Chapter Thirty-Two

The men who worked at Bevelton’s Tractors were somewhat bemused by the order to dig up their own yard. At first they thought that their boss, Henry Bevelton, was joking, but one look at his face told them that he found the situation far from funny. If they had not understood before, when two policemen turned up to watch the proceedings, they realised that it was no laughing matter.

Henry Bevelton, who was a wiry little man with a strangely plump face and bulbous nose, had decided that he had better be nice to the policemen – since he wanted his yard putting back in exactly the order that it had been in before this started, all costs borne by the constabulary, as he had been promised – and get Gloria, his accounts lady, to offer them some tea. They accepted, but declined his offer to drink it in the tiny cockloft of an office into which his own desk and Gloria’s were crammed, explaining that they needed to watch the digging all of the time. Gloria was therefore tasked with carrying tea out to them.

After a considerable delay, they saw her approaching. She picked her way through the mud and debris of the yard, cursing every time one of her black patent stilettos got caught in the uneven tarmac, her ample bosoms tightly encased in a slippery red garment and heaving with the effort. She plonked down two scarlet mugs adorned with the logo of a tyre company on a workbench near where they were standing, and inelegantly stumped off back towards her office without saying a word.

“Thank you!” called out PC Gary Cooper (whose mother had had a sense of humour that he had not appreciated as a child). He elicited no response, and shrugged as he watched Gloria’s black-clad bottom retreat. He picked up both mugs and handed the other one to PC Chakrabati.

“Put your hands round that,” he said. “It’s going to be cold, standing here.”

A digger roared up to them and its driver brought it to a halt and jumped out. He was a stocky man with a jowly, grey-stubbled face. He wore a yellow hard hat which did nothing for his ashen complexion. He had a cigarette clamped between his lips and now removed it in order to talk to them.

“I’m Jason Beech, the foreman here,” he announced. “I’m sorry to have to move you, but you can’t stand there. It won’t be safe once we’ve got started.”

“We’ve got orders to watch the whole thing,” said Gary.

“I can’t help that. I don’t want to get done for manslaughter. Why don’t you go and stand over there, by that tree? We can’t get the digger that far into the corner, so I know we won’t hit you there.”

There was a solitary apple tree standing in the furthest corner of the yard, with some dustbins in front of it. Behind it was a high brick wall. The yard was bounded on one side by this wall, which was made of rather garish cheap yellow bricks, and the more attractive mellowed Victorian brick wall which separated it from Ronald Atkins’ garden.

The two PCs looked at each other. Gary Cooper shrugged again.

“All right,” he said. They moved to the place that he had indicated. It was smelly near the dustbins, but here they were more sheltered from the early spring breeze which came whipping round the buildings, straight off the North Sea. They slurped the hot tea and watched as the foreman jumped back into his digger and use it to rough up the tarmac. Another, younger, man then took over from him, and started tearing jagged pieces out of it. It was slow work. The digger worked in a cumbersome way, scrabbling at the ground like an old lady who could not get a purchase on something that she was trying to pick up, before ripping out what seemed like agonisingly small scraps. Another digger then met it head on with a scoop, and the first digger rested while the debris was clawed up, again in a clumsy, hit-and-miss kind of way.

“We’re in for a long day,” said Giash Chakrabati, as he finished the tea. “Let’s hope we don’t have to come back tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” said Gary. “It all seems a bit far-fetched to me. Why do they think there might be a body hidden under all this tarmac and, if there is one, why do they think that these blokes might hide it?”

“I don’t think it’s these blokes they’re worried about. It’s the old geezer in the house next door.”

“Oh?” He looked across at the house, but from where he was standing he could see only the upstairs windows, which were in darkness. “Think the old geezer did it then, do they? But they’ll have to find a body first.”

“Well, that’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

Gary fell silent. He wished that he could take a fag break, like the workmen were doing now, but knew that it would be too risky. Policemen complained about paperwork, about louts bad-mouthing them, and about not getting enough home life. None of these things troubled Gary over-much, but every so often a day like this came along, and all he was required to do was to watch or stand guard and get numbingly cold and mind-numbingly bored, with no prospect of being able to smoke a cigarette until he went off-duty. That was when he questioned his own sanity in choosing to become a policeman.

The day lurched on. Each of the policemen took a toilet break. Henry Bevelton had offered them the use of the inside toilet, which was situated in a corner of the workshop, but it was clear from the way that she had tossed her head and then pounded away on her keyboard that Gloria considered this to be a personal affront. They had in any case decided to use the Portaloo in the yard, in common with the workmen. When lunchtime came, Henry offered to send out for something for them. Gloria was despatched to forage for food– evidently she did not mind this, presumably because she would get some of the spoils – and returned with hot Cornish pasties from The Prior’s Oven.

By mid-afternoon, the whole of the yard had been dug up, and the debris piled in a skip, which was taken away. Now they were looking out at a waste of packed-down earth, with the two inspection pits exposed like giant sarcophagi in the middle of it. Henry Bevelton came out to speak to them.

“What now, officers? How deep do you want us to dig into the earth?”

“At least six foot,” said Gary. “But those’ll have to come out, too.” He indicated the inspection pits.

Henry Bevelton’s patience was evidently wearing thin. “That’s out of the question,” he said flatly. “We use these pits every day. The smooth running of the business depends on them. If they’re removed, the work of my company will be disrupted for weeks. ”

“Out of the question, is it, sir? I realise that this is all very upsetting for you and is having a big effect on the operation of your firm, but we do have a warrant. We can get one especially for the inspection pits, if you like, but it would save a lot of time if you were to co-operate straight away. We’ll make sure that you get some new ones in their place. These must have been here – what – about thirty years by now?”

Henry considered for a minute. If he played his cards right, he realised that he would get a good bit of refurbishment – some of it long in need of doing – free of charge, as well as compensation for loss of earnings. Besides, he had had a few brushes with the police in the past and he didn’t want them to cut up rough – or take too great an interest in some of his more unusual day-to-day activities. He wasn’t exactly breaking the law, at least not in his own book, but Bevelton’s did sometimes carry out a few favours for their customers, such as turning the milometer back a bit on tractors that were for sale, or taking the best bits from two old tractors to make a new one; things that it was best to keep quiet about.

“All right, it’s not out of the question, of course, if you say otherwise. But it is a major inconvenience and I want your assurance that the repair and replacement work will take place straight away, not months down the line. Otherwise I’ll be suing the police for more than loss of earnings.”

“I understand that Detective Inspector Yates has already made those promises, sir. He isn’t a man not to keep his word.”

Henry Bevelton walked across to where his men were gathered, watching, and spoke a few words to the foreman. He replied shortly, looking extremely annoyed. Henry outstretched both palms in a “What can I do about it?” gesture. Jason Beech stalked off, taking one of the younger men with him. They returned quickly, bearing several pick-axes, which they distributed. Then all five men began hacking at the concrete. Gary and Giash settled down once more, knowing that they were in for as tedious and cold an afternoon as the morning that they had just endured.

Two hours later, with the concrete fairly well broken up, the men brought the diggers in again. They had cleared away most of the concrete and lifted it into a skip by the time that darkness came. By now the temperature had dropped, and because they had been standing around all day, both policemen were very cold.

Jason Beech walked over to them, and spoke to them in a surprisingly friendly way.

“Time to call it a day, officers. That OK with you? We could start digging up the soil, but we can’t see properly and we’re all pretty knackered now. I expect you are too?”

Giash nodded. Gary didn’t answer. He was busy looking across at the house next door.

“You all right with that, Gary?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Fine. Thank you,” he said to the foreman belatedly.

“Got something on your mind?”

“No, not really. I was just looking at that house. There was a light on in one of the upstairs windows just now, and I could see the outline of a man standing there. I expect he’s the old geezer that Inspector Yates was talking about.”

Giash followed his gaze.

“No-one there now, is there?” he said.

“Not as far as we can tell. He’s turned the light off, but he could still be standing there, I suppose.”

“Why would he want to do that?”

“So that he can watch us without being seen, maybe.”

“Nothing to watch now, is there? And no daylight to see by, either. Come on, let’s go and get a cup of tea somewhere. I’m perished.”

It rained all night. When the two constables turned up at the yard the next day, the rain was easing off, but there was a small lake sitting on the packed-down soil.

“It’s clay, see,” said Henry Bevelton, with a kind of morose I-told-you-so satisfaction. “Water doesn’t seep through it easily. I’ve sent one of the lads to hire a pump.”

There was more endless waiting, fortified with several cups of tea (Gloria had either come round, or she had had a talking-to), until the pump arrived, was assembled, hooked up to a generator and started sucking out the water. By the time they were able to bring the diggers in again, it was almost lunchtime. Gloria appeared. She favoured them with a fuschia-lipsticked smile.

“Same as yesterday, officers? Or would you rather have some soup and sandwiches?”

“The pasty was fine by me,” said Gary. “And me,” added Giash. They both watched Gloria sashay away. Today she was wearing boots, laced at the back. Her ample calves bulged a little over the top of them.

That afternoon, the men operating the diggers took off the soil foot by foot, as they had been instructed, with the policemen inspecting each layer, until six feet of soil had been removed. They had found nothing more interesting than some gnarled old tree roots.

Henry Bevelton descended from his office, looking pleased with himself and a little sanctimonious, just as DC Juliet Armstrong arrived. His face fell a little when he saw her – he had first met her two days ago, when she had visited him with Detective Inspector Yates to explain what needed to be done and why; he found her more of a challenge than the uniformed policemen. However, he did not allow himself to be deflected from giving her the little speech that he had just prepared in his head for the two coppers.

“Ah, good afternoon, Detective Constable. As you can see, my men have followed your instructions. As you can also see, we have found nothing. Is it all right if we put the soil back now? I’m anxious to get this yard to rights as soon as possible. There’s someone from a construction company coming tomorrow, to advise about making some new inspection pits. It will cost a pretty penny, but I daresay you’re ready for that.”

Juliet regarded him levelly.

“I think we’d like to wait a little before we do anything else, sir. I’m just going to have a word with my colleagues; then I’ll come back to you. I shan’t be long. Should I come and find you in your office?”

“No, no, I’ll wait here,” said Henry. He was rubbing his hands together, though whether it was because he was anxious, full of glee in anticipation of the new yard that he was going to extract from the police force, or simply cold, it was difficult to say.

Juliet joined Gary and Giash under the apple tree.

“Have this lot been co-operating?”

“There were a few grumbles at first,” said Giash, “but after that, they were fine.”

“Is there anything funny about them?”

“No, I don’t think so. Most of them don’t have a clue what this is about, though I suppose the old guy’s probably told them something, even though we asked him not to. He seems a bit jumpy, but it’s probably because he’s worried about the amount of time this is taking. Either that, or he’s up to some petty dodges that he doesn’t want us to find out about, is my guess. I don’t think he knows any more about whether there’s a body here or not than we do.”

“You’re sure that there’s nothing in that heap of soil?”

“Well, we could sieve it I suppose.” Giash had meant this as a joke, then instantly regretted saying it, as Juliet put her head on one side in reflection. “I think we’ve been pretty careful,” he added quickly. “They’ve only been lifting the soil to the depth of a foot at a time, as we asked them, and we’ve turned over every layer. We’ve found a fair bit of debris – bits of old tools, shards of pottery, something that looks like part of a bicycle chain – quite small stuff, in fact, so if there had been any bones in there I think we would have spotted them. There are loads of tree roots, too.”

“Well, it was an orchard. How long has the building been there? It doesn’t look Victorian.”

“No, it isn’t, but it’s pre-war. Henry Bevelton’s grandfather founded the business in the 1930s, and the office and workshop were built then. The showroom at the front was added afterwards.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been chatting to Henry, off and on. He’s not a bad bloke, really.”

“The land on which the showroom was built belonged to them right from the start, then?”

“I think so.”

“I know that the orchard was bought from the Atkins family in the 1970s. Has every square foot of it been dug up now?”

“Most of it. There’s just that little strip of path in front of the workshop. Henry said that there was a wooden fence there, dividing the properties, before he bought the land.”

A gust of wind lashed the air around them suddenly. Juliet shivered, and looked up at the bare branches of the apple tree.

“How long has that tree been there?”

“Search me. Part of the old orchard, probably. In other words, for ages. One tree spared, or something. I could ask Henry.”

“That tree’s not old enough to have been part of the original orchard,” said Gary. “Those trees would have been seventy or eighty years old at least, if they were still here. This tree’s quite old for an apple tree, but you can see that it’s still producing fruit” – he indicated some half-rotted apples lying on the ground. “My Dad used to grow apples. He used to reckon that the trees have outgrown their strength by the time they are thirty years old, or forty at most, and he said that they stop fruiting properly then. I’d say that this tree’s somewhere between twenty and thirty years old.”

“You’re sure it could be as much as thirty years old?”

“I think so. But if it’s important, we can ask Henry Bevelton.”

“Good idea. Get him to come over here, will you?”

They turned round so that they could see Henry Bevelton, who was still hovering in the doorway of his workshop, his arms folded across his chest. He was slapping his shoulders gently, presumably in an attempt to warm himself up. He looked alarmed when they saw him watching them. Juliet smiled and lifted her hand in a fresh greeting. Gary walked across to Henry and asked him to join them.

“Well,” he said when he caught them up, unnaturally hale and bright as he stood to face Juliet, “What now? Is there something else I can help you with?”

“Just some more information, if you please, Mr. Bevelton.” Juliet regarded him coolly. She was taking a dislike to Henry because she suspected him of dishonesty of some kind. She could usually sniff it out. Otherwise she could think of no explanation for his nervousness.

“Fire away!”

“Was this apple tree here when you bought the yard from Colin Atkins, or has it been planted since?”

“Oh, it was here already. You don’t have much use for fruit trees when you’re running a heavy plant business.” He said it with a chuckle. Juliet realised that although he was making a leaden attempt at humour, he was still extremely nervous.

“Indeed. I believe that there was a whole orchard of apple trees here when you made the purchase?”

“Yes, and pear trees. I think there may even have been a couple of cherry trees,” he said expansively.

“All of which were cut down so that you could use the land as a tractor maintenance yard?”

“Yes – you know that was the case. Nothing wrong in doing that, was there? I consulted the council about planning permission, for the pits and for the petrol tank that we installed on the other side of the showroom.”

“Nothing wrong with it at all, Mr. Bevelton. I’m sure you went through all the appropriate procedures. What we’re curious to know is, why was this tree spared?”

“Oh, it was a very young tree at the time – little more than a sapling. And Mr. Atkins asked us particularly to leave it. He said that it had been planted in memory of his mother.”

“Mr. Colin Atkins, this was?”

“No, it was actually Mr. Ronald Atkins: the present owner of the house next door.”

“So the mother in question was Mrs. Doris Atkins, the lady who had met a violent death some time before.”

“I guess so. I haven’t really thought about it before. There was a very old lady living in that house, too – I went to see them several times in the space of four or five years, to try to buy the land. It took me all my powers of persuasion, I can tell you: for a long time, they wouldn’t hear of it. I’d assumed that that old lady had died, and that was who he meant. But now I think about it, I suppose it could have been the one who was mur . . . died a violent death.”

He’s trying to sound casual, thought Juliet: as if he really hasn’t given this much thought before. But he’s still on edge. He’s certainly hiding something from us.

“When did you finally succeed in buying the land, Mr. Bevelton?”

“It was in the spring of 1977. I can look up the date exactly, if you like.”

“How did Mr. Atkins make his request about the tree? Did he accompany you and show it to you?”

“Yes. He was very particular that I should save the right tree. Well, there were a lot of trees to choose from!” He gave his uneasy chuckle again. “But that one was standing by itself – it wasn’t part of the main orchard. So keeping it wasn’t a problem. I thought that it might be nice for the lads to be able to help themselves to the apples when they came, too: but they were all cookers.”

“How big was the tree when he showed it to you?”

“Not very big at all. As I’ve said, it was just a sapling.”

“Would you personally have a problem if we were to uproot that tree?”

Henry Bevelton looked doubly uneasy.

“Not personally, no. But I did promise Ronald. Still I suppose that thirty years is a long time to have kept a promise – he couldn’t in fairness expect more than that, could he?”

“Thank you,” said Juliet. “Was it with Ronald Atkins you negotiated the sale, or with Colin Atkins?”

“With Colin Atkins, since you ask. Well, he was the owner of the house and the orchard. So I suppose Ronald had no right to ask for any favours anyway?”

“Anyone can ask a favour,” said Juliet. “Whether it is granted, and for how long, depends of course on the person giving it – and their motivation.”

Henry Bevelton looked down at his feet.

She turned to Gary and Giash. “Can you find someone who can cut that tree down? A tree surgeon, or whatever they’re called?”

Three hours later, two men who had been requisitioned from Robertson’s timber yard by Gary Cooper had cut down the tree. It was now after four o’clock in the afternoon, and as at the same time on the day before, darkness was now approaching.

“Best to call it a day,” said Henry Bevelton. “They’re going to have to dig that stump out manually: they can’t get a digger into that corner without knocking the wall down; and I’m certain that your boss won’t want the bill for that as well.” He raised an eyebrow at Juliet.

“No,” she agreed. “You’re right. It’s better if we all go home now. Thank you very much for all your help today, Mr. Bevelton. How early can we start tomorrow?”

Henry shouted across the yard to Jason Beech.

“Jason? Come here a minute, will you?”

The foreman arrived quickly, his hard hat pushed back off his forehead, the straps hanging loose.

“What’s up, boss? I’d like to get off now, if no-one minds. It’s Carol’s birthday today, and I’m taking her to the pub for supper.”

“We won’t keep you for more than half a sec. Just tell us what time you can start tomorrow.”

“Well, it won’t be light until eight: but I guess we could start at 7.30, the same as usual, if we use one of the big floodlights that we hire out for the harvest. Then perhaps we can get the job finished tomorrow.”

“Do that then, will you, Jase? And give Carol my love.”

Jason Beech looked vaguely disgusted at the message. Juliet wondered why. Perhaps Jason – or Carol – had their own private views about Henry? Or perhaps it was even because Henry had tried it on with Carol? Juliet had caught him leering at Gloria once or twice. But Henry Bevelton didn’t seem to notice his foreman’s reaction to his words. He clapped Jason on the back as walked away. Jason had the use of one of the company Land Rovers and he could be heard starting it up a few moments later.

“Well, I’d best be going home, too,” said Henry quickly.

Juliet was gazing at the house next door. She thought that she saw an upstairs light flick on and then off again, quickly. The upstairs windows were glowing dully, but she could not make out whether that was because a light had been left on deeper in the house – on the stairs or landing perhaps – or whether they were just reflecting the last of the dying sunlight. The two PCs were flanking her. They were also both observing the house. She turned back to face Henry again. Once more she was struck by his air of unease.

“Just a couple more questions, Mr. Bevelton, if you don’t mind. Then we’ll let you go. It’s been a long day for everyone.”

“Of course,” Henry said, bowing his head rather unctuously. “Would you like to come up to the office?”

“That isn’t necessary. But perhaps we could just stand in the workshop for a few minutes.”

“Of course,” said Henry again. He pushed open the workshop door and flicked a switch. It illuminated the row of lights, fashioned in the style of Chinese coolie hats, which were suspended over the main workbench, a sinister-looking construction made out of huge railway sleepers, and blackened with use. “Come in, come in. I’m not sure that it’s warmer in here: but of course it’s very private. No-one to listen to us in here.” Juliet thought that this was an odd comment to make, but she let it pass.

“Yes. That actually touches on what I wanted to ask you about. Do you see much of your neighbours?”

“You mean the Atkins, or the Needhams?”

“Either of them, but I particularly meant the Atkins. Your acquaintance with Ronald Atkins obviously goes back a long way. Do you meet him or talk to him regularly – or on any occasion, in fact?”

“You forget that Ronald did not actually live there until quite recently, except when he was a child. He was not living in that house when his mother died, just staying for a while. After his divorce – and all the other things that happened – I believe that he moved out of the council house that he had lived in with his first wife and rented a small property in Winsover Road. I don’t know how long he lived there, but I imagine that he moved again when he married Doreen. I believe that they lived with her parents, who owned a house a few miles out of town, on the main road to Boston. It took Ronald a long time to get his hands on the property next door. They’ve only been living there for a few months. Colin Atkins died more than ten years ago, but there was some difficulty over the will. I think that Colin’s brothers’ descendants contested Ronald’s right to inherit, or something like that.”

“You seem to be very well-informed about Mr. Atkins, Mr. Bevelton; but you still have not answered my question. Do you speak to him much now that he does live next door to your property? Or the Needham ladies, since you mention them?”

“Pair of witches, they are,” said Henry, grinning, perhaps to indicate that he was not being entirely serious. Juliet still sensed the same fidgety uneasiness that she had noticed before. “We do see them occasionally, but only when the younger one comes to complain about the noise.”

“And Mr. Atkins?” Juliet persisted. Henry hesitated, and then came out pat with his story.

“Naturally, he came and made himself known to me again when he moved in. I’ve seen him in passing a couple of times. And I’ve said hello to his wife when she’s walked past me in the street.”

“You know his wife, then?”

“I know what she looks like. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bevelton. Have a good evening.” He nodded, and disappeared up the stairs to his office.

Gary and Giash followed Juliet out to the street.

“I guess you’ll be needing us again tomorrow?” asked Gary.

“Yes, please. It should be the last day you have to come here. We’ll find out one way or the other whether there’s anything buried under that yard. I’ve got a feeling about that apple tree. I’m going to ask Detective Inspector Yates if he can come here tomorrow, too. If he does come, he will brief you: see what he says, but I’m going to recommend that you keep an eye on the house next door as much as you can without being conspicuous. We’ll want to know if we get any kind of reaction from Ronald Atkins when we start digging again.”

Tim called Juliet on her mobile while she was still walking back to the station. She stood in the shelter of the doorway of Molson’s the Chemist while she was speaking to him.

“Got something to tell me?”

“They haven’t found anything yet. But I’ve got a hunch about a single apple tree that stands in the corner of the yard. It wasn’t part of the original orchard, and we think it’s much younger than the trees in the orchard would have been. Gary Cooper’s one of the PCs who’s been watching the work today, and apparently his Dad was a bit of an expert on apples. Gary says that he thinks that tree can’t be much more than thirty years old, whereas the other trees would have been at least twice that. We’ve had the tree cut down now, but they need to dig out the stump before we can get to anything that might be underneath it. They should do that in an hour or two tomorrow morning: they’ve agreed to start work at seven-thirty. I think that this could be our breakthrough, sir. I really think you should be here, if you can.”

“I’ll be there. What about Henry Bevelton? Is he being co-operative?”

“Super co-operative with me, though apparently there were some grumbles yesterday when his inspection pits were dug up. They’re going to cost quite a lot to replace, incidentally: Henry never wastes an opportunity to tell us. I don’t like him, actually. There’s something really shifty and nervy about him that I can’t put my finger on.”

“He’s probably like a lot of people in the vehicle industry: seventy-five per cent businessman, twenty-five per cent crook. He’s been done for a couple of things in the past, but he hasn’t served time. Fines and warnings, that sort of thing. Of course, that doesn’t mean he isn’t hiding something bigger than that that he doesn’t want us to know about.”

“I suppose if he’s a petty crook, that could explain it. But from the depth of his knowledge about the man and his affairs, I’m pretty sure that he was quite close to Ronald Atkins at the time of Doris’s murder, though he is at pains to deny it, and he vehemently denies that he and Ronald are on more than nodding acquaintance now. I don’t get it. There’s no particular disgrace in being an associate of Ronald Atkins, is there? None that we know of, anyway.”

“Not from Henry’s point of view, I wouldn’t have thought. I’m as certain about Ronald as you are about Henry that he’s got something to hide, but in the eyes of his neighbours he is respectable enough. Perhaps that’s what it is, though,” said Tim, his voice rising in sudden inspiration. “Perhaps it is a shared secret that neither of them wants us to know about. In which case, it probably is something to do with Doris Atkins’ murder or Bryony’s disappearance, or both. Because I’m damn sure that Ronald hasn’t told us all that he knows about either of them. Did you or the two PCs see Ronald while you were there?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly! What does that mean?”

“We’ve each seen lights in the upstairs windows of Ronald’s house at different times, sometimes a light shining from deeper in the house. But often it has been in darkness. Some of the time it was so dark outside that if he had the lights off, Ronald could have been standing at one of the windows without our having seen him. I don’t have any positive proof, but I wouldn’t mind betting that he’s watching what’s going on.”

“If Bryony’s remains are under that tree, do you think he might do a runner?”

“Difficult to say. You’ve spent more time with him than I have. My guess is that he won’t. I think that he’ll say that Dorothy did it, or that he knew nothing about it, and that solicitor of his will back him up with a coherently pieced together story.”

“It might be no more than the truth, of course. If there was another murder, maybe it was Dorothy who did it; or someone else altogether.”

“Well, if it wasn’t Dorothy and it wasn’t Ronald, we’re running out of suspects. Who do you think it might have been? The old granny? Or Uncle Colin?”

She could almost hear Tim shrugging.

“Anything’s possible,” he said. “Go home and soak in a hot bath. You must be frozen through. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Bright and early,” he added ruefully. “I’ll pick you up.”

Hedley, Tim said to himself. It must have been Hedley. If we find Bryony under that apple tree, of course. There’s not enough evidence to nail him without a body. Perhaps not even with one. But why? And why would they all have protected Hedley by keeping it a secret? They weren’t a close-knit family, and neither Dorothy nor Ronald seemed to be particularly fond of him. And is there a connection with Kathryn Sheppard’s disappearance, or not? I don’t get it, he thought, echoing Juliet’s earlier comment. But I’m not going to worry about it now. This is one evening when I do stand a real chance of getting home early enough to eat with Katrin.