had shopped and prepared the meal. A guinea fowl cooked in white wine with fondant potatoes and a watercress salad. Grilled peaches with Amaretto and homemade Sable biscuits. The wine was Kesselstatt Riesling.

Usually the conversation meandered easily about, touching on books or music or the theatre. Sometimes absent friends would be gently maltreated. Once upon a time, before the hearts of the couple had been chastened by the pain of their own unhappiness, such friends would have been savaged without mercy.

Sometimes Val would talk about his work but these occasions were not frequent. Barley Roscoe, the boy who had made Val’s fortune, was only seven and inevitably his daily experiences, though wildly, magically adventurous in comparison with the average child of a similar age, could not sustain much in the way of adult conversation.

But tonight, like everyone else in the village (except the Lawrences), Val and Louise were mulling over the grisly discovery in Carter’s Wood. Also like everyone else, they were convinced the dead person was Charlie Leathers.

‘One, he’s missing.’ Valentine ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘Two, it was his dog found nearby, badly beaten. And three, absolutely nobody likes him.’

‘Not liking is no reason—’

‘It’s a damn nuisance. We’re going to have to find someone else to do the garden.’

‘He only does - did a couple of hours a week. I can manage that. It’s the Old Rectory that’ll feel the pinch. Which reminds me ...’ She told Valentine about her meeting with Ann Lawrence the previous afternoon when they had discussed Carlotta’s disappearance.

‘There is no way she would have got into that state over just a row. Trembling and shaking - she could hardly speak.’

‘Perhaps she’s the one who bumped off Charlie.’

‘That’s not very funny, Val.’

‘Murder’s not supposed to be very funny.’

‘More likely to be—’

Louise stopped, realising immediately it was too late. The time to stop had been when the words were still in her mouth. And she had been so careful. Always thinking, anticipating. Ever since the night, months ago, when she had first spoken her mind on the subject in question and Val had spoken his mind and it was plain there could be no meeting of the two minds, ever. She had never seen her brother behave as he had then. He was like a man possessed. Which, of course, he was.

‘More likely to be?’

The words lay across her heart like lashes from a whip. ‘I’m sorry, Val.’

‘One mistake and he pays for the rest of his life, is that it?’ He got up, taking a leather jacket from the back of his chair, cramming an arm into one sleeve, shrugging it over his shoulders.

‘Don’t!’ She ran round the table, not caring what she said now that the damage had been done. ‘Don’t go over there. Please.’

‘I shall go where I like.’ He was running down the curved glass staircase. At the bottom he turned round and stared back up at her, his face quite expressionless, his eyes burning. ‘If all you can find to do is criticise the one person who makes me glad to be alive then I suggest you find another place to do it in.’

Of course, someone had phoned the Old Rectory. The caller seemed to think that Lionel Lawrence, whom she insisted on addressing as ‘Your Reverend’, would wish to visit Mrs Leathers in his role as ‘our living Lord’s rod and staff and comforter’.

Much to Lionel’s irritation the general view around the village seemed to be, once a cleric, always a cleric. He was still frequently addressed as Vicar and from time to time called upon to involve himself in deeply fraught situations that were none of his making. He always declined but people could be extremely, sometimes quite unpleasantly, persistent. In the present case, after a few judicious questions, Lionel felt obliged to refuse. It seemed the body had not yet been positively identified. Lionel was not easily embarrassed but even he drew the line at offering solace to a widow whose husband might pop his head round the door at any minute.

His main concern at the moment was his own wife. When he told her the news, Ann’s reaction was deeply disturbing. She leapt up and seized his arm, asking him over and over again just where the dead man had been found and when exactly it had all happened. She was in a feverish state, wild-eyed, her skin so hot that he suggested calling the doctor. She calmed down then. Or pretended to. He could see her struggling to appear more tranquil but her eyes, dazed with alarm, danced and flickered round the room.

Eventually he persuaded her to go to bed. Then he went into the study, placed some applewood logs carefully on the fire and immersed himself in the Gospel according to St Paul. But his mind soon drifted back to its previous occupation and, for the millionth time, he wondered where Carlotta was now and what she could be doing. Had she made her way to London and fallen among thieves? Attempted to hitch hike and been picked up by a man who made it his business to prey on young girls? Was she even now lying lifeless on some scrubby wasteland, her clothes torn, her skirt over her head—

Lionel gasped with shock at the vivid image the thought provoked and turned his scarlet cheeks away from the fire. More safely, he dwelt on the girl’s time in his house. The talks they’d had walking around the garden or in the tumultuous chaos of her room. A compassionate out-pouring of paternal concern on his part which poor, affection-starved Carlotta had soaked up like a thirsty sponge. All you need is love - the naive anthem of his adolescent years - was no more than the simple truth. And he had so much to give.

All this anxiety was affecting his stomach. Lionel went to warm some milk. Settling once more in his wing chair and noting sadly that his wife was still pacing about above his head, he returned to the chaste austerities of St Paul.

Charity suffereth long and is kind ...

Charity never faileth ...

And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

It was good to know one was on the right track.

Evadne Pleat was also preparing to retire. She had taken the dogs for their final frolic, exchanged grave greetings with the occasional villager still out and about and had now settled the Pekes comfortably for the night. They slept in assorted beds and baskets in the kitchen. An early experiment with them sleeping in her bedroom had regretfully to be abandoned. There was so much jealousy. Everyone wanted to get under the blankets at once. And then the jostling for position started. After this had been more or less sulkily agreed upon, one or the other would start washing itself or get up for a drink of water. All in all it was worse than the benching area at Crufts.

Having said her prayers, making sure to include both Hetty and her pet, Evadne plumped up her pillows and nestled down under a beautiful handmade patchwork quilt. (She would have no truck with duvets, considering them merely eiderdowns under a fancy name, stuffed into a quite unnecessary bag.)

For once sleep did not come easily. The discovery of a body in the woods preyed on her mind. As did the even more dreadful discovery of Candy, more dead than alive, nearby. Evadne felt humbled by her new insight into Mr Fainlight whom she had always thought rather a sneery sort of man. Such kindness he had shown to Hetty in her hour of need.

Moonshine flooded into the room. Illuminating though the hard, cold radiance was, outlining Evadne’s ornaments and pictures, she also found it a touch distracting and got up to close her curtains.

Across the way light flooded the Old Rectory’s garden. Some animal on the prowl must have set off the halogen lamp. This often happened. A nuisance, Evadne remembered Ann Lawrence saying, but a price worth paying for security.

Evadne screwed up her eyes and looked more closely. With increasing frequency over the past few weeks a man would come by night to stand beneath the cedar tree. And here he was again. She could see, even from a distance, how tense the outline of his body was. Taut as a bowstring. She wondered how long he would wait this time. Suddenly a window opened, not Carlotta’s which Evadne had expected but one in the flat over the garage. The young man who lived there leaned out. Evadne heard laughter, and a moment or two later the dark blue wooden door in the wall was eased open. To her surprise the figure beneath the tree almost ran across the drive and went inside. As he turned to close the door, the light fell full across his face and she recognised Valentine Fainlight.

Evadne closed the window and wandered over to a little velvet nursing chair near her bed. She sat down, feeling uneasy without any reason that she could have easily explained. She had barely spoken to the man who drove Lionel Lawrence around but she knew he was not allowed in the house and could not believe Ann Lawrence would enforce such a rule without a very good reason. Also Hetty Leathers, one of the kindest souls alive, had actually said she hated him.

Eventually Evadne took to her bed but she could not settle. It was as if her mind had been suddenly cast over by a dark shadow. She wished now she had not witnessed that sudden urgent sprint across the grass.

The main bar of the Red Lion was full to bursting but the atmosphere was not what you’d call lively. Far from generating excited gossip and noisy speculation, the day’s events appeared to have subdued the pub’s clientele; people spoke in muted murmurs.

Valentine Fainlight had been quite right when he said that no one had much liked Charlie Leathers. Even so, his presumed demise seemed to have diminished them all. Everyone knew that sudden death was something that always happened to other people, fair enough. But this was a bit near home. Still not understanding quite how it had come about, the company was very ill at ease.

The landlord suggested getting up a collection for his widow, which was well received, for people both liked and sympathised with Hetty. He put a large glass collecting bottle on the counter and by the end of the evening it was half full. In fact, he reflected somewhat sourly, there seemed to be more in it than there was in his till. Soberly the bar emptied. The customers left quietly and went quickly home in small clusters. No one walked alone.