My Monday morning walk established that Nick Thomas had either left for work extremely early or that he’d spent at least the night, and possibly the whole weekend, elsewhere. An old flame? He hadn’t looked like a man with a current flame: anyone with less ardour it would be hard to imagine. Even his hair and skin resembled long-cooled ashes.
The ground near his mobile home was wet enough to suck off my wellingtons, which I’d bought in Wellington, the nearby market town, in an emporium called – wait for it – the Wellington Boot Shop. The deep footprints I left – I could have done without the strains of ‘Good King Wenceslas’ running not quite inexplicably through my head – simply filled with water. In fact, it was so hard to walk through what was now a quagmire that I cut across to the lane, preferring to take my chance with any traffic to the ignominious loss of a boot - especially as there’d be no one to rescue it for me but myself. As I passed the paper skip in which Reg had wanted Nick to bury the cat, Reg himself emerged from his bungalow, which, like the rest of the administration buildings, was on a rise. I suspected he wanted to meet me as little as I him. As he shoved a spade and waders in the back of his utility truck, he glowered at me, logging my visit; any protests I made that I was just having a walk and certainly not visiting Nick would only make matters worse.
So I took the fire to his line. ‘Any chance of a lift, Reg? It’s no fun, swimming in wellies.’
‘Not going your way, am I?’ He wasn’t as good as the game as I was. ‘Got to look at that stream. Making sure it flows OK.’
Was he, now? And what colour would it flow when he’d seen to it? I’d make a point of checking later.
It was hardly flowing at all. My afternoon walk would have to be a bit longer, wouldn’t it, to find out exactly what Bulcombe had been up to. No good, if I knew him. The shortest way was along the footpath I’d cleared the previous day. It’d be good to check if my activities had been noted. It was going to be slippery enough under foot for me to take my stick, certainly, but I didn’t lug the other gear around – if the razor wire was back, I’d go and yell at the council in person.
No – I wouldn’t have to! I’d triumphed over it. It was still where I’d left it. Brilliant. Like a conqueror, I set out on my victory march. Nearly. If I hadn’t gone flying I would. I never thought I’d be grateful for a bank of brambles and nettles, but I was this time, once I’d gathered myself up and sorted myself out. So why had I fallen? A quick swish with my stick told me. Someone had stretched at shin height a piece of green wire, the slightly roughened sort I use to train my clematis up, between a couple of clumps of gorse. It actually cut a little notch in the walking stick. And then I went flying again. Yes. Another tripwire, a couple of feet from the first. Had they been there all the time, just as back up? Or had someone found the mess and set them up in revenge? Maybe they hadn’t bargained on the bramble cushion. Maybe they’d hoped for a broken ankle to keep the trespasser out in the cold and wet till they were found. No. For ‘they’ read ‘she’. Or ‘I’.
This was beginning to feel personal.
‘Hello, stranger,’ I greeted Nick Thomas that evening. He looked pale and drawn, but managed a smile of sorts. The sort he’d probably once used as he sat down to interview suspects. So where had he spent his weekend? ‘You should have been in yesterday – lovely roasts for lunch, there were.’
‘I supposed there wouldn’t be a slice or two left to make a sandwich?’ He looked like a Bisto kid sniffing in vain.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’ If I had to sacrifice that nice slice of roast turkey breast I’d been keeping for my supper, I might as well ask outright. ‘Where have you been all weekend?’
‘I had a case in Hampshire –’
‘Hampshire?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you work weekends?’ When he didn’t respond, I said, ‘I suppose you’re used to working weird hours –’ I bit off what I’d been going to say. It was I who’d started this idea that he was a civil servant – no need to blow his cover.
He nodded absently.
‘I’ll get that sandwich, then.’
He was still nursing his drink, the backs of the other boozers firmly against him, when I carried it through to him. Not a bad sandwich, either. Occasionally I went really wild and baked my own bread, freezing batches of loaves or rolls. Sometimes, at three in the morning, when I really did panic over the future of this place, I’d sneak down and fish out a roll, microwave it and smother it in butter fresh from the Taunton farmers’ market. Bliss. Even if I could almost see calories massing. I hadn’t given Nick one of these special small rolls. But he had a couple of chunky slices of organic loaf, thickly carved turkey with home-made mayonnaise and a neat little side salad in case he was the sort of man who usually ignored the five portions of vegetables rule.
‘If you work in Hampshire, why did you come to live here?’ I asked, setting it in front of him. He could hitch himself up on a bar stool or take it to a patio table.
‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’
‘But you’d do better somewhere nearer Exeter and the M5.’
‘It’s not so very far from the M5 here, is it?’
I wasn’t going to spend the whole evening discussing road communication, so I smiled and turned my attention to bar stock. He withdrew to a table.
When he’d finished, I drifted over to collect the plate. ‘Tell me, why should rain make a stream turn pink?’
He shrugged.
‘The sort of pink Sue’s water must have been when she bathed your scratches.’
He flushed deeply. ‘She was kind. A good sort. I suppose I should have gone to church yesterday.’
‘It never hurts to swell the numbers,’ I agreed.
‘I wouldn’t have put you down as a devout Christian.’
‘My beliefs are my own affair. But if you don’t support the ancient institutions that keep the village together how will they survive? And they’ll be missed when they’ve gone. Like this pub and the village shop.’ Maybe it was time to hop off my hobby-horse. I grinned. ‘And you could have seen the stream for yourself. I called the water company but they couldn’t have been less interested.’
‘That’s officialdom for you. Good sandwich,’ he said, heaving himself to his feet. ‘I’d best be off – I ought to unpack a few more boxes.’
‘You could check the stream, too – it rises on Bulcombe’s land. At least, it’s not really his, of course, any more than the campsite is – he rents it from the Greville estate. And this morning he was off in his waders with a spade.’
‘Problem?’
‘Only that the consequence is that the stream is hardly flowing at all now.’
‘So where has all the water gone?’
‘You tell me, Copper. You tell me.’
Telling Sue Clayton about our joint triumph over the hunt was the least I could do. In private, not with a couple of dozen parishioners milling round shaking hands and smiling after morning service. Should I beard her in her den, possibly catching her unawares, or do the decent thing and ask her back to my place when I accidentally met her as we were buying our Guardians?
Any plans had to go by the board, however, when I arrived to find the shop seething with gossip. It seemed that Fred Tregothnan had disappeared. I didn’t think he’d been so upset by our tiff that he’d have flitted. But one or two people looked surreptitiously in my direction, and one or two quite pointedly, so I took care not to mention it. In any case, I pointed out when it was clear I had to shove my oar in, he was a grown man and, like the rest of us, was allowed to take a break when he needed it.
Barbara Coyne was standing by the counter, hand held out for her regular papers – the Mail and the Telegraph. ‘Totally irresponsible,’ she declared. I wasn’t sure whether she meant Fred or me. ‘You’ve obviously no idea how much a rural community depends on its vet. Just skipping off without a locum. Poor Caroline Greville had to take her dog all the way to Taunton.’
Mention a dog in the village, and of course everyone goes doolally. The topic of Tregothnan was swamped in enquiries about the animal’s health and anecdotes about dogs – and vets – the speakers had known. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by offering my real opinions of what Tony used to call mobile poo factories, so I simply took my paper from Claire, Lindi’s older and more responsible sister, and slipped out. Sue was just parking – or rather, abandoning her poor vehicle with its front wheels jammed into the kerb. The rear ones were still calling for help from the middle of the road. It would have made an interesting project for Nick to teach her a few police driving skills. Even cleaning the headlights – necessary on a day as dark as this – might have made a difference.
She got out slowly, hunching her shoulders and turning up her raincoat collar. The wind lashed her hair across her face: she had to pick strands from her mouth between sentences, which meant her coat flew open. Why didn’t she simply button it and have done? But that was Sue for you.
‘What’s this about you and the hunt, Josie?’
‘You’ve heard already?’
‘From about ten different people.’
‘Pleased or otherwise?’
‘Mrs Coyne was chuffed. But too disgusted with you to admit it. I suppose the rest were divided fifty-fifty. I’m surprised no one buttonholed you after morning service yesterday.’
I wasn’t. I’d long since perfected the art of catching only the eyes I wanted to catch.
‘Sunday lunch to supervise,’ I said tersely. ‘Anyway, there’s more news to put mine in the shade. Fred Tregothnan’s done a flit.’
If only there’d been enough light to read her face. Or less wind, so I could have worked out whether she really was swaying on her feet. ‘Why?’ she asked after a perceptible delay. Though it might have been caused by that flying hair.
I shrugged hugely. ‘Maybe because I told him off. Maybe because he’s got a new girlfriend in Plymouth. Who knows?’
‘But – missing? Really a missing person?’
‘That’s what rumour says. Hey, let’s go round to his house and have a look. Come on, Sue, it’s your morning off. Come and do something schoolgirlish and then I’ll brew you your best cup of coffee this week.’
In the half-light, which was obviously all we were going to get this morning, Tregothnan’s house looked unexpectedly forlorn. He’d never maintained it to the picture postcard standards of most of the village. Judging by the slippery moss beside the front door, one of his gutters had been blocked for some time. The paint was peeling, too, and what we could see of his curtains suggested they hadn’t seen a cleaner’s since they’d been hung. The side entrance, to his surgery, was better maintained, and his brass plate was like a beacon.
Sue set off round the back like a greyhound
‘Hey, where are you going?’
‘To look for the key, of course,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘His mother always used to keep it under a flowerpot. I’ll bet he does too.’
He did. We stood and stared, Sue at the key, me at Sue. ‘You really can’t use it, you know,’ I said. ‘Go on, cover it up again.’
‘But if –?’ She was wild-eyed, pointing at the house.
I patted her arm – time to bring her back to reality. ‘If he’s officially a missing person, the police will have checked he’s not lying ill inside,’ I said, quite gently.
‘But if they haven’t –’
‘And if they found us in there we’d have a lot of explaining to do. I’m sorry, Sue, it was a stupid idea. Really stupid. Let’s go and have that coffee.’
Her lower lip trembled into a stubborn line. ‘As the village pastor –’
Trying to sound grudgingly reluctant, I said, ‘OK. I’ll come with you.’ The key almost leapt into my hand.
Leaving our muddy shoes on the mat, we stepped from a tiny scullery, still with a crock sink and a utility electric cooker, into the kitchen. Apparently he’d shared the house with his mother, inheriting it when she died in her late eighties. He must have been a child of her middle age. It looked as if she’d stopped decorating the moment he was born, and he’d made no changes since her death. It smelt of damp and toast and bacon. The kitchen led into a short passage to the front door. To the right was a door that must lead to the surgery – I wasn’t interested in that. The bedrooms and living room were more my line. Especially the latter – though just for the record I went upstairs first, to make sure we weren’t sharing the place with a corpse. No, the bathroom, cheerless as you’d imagine a monk’s, and both bedrooms, were unoccupied. There was a frowsty male smell, bedclothes including an old-fashioned quilt tumbling onto the unvacced floor as if he’d just got out of bed. The back bedroom, once his mother’s to judge from the floral wallpaper and framed prints, was just a junk room.
Downstairs, then.
To my amazement Sue was ferreting through his bureau. ‘Address book. Bank details. The police’ll need them.’
And would have been happy to find them themselves, no doubt. However, her good-heartedness gave me the chance to look at his books – he had a row of what looked like first editions of scientific books, with a scattering of philosophy – not at all what I’d have expected. If ever a man was a porn man, it was Fred. I’d bet a week’s takings there’d be some highly dubious stuff on the hard disk of the state of the art computer sitting uneasily on a fifties table next to a well-worn armchair. I could almost see him sitting there perving away. What I couldn’t work out was why a professional man with a decent small animal practice, not to mention his farm work, should live in such a museum piece. What did he spend his money on? Not clothes, not car, certainly not home.
‘Have you found anything?’
Sue shook her head. ‘I wonder where else I should look.’ She peered round the room.
‘His dispensary? I mean, he’d have to keep all his practice records somewhere – perhaps he lumped everything together.’ I went through into the hall and stared at the door. It had a couple of serious locks – all the drugs he needed to keep, I suppose. I put my nose to one of the keyholes and sniffed. No, nothing but the smell of doggy wee that veterinary disinfectant never quite eradicates. Not a body, I’d stake my life on it.
There was a loud rattle at the front door. Sue and I grabbed each other. I twigged first. ‘Post, I suppose.’ I toddled off to have a look. Yes, a heap of what looked like circulars, nothing personal. I leafed through it twice, just to make sure.
Shrugging, I called, ‘Time we left the experts have a go, Sue.’
She followed me reluctantly, hugging her coat round her and slipping her shoes on as slowly as a bullied kid on the way to school. She was clearly in two minds over the key. With an ambiguous glance at me, she replaced it under the pot.
‘You said you’d told him off,’ she said, turning back slowly to the street.
‘I found him with his hand in Lindi’s knickers. Literally. Broad daylight. Stupid girl stood there giggling. God knows why she didn’t tip his drink over his head. I would have.’
She laughed, the sound brushed away by the wind. ‘I’ll bet you would.’
Tuesday night was WeightWatchers night in Taunton, and it would take more than a drop of rain to put me off. Actually, it was rather more than a drop. It hadn’t stopped all day. Much to my disappointment at lunchtime the snug had been almost empty – I’d have loved a good turnout of settle men, all seething with speculation about Fred and eyeing me meaningfully. I doubted if there’d be many more that evening. All the regulars knew there wasn’t much in the way of food on Tuesdays, and there’d be no passing trade, not if people had any sense. So I took myself into Taunton early, scuttling to the library so I could carry on checking Luke Greville. Actually, now I’d met his mother, I didn’t want him to be an out and out villain. Perhaps if he’d just committed a sexual peccadillo with a consenting adult I wouldn’t have objected. Especially one with a happy ending. But it was frustrating, all the same, to find that although the Fraud Squad had reportedly investigated his affairs, no charges were ever pressed. The papers were very cagey about making direct allegations – hadn’t they ever heard of Publish and be damned? There was nothing obvious about Nick Thomas, either, though I noted a number of crimes in Brum that had been dramatic enough to creep into the Times. I’d get Nesta on to all of them.
After a cup of tea – yes, literally that, no milk, no sugar and certainly no sticky bun – I dropped into the WeightWatchers session and had the satisfaction of having lost another two pounds and a bit of an ounce. I stopped long enough for a natter with a couple of women I know by sight, before paddling back to the car.
Despite my elation, I wondered if I’d been foolish to come out. No. I didn’t wonder. I knew. The A road was awash, and we got diverted well before Kings Duncombe. It was hard to tell road from puddle, and at times I was scared by the feeling that the car was being sucked away even as I drove. On one corner the flashing lights of a fire engine illuminated the ghostly figures of householders trying to rescue their furniture as their house was pumped out. Poor sods. Thank God the White Hart stood at the higher end of the village. I wouldn’t give much for the shop’s chances if the stream overflowed its banks.
Someone from the council, swifter to respond to an excess of water than the water company had been to an excess of colour in water, had already dropped off ROAD CLOSED signs. I got diverted several more times, before I saw the lights of the village ahead. Even as I pulled into the pond that was my car park, they started to gutter. Candles? Yes, I had plenty of those. Open fires. Food. Drink. No problem. I could hole up here as long as it took, and make the White Hart the centre of the community it was supposed to be. My predecessor had boasted that he’d never closed even when the village was cut off for eight days by six feet of snow. If he could do it, I could do it. Even if the water lapped and swirled round my feet as I stepped from the car, it was well clear of the four steep steps to the back door.
I stepped into total darkness and a girl’s scream.
‘Lucy? Is that you?’
‘Mrs Welford?’ A hand gripped my arm. ‘It’s only you!’
‘Who were you expecting it to be?’
‘I dunno. But –’
‘Just pass me the torch from the hall table. Where it always is. Thanks. There, that’s better. Hang on, what the hell’s that lot?’ I pointed the torch at a heap of white at her feet.
‘Sheets, Mrs Welford. And blankets, like. I’ve been airing them.’
‘Airing them? Why? And why you? Where’s Lindi? Oh, light some candles, girl, and then you can tell me exactly what’s been going on.’