Sunday, and a small band of children, using everything from strips of cardboard wrapped in bin bags to sheets of tin and plywood as makeshift toboggans, swooshed and tumbled down the hill above the village of Ashton Prior. They’d been at it all afternoon, each run a little shorter than the last as the patch of snow receded beneath a watery sun and the pounding of many feet. Now the light was fading, and the children began to drift away, stopping now and then to scoop up snow and try to ram it down someone else’s neck. They’d be soaking wet and half frozen by the time they got home, but Paget doubted if that would bother them for very long. All they would remember was that they’d had fun on Christmas Eve.
Which was more than he was having, he thought glumly as he set the binoculars aside. There had been no sign of the watcher since the police had searched the hillside, and no wonder, the way they’d arrived on the scene. Even so, he had to assume that he was being
watched at least some of the time, so he couldn’t afford to let down his guard.
He slumped into a chair and put his head back. The dull ache at the base of his skull continued to throb, low, insistent, reminding him of DeWitt’s words on Friday.
“It’s your own fault,” he’d said bluntly. “If you’d rested as I told you, chances are that pressure would be gone and you’d have been ready to go back to work by now. But no, you had to do it your way, and you’re paying for it now. I know you’ve been telling me everything is all right, but I don’t believe you. Whatever else you may be, Mr. Paget, you are not a convincing liar. And I suspect your eyes have been giving you trouble as well, haven’t they?”
He hadn’t waited for an answer. He didn’t need to, for Paget felt rather like a schoolboy under the gimlet eye of a stern headmaster, and his face betrayed it.
“Go home and rest, and I mean complete rest this time!” had been DeWitt’s parting shot. “Stop whatever you’re doing at the least sign of fatigue, and lie down.”
Yesterday hadn’t been too bad. He’d paced himself with household chores. He’d walked down to the village to shop for fresh food—walking was all right, but nothing strenuous, DeWitt had advised—and to arrange for a large bouquet of flowers to be sent to Mrs. Wentworth. He’d stopped for a ploughman’s lunch at the White Hart on his way back, and spent much of the afternoon preparing dinner. It had passed the time, but by the end of the day, with no one to talk to, nothing on the radio or TV but bad news interspersed with endless carols, he’d gone to bed early and settled down to read Sarum, the book Grace had brought him in hospital.
Twenty past three: that was what the clock had said when he awoke this morning, cold and stiff, still propped up in bed, the book lying on the floor, and the light still on. He’d snuggled down in bed and tried to go back to sleep, but kept thinking of Mary Carr’s daughter, Gillanne, and the tragic way she’d died.
He got up at five and, for the lack of something better to do, loaded the washing machine with every scrap of clothing, sheets, and towels that he could find. By eight o’clock the clothes had gone through the dryer, and he’d had his breakfast, done the washing up, and set out to do the ironing. It had taken him twice as long as it would have taken Mrs. Wentworth, but at least it passed the time.
Mindful of the possibility that Mary Carr might not have finished with him yet, he had gone to the windows several times throughout the afternoon to keep a watchful eye on the road and surrounding hills. He noted cars and vans and trucks—even bicycles and the occasional walker—moving up and down the hill outside the house, but it seemed a bit silly after a while. The threat on the phone had been real enough, but that was probably all it was, a threat, just another way of putting him on edge, or in Mary’s words, to make him suffer.
He was dozing when the phone rang. The sound startled him, and he was only half awake when he picked up the phone and said, “Hello?”
“Neil?”
“Grace?”
“Yes. Are you all right? You sound … Did I wake you?”
Paget shook his head to clear it, wondering why Grace was phoning from Sheffield. “No, no … well, yes, you did, actually. Nodded off in the chair. It’s been a grey day. How are things in Sheffield?”
“Fine, except I’m not in Sheffield. I’m calling from home.”
“But I thought … Someone said you’d gone home for Christmas.”
“I did, but we celebrated Christmas a few days early. Mum and Dad are spending Christmas with my grandparents, who retired to the south of France a couple of years ago, so the plan was to have our usual family Christmas in Sheffield on Thursday. Unfortunately, my younger brother, Alex—you know, the one I told you about, the one who loves golf?—had an opportunity to go to Florida to play in a tournament there, and my other brother, Bob, went down with the
flu on Tuesday, so it was a bit of a flop. Anyway, I’m back home again, and I have all this food I brought back with me, and I was wondering if you’d like to join me for Christmas dinner tomorrow?”
The temperature had plummeted overnight, and a fresh layer of snow blanketed the ground. A rising sun outlined the leafless trees in gold, and their shadows lay like lace upon the pristine whiteness. Everything was still. The air was crisp and clean, and Paget filled his lungs as he stepped outside and locked the door behind him. He stood there for a moment drinking in the beauty of the countryside, and listening to the muted sound of squabbling rooks across the valley.
He paused only long enough to brush the snow off the steps before getting the car out and making sure the garage door was securely locked. Tyres crunched as he backed into the road and set off down the hill, touching the brakes lightly to test the icy surface of the road. The village was deserted; not a soul to be seen this Christmas morning. He turned on the radio. More carols. “The Little Drummer Boy”—again. After listening to that particular carol for what must have been the tenth time yesterday, he could have cheerfully beaten the kid and his infernal drum into the ground with his own drumsticks, but today the words took on new meaning, and he found himself humming along with the choir.
It wasn’t only the lifting of the grey skies that made him feel better, although the sight of the sun was a welcome change; it was the thought of seeing Grace again. Yesterday, the prospect of spending yet another Christmas alone had been a gloomy one; in fact, the sooner it was over, the better, as far as he was concerned. But Grace’s unexpected invitation had changed all that.
She’d phoned again first thing this morning. “Come as soon as you’re ready,” she told him, “and bring your boots if you think you’re up to a bit of a walk before dinner. It’s such a beautiful day. The mist is on the river and all the trees are covered in frost, so I
thought it might be nice to go through the park and take the path along the bank. You can tell me all about your trip to London, and this woman, Mary Carr.”
He stood there for a long moment after he put the phone down. Was he doing the right thing? he wondered. Grace’s reference to Mary Carr had reminded him that he could be putting her at risk if they were seen together. On the other hand, with her picture in every newspaper and on every television screen, chances were that Mary Carr had gone to ground until the heat died down. She’d hardly be out walking the river path on Christmas Day.
“So stop being so bloody paranoid and go out and enjoy yourself,” he told himself, and went to find his boots.
They walked through the park behind the hospital and along the river-bank as far as the bridge. The path ran high above the river, and Grace tucked her hand under Paget’s arm as they negotiated the icy patches close to the edge. He was reminded of the night Kate Regan had done the same as they walked around the building to their cars. He had tried to call her when he heard that she’d been injured, but no one seemed to know exactly where she was. Wherever she was, he hoped she was enjoying Christmas Day as much as he was. She certainly deserved a break.
They didn’t talk much; there was no need. The mist had lifted by the time they came in sight of the King George Street bridge, but the frosted fairyland remained, and sunlight glinted on the sparkling waters far below. They turned as one, and walked back to a wooden bench that overlooked the river, and while Paget brushed off the snow, Grace took sandwiches and a flask of coffee from a shoulder bag.
“This wouldn’t be Christmas dinner, by any chance?” he asked as she handed him a sandwich.
“You mean you expected more?” she laughed. “Sorry, but I
could never quite get the hang of cooking. Far too complicated for me. Disappointed?”
He pulled a face as he poked at the empty bag. “What, no Christmas pud? Good Lord, woman, you can’t have Christmas without the pudding. You could at least have picked one up at Marks and Sparks.”
“There’s no pleasing some people,” she sighed as she poured the coffee. “Think yourself lucky I brought this along, but I was afraid that, in your delicate state of health, you might be too weak to make it back without some sort of sustenance.” The smile faded from Grace’s face. “But seriously, how are you feeling, Neil?”
“Never felt better,” he assured her, and meant it. If the day had ended here, he couldn’t have been more content.
“I’m glad.” Grace handed him a mug. They sat side by side on the narrow bench, shoulders touching companionably, munching sandwiches, drinking coffee, and savouring the warmth of the winter sun. Grace closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun. “You haven’t said a word about the case or what happened in London,” she said quietly.
“To be honest, I’d just as soon forget it on such a lovely day,” he told her, “but there is one thing you should know. I think the chances of my being watched are virtually nil at the moment, but if I’m wrong, just being seen with me could expose you to danger. And the more I think about it, the more I think I had no right to do this to you, Grace.”
She opened her eyes and turned to look at him. “Don’t you think I knew that before I asked you to come today? I’ve been speaking to Charlie since I came back from Sheffield, and he’s been keeping on top of things, so I’m think I’m pretty well up to date.”
“And still you asked me?”
Grace smiled. “As you said, chances are that Mary Carr is a good long way from here by now, so why not? Let’s forget about her and enjoy the day.”
They remained there for a long time, reluctant to move or break the spell until the cold began to chill their bones. They rose to leave, and in what was almost an unconscious gesture, Paget took Grace’s hand and tucked it under his arm as they started back. She wriggled her arm as if she found it uncomfortable, and he thought she was trying to pull away, but instead she linked her fingers with his own, and he felt a thrill of pleasure.
As they left the river path and came out on Edge Hill Road, Grace cupped her free hand around her eyes to shield them from the sun. A man in a dark blue anorak had left the path ahead of them and was scrambling up the bank to take a shortcut to the road above. He had his back to her, and she wouldn’t have noticed him at all if it hadn’t been for his abrupt departure from the path, when another ten yards would have brought him to the road.
Must be late for something, she decided as he jumped into a car. She heard the engine start, the grate of gears, and watched as the car shot round the corner into Barnfield Road and disappeared.
“What is it, Grace?” Paget followed her gaze across the road. There was nothing there of interest that he could see.
“Oh. Sorry.” She took his arm again. “Just wondering what that man was late for, that’s all.”
“What man?” Apart from the odd glance round to make sure they weren’t being followed, he’d hardly taken his eyes off Grace throughout the morning.
“The one who got into that car and took off in such a hurry,” she explained. “I’m afraid I’m always doing that—watching people and wondering why they do the things they do. It was probably the clock.”
“The clock?”
“The church clock just struck the hour a couple of minutes ago. He probably heard it and realized he was going to be late for dinner—or whatever.”
“Speaking of which, shouldn’t we be going?”
Grace shook her head despairingly. “You sound just like my
brother Alex. He has an appetite like a horse. How he stays as trim as he does, I don’t know. Me, I have to work at it all the time.”
“Believe me, it works,” Paget said with such sincerity that she squeezed his arm and said, “You’ll do anything to get a Christmas dinner, won’t you, Chief Inspector?”
“I will indeed,” he said as they set off once more.
They continued the walk in silence, breathing in the fresh, clean air and listening to the squeak of snow beneath their boots. Paget was almost afraid to speak for fear it would break the spell, while Grace was trying to catch a fleeting memory as faint as a wisp of smoke before it disappeared. There had been something familiar about the man in the dark blue anorak, but for the life of her she couldn’t think what it was.
Tregalles couldn’t understand it. Philip and Lilian had arrived on Sunday, loaded down with presents for the kids as usual, and Lilian had been on her best behaviour. She had greeted him with a chaste kiss on the cheek, and had been the model of decorum ever since. But she could still put away the wine, and he could see that even with the two extra bottles Audrey had prodded him into buying, Lilian would be into the vin ordinaire by the middle of the week.
She’d sat next to him at dinner, pulled crackers with him, and worn a paper hat, but not once had she made so much as a gesture that might be construed as an advance.
But then, he told himself, a year had passed; perhaps Lilian’s flirtatious phase was over and he could relax. In fact, he was rather enjoying her company this time. She was still a little overweight, but it looked good on her. Good figure, trim legs—and she had a wicked sense of humour.
She was good with the children, too. She and Philip had no children of their own, but she joined right in the children’s games. As Brian said later on his way to bed, “Auntie Lil’s a super sport. Wish she lived here all the time.”
Good for Brian, Tregalles thought when Audrey told him, but perhaps it was just as well Lilian was only staying the week. But even that prospect seemed less threatening now. Perhaps he should have taken a few days off after all.
Philip hadn’t changed. Talked as if he were lecturing a class; explained every boring detail of his very important work with the BBC, and how much poor old Radio Shropshire was relying on him to guide them through this difficult transition to digital, a term he never did get around to explaining fully—and Tregalles was careful not to ask.
He also informed them that he’d developed a back problem, and found it difficult to sleep in anything but a soft bed. Excruciating pain. Pinched nerve, his specialist had said, and not a hope in hell of having anything done about it under the NHS for at least a year. But he refused to go private as a matter of principle.
“To say nothing of parting with his money,” Lilian had added quietly.
But Audrey’s sympathy had been aroused. “Then you must have our bed,” she said firmly, ignoring the startled look on her husband’s face. “We’ll be very comfortable on the pull-out bed down here, won’t we, love?”
It wasn’t so much a question as a command. The look she gave him dared him to say anything but yes.
“Oh, yes, very comfortable,” he agreed, giving up all hope that three nights on the pull-out bed might have been enough to make Philip change his mind about staying on.
Friars Walk was one of the oldest and narrowest streets in Broadminster. The original Tudor houses at the top end of the street looked much as they had when they were first built. In fact, they were now merely shells, their facades fronting for boutiques, gift shops, a tea house, and a thriving sausage and pie shop, all of which attracted tourists. Those at the lower end of the street were much
newer, having been rebuilt after a fire destroyed seven houses and the Odd Fellows hall on the corner in 1926. While similar in style and pleasing to the eye, they, too, were not what they seemed. They had started life as houses, but had evolved over the years into flats: two small rooms and a kitchen downstairs, and one bedroom and bath upstairs.
Grace lived in number 11, back to back with the houses facing the market square, “With a view of the minster ruins if you stand on tiptoe in the bedroom,” she told Paget as she led the way inside. There was a Christmas tree in the corner, holly on the mantel, decorations strung across the living room, and the warm, delicious smell of a turkey roasting in the oven to greet them as they entered. “That doesn’t smell like leftovers to me,” he observed as he removed his hiking boots and replaced them with shoes. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I’m counting on it,” Grace told him. “Come on through to the kitchen. You can test the turkey while I see to the vegetables.”
Working so closely together in the confines of the tiny kitchen, Paget found it hard to concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing. He couldn’t take his eyes off Grace; the way she moved, the curve of her neck, the softness of her cheek, the glint of light upon her hair …
“What?” Belatedly, he realized that Grace had been talking to him.
“I said the turkey needs one last basting before you take it out of the oven.” She turned to face him. “You are all right, aren’t you, Neil?”
“I’m fine,” he assured her. “Never better. Honestly. Sorry, Grace, but I was miles away.”
She eyed him suspiciously, then nodded. “In that case, I’d better baste the turkey while you open the wine. Freshen up our taste buds before we sit down to dinner.”
Paget had brought the wine, but felt embarrassed for not having a gift for Grace. In fact, he had agonized over that very question
more than a week ago, but talked himself out of it on the grounds that she might think it presumptuous of him, and be embarrassed for not having a gift for him.
So much for reason, he thought ruefully as he opened the wine.
Grace sat on the floor, her long legs tucked under her, back against his chair as they listened to some of her favourite tapes from the seventies and eighties. The only light in the room came from the tree, soft, multicoloured rays that seemed to make her blonde hair flow like liquid gold around her shoulders.
He sighed softly. Grace looked up, a question in her eyes.
“That was a sigh of perfect contentment,” he told her. “I don’t know when I’ve felt so utterly relaxed and happy.”
“I’m glad,” she said as she rose to her feet and held out her hand. “Care to dance?”
“Dance?”
“Yes. It’s a thing you do to music with your feet. I’m sure you must have heard of it. It’s been going on for aeons.”
“I haven’t danced in years,” he confessed. “I was never very good at it, and I suspect I’ve forgotten altogether by now.”
“It’s like riding a bike,” she told him. “You never forget.”
“Everyone always says that when they’re trying to get you to make a fool of yourself,” he grumbled as he got to his feet and set his glass aside. “It’s a very small dance floor.”
“It’s big enough.” Grace held out her arms.
“You’re not wearing shoes,” he objected.
“I like to dance without shoes. Any other excuses?”
“You’ll regret this,” he warned as he drew her into his arms.
“It’s a waltz,” Grace told him.
“I know it’s a waltz. It’s just that my feet haven’t caught up yet.”
He was rusty, but as their bodies melded together, he found himself responding to the music, and they moved as one. With the gentlest of pressures, Grace guided him around the small room, nudging
chairs out of the way as they went. He could smell the fragrance of her hair, feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers.
They danced through three more numbers before the tape came to an end. It switched itself off, but they remained standing there in the middle of the room, bodies swaying as if to their own silent rhythm. Grace looked up at him; he drew her closer, kissed her gently.
Her arms tightened around his neck as she responded, and suddenly there was no time, no space, no dimension to a universe that was theirs, and theirs alone.