Paget rose early Sunday morning to catch up on the washing and ironing. He’d slept late on Saturday, drained of energy after the long
drive home on Friday. They’d encountered everything from rain to sleet to snow and icy roads. But that wasn’t the only reason for his lassitude. He’d paid almost no attention to his diet for the past three days, and neither had he been drinking anywhere near the amount of liquids recommended by his doctor.
Fortunately, Tregalles had reminded him to pick up a few things on the way home on Friday. It was just as well he had, because there were no fresh vegetables in the house, no bread, and the milk in the fridge was definitely off.
On Saturday afternoon, he’d made himself an omelette consisting of eggs, cheese, and tofu for protein, together with tomatoes, onions, spinach, and grated carrots, which took care of the vegetables; and several slices of toast and a very large pot of tea. That took care of the carbohydrates, and he’d read somewhere that tea was supposed to help ward off cancer. Not quite, perhaps, what the dietitian had had in mind when she’d given him the food guide, but it seemed to do the trick. At least he felt better, and after a hearty breakfast of sausage and eggs on Sunday morning, he felt fit for work again.
But by noon he could feel his newfound energy slipping away, and he stopped to make himself a cheese sandwich and a pot of tea. As he sat there sipping tea, his thoughts turned to Andrea, and he wondered if she had finally got this Sten whatsisname settled into his new place. Funny how she’d managed to find the time to do that, yet he and Andrea had always found it difficult to get together because of the unsociable hours they were forced to work. An unworthy thought, he told himself. It was only natural that she should do everything she could to help the man she’d known since childhood, especially when he was trying to make a new life for himself and young daughter.
Paget poured himself another cup of tea, picked up the phone, and punched in Andrea’s number.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“Ah! Mrs. Ansell. Neil Paget here. Is Andrea there, please?”
“No, I’m afraid she’s not, Mr. Paget. She’s out. There’s just me and the two girls here. Can I take a message? She’ll be back about four. She’s helping Mr. Wallen redecorate his flat. They were at it all day yesterday, but they reckon they should be done by four today, so they’re coming back here for dinner. There’s a joint roasting in the oven, and I’m keeping an eye on that as well as looking after the girls. Not that they take much looking after. They play ever so well together. I love watching them. Just like sisters, they are, and young Heather was ever so thrilled when her dad told her she could sleep here for a night or two until the smell of the new paint is gone in her bedroom.”
Mrs. Ansell paused briefly for breath. “Was there a message for the doctor, Mr. Paget?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Ansell. I’ll probably talk to her later in the week.”
“I’ll tell her you called, then,” the woman said, “but it was nothing special. Goodbye, Mr. Paget.”
Paget put the phone down and picked up his tea. Mrs. Ansell was right, he thought wryly. It was nothing special. Nothing special at all.
The grandfather clock in the hall had just finished striking the half-hour when he heard a car pull up outside. Two-thirty. The sky had cleared, but dusk and lowering clouds were nudging daylight from the stage.
He opened the door. “Grace, this is a pleasant surprise,” he greeted her as she ran lightly up the steps.
“Can’t stop long,” she said as he closed the door. She stripped off her gloves and rubbed her hands. “Heater in the car is on the blink,” she explained, “and it’s very cold out there.”
“Got time for a cup of tea?” he asked. “The fire’s on in the living room. Why don’t you go in and get warm while I put the kettle on.”
She glanced at her watch. “That sounds lovely,” she said, but instead of going into the living room, she followed him into the kitchen and undid her sheepskin-lined coat. The high collar and her golden hair framed her face; her cheeks were pink with cold, and her eyes …
Paget caught his breath. It was as if her presence there had brought new light and life into the house. He stood there, eyes fixed on her face, the kettle in his hand forgotten.
Grace eyed him suspiciously. “What?” she asked, touching her hair self-consciously. “I know my hair’s a mess. I must look as if I’ve been dragged through a hedge backward, but it’s been one of those days.”
“No, no, really,” he assured her hurriedly. “You look absolutely marvellous.” He felt his face grow warm, and turned away so she would not see the rush of colour. “What brings you out this way?” he asked to cover his confusion.
“I came to see a neighbour of yours about the New Year’s Day walk. Jack Collins. He’s our chief marshal. Perhaps you know him. He and his wife, Mary, plan most of the walks for the Border Patrol—that’s what we call ourselves since most of our walks criss-cross the Welsh border—and I sometimes give them a hand. We’re starting and finishing at the old Claybury Station. It’s not a long walk, seven or eight miles, something like that, but for those who feel it’s a bit too much”—she grinned—“like convalescing DCIs, there are a couple of optional shortcuts that bring it down to five or three.”
Grace settled into a chair. “So, since you’ve broken in your boots again, and rediscovered the joys of tramping in the hills, I thought I’d pop in and ask if you’d care to join us.”
“That was thoughtful of you, Grace. Ummm …” He could barely remember the question. “Can I let you know later?”
A shadow crossed her face. “What is it, Neil?” Her voice was filled with concern. “You sound … I don’t know … different. You’ve been overdoing it again, haven’t you? Charlie said you’d
been running around the country with Tregalles, and I did wonder.” She shook her head in mild exasperation. “Honestly, Neil, you need a minder. You are supposed to be resting. Why don’t you relax and let Tregalles and Alcott and the others do their job? They do know what they’re doing. I know you hate to be on the sidelines, but there’s no telling what damage you might do to yourself if you keep this up.”
“It’s not that,” he said distantly. “It’s … Well, perhaps I did overdo it a bit.” The words came from some preprogrammed part of the brain that had nothing to do with what he was feeling—an emotion so powerful, so completely unexpected, that he was sure it would betray him if he dared to show his face. He concentrated on the task of warming the teapot, while trying desperately to make sense of what had happened in that moment when he’d looked at Grace just now. It had, quite literally, taken his breath away.
He opened a cupboard and took a deep breath to steady his voice. “Like a biscuit with your tea?” he asked. “Or some of Mrs. Wentworth’s shortbread? She made such a lot before she left. I sent some home with Tregalles, but I still have far more than I can eat—or should. It’s very good.” He arranged an assortment on a plate and set it on the table. “Tea will be ready in a minute.”
“There’s something wrong, isn’t there, Neil? This isn’t like you.”
He sank into a chair and forced himself to face her across the table. “I’m just tired, that’s all,” he said. “Sorry I’m such poor company.”
“You know,” said Grace, “for a man with a reputation for being brilliant, you can be awfully dense when it comes to your own well-being.” She smiled when she said it, but concern showed in her eyes. “Please, Neil, let the case alone and let the others do their job. Just concentrate on getting better.”
Later, as he saw her to the door, Grace turned to him. “Promise me that you’ll get some rest,” she said, pulling on her gloves.
“I will,” he assured her. “And you take care yourself. How are the roads?”
“A bit icy in spots, but not bad. See you, Neil.”
As the car disappeared from sight, Paget was about to close the door when something caught his eye. A flash of light from partway up the hillside on the opposite side of the road. It was gone in a second, but he was sure he hadn’t imagined it.
He closed the door and went in search of his binoculars, then moved to the front window and stood behind the curtain. Adjusting the range, he scanned the hillside. Nothing moved. He’d seen sheep there earlier in the day, but now there wasn’t the slightest sign of life. He focused on the spot from which he thought he’d seen the flash of light, slowly working his way up the hill.
There! Tucked almost out of sight was some sort of covering, canvas by the look of it, probably army surplus, and in the dark opening, Paget could see what looked like a man’s head. Someone was watching the house.
He set the binoculars aside and picked up the phone.
The light had gone, and so had the watcher on the hill. “Lost the trail on the other side of the hill,” the dog handler explained. “Must have packed up before we got there and had a car waiting on the track that leads down the back of the hill to the village. We could try asking if anyone down there noticed a strange car coming off the track.”
“And tomorrow he’ll have another car,” Paget snapped angrily, while silently berating himself for not following his instincts and going after the man himself. But it would have taken him at least half an hour to circle round behind the watcher’s hide if he were to avoid being seen, so he had done it by the book. He’d called for assistance, explaining what he needed. But it was Sunday, and more than an hour later by the time two constables and a tracker dog arrived in a police car you could spot for miles.
No wonder they’d lost the watcher. He’d even had time to roll up his pup tent or whatever it was and take it with him. All the searchers found was a flat patch in the grass. No cigarette butts, no matches, no empty pop cans or sandwich wrappers. Nothing!
So much for doing it by the book!