Chapter 13

Keith Ingles had got up and was standing by the small barred window, looking out, his arms wrapped across his chest like a protective shield. He turned as Kerr and Langlands came in.

    ‘OK, Kevin,’ Kerr said to the constable standing guard. ‘We’re just going to have a chat with Mr Ingles.’

    PC Jack nodded and stepped outside. Langlands set up the recording equipment as Kerr gestured to Ingles to sit down and took the seat opposite. She was quite clear about her brief. ‘He’s a professional man, a lawyer,’ Big Marge had said. ‘Greg and Jon will have gone in hard and either he’ll have cracked or he’ll have decided he isn’t talking. If that’s happened, it’s your job to persuade him to open up. Try reason. Don’t quote me, but I’m not sure that will have occurred to Greg.’

    Kerr identified them for the tape, then began. ‘Mr Ingles, I gather you’ve stated that you don’t want to say anything till your brief is with you.’

    Ingles, she realized, was staring at the green streak in her hair. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea after all. ‘Mr Ingles?’

    ‘Yes, yes,’ he said hastily.

    ‘Would you let me tell you why you’d be smarter not to wait? We’ve evidence that pretty much drops you in it—’

    ‘The tarpaulin,’ he muttered.

    ‘DS Allan told you? Yeah, that’s right. But look at it this way. How do I know what you did? Maybe you killed her, maybe you didn’t. Maybe you think we don’t care either way, but that’s not true. If you’re innocent we’ll try to help you prove it. So if there’s an explanation, tell us. It could open up a new line of inquiry.

    ‘And once you’re charged, the balance shifts. Everything takes time. You have to talk to your lawyer, he has to talk to us, we have to agree to proceed – and the guys upstairs won’t be too keen on providing manpower to prove we shouldn’t have charged you in the first place. And in that time evidence can disappear. Can you understand that?’

    Langlands, his cheery face unnaturally serious, urged, ‘She’s right, you know. We want the truth, just as much as you do. That’s if you’re innocent, like you say you are.’

    Ingles looked from one to the other, chewing his lip. ‘I – I can see that. But what guarantee have I that you won’t simply distort everything I say?’

    Kerr gestured to the video camera. ‘That. And I promise I’ll listen. We won’t put words into your mouth.’

    There was a long, long silence. Kerr could feel the man agonizing over the decision. Then Ingles began to talk.

 

The Cosmo Bar, all glass, stainless steel and subtle lighting, had a young, slick, city clientele with which Tam MacNee and Tommy Tucker didn’t exactly blend. Tam’s outfit of black leather jacket, white T-shirt and jeans might just have passed for minimalism despite the jacket being well worn, the T-shirt being from Asda and the jeans being unfashionable, but Tommy’s ensemble – zip-up top, checked shirt and chinos – blew any chance of that. Sitting at one end of the bar, they couldn’t have indicated ‘police’ more clearly if they’d topped off their outfits with a London bobby’s helmet.

    A sort of cordon sanitaire had formed, but even beyond the empty bar stools there was an uncomfortable atmosphere. The barman, a snake-hipped youth in a black shirt and tight black trousers, kept giving them dirty looks as customers finished their drinks hastily and left.

    It had proved impossible to follow Fleming’s suggestion that they avoid Mandy Preston. The woman worked here, after all, and they could hardly tell her to go home. She was determined to help things along by pouncing relentlessly as regulars appeared with a cheery cry of, ‘Now here’s someone you’ll want to talk to!’ Then, to her victim, ‘It’s the p’lice. About Natasha’s murder.’

    Even after Tucker had some fairly blunt words with her, she resorted to sign language which was almost more alarming to the hapless customers. It was a far cry from the quiet chats over a drink that MacNee and Tucker had planned.

    The men selected had been variously angry – ‘Sure I knew her. That’s suddenly a crime?’ – nervous – ‘I used to chat to her sometimes – that’s all right, isn’t it?’ – or flatly evasive – ‘Natasha? Oh, was that the dark girl? Never spoke to her except to order a drink.’ They gave their names with a bad grace.

    In a desperate attempt to have a conversation to which the hovering Mandy was not a party, MacNee and Tucker experimented with taking them over to a table to talk to them instead, but that only seemed to make things worse. After three hours, the most unguarded remark they had on record was, ‘She was very attractive.’

    No one, it seemed, had ever seen her outside the bar and no one admitted that she was anything other than the most casual of acquaintances, despite helpful promptings from Mandy like, ‘You remember that Thursday – you and Natasha were all chummy in the corner of the bar and I’d to tell her to come and help serve – d’you not remember?’

    No one had shown the faintest sign of recognition when shown Keith Ingles’s photograph either, and at last MacNee and Tucker were prepared to admit defeat.

    ‘If you’d told me that I’d prefer to be at the station being hounded by JCB for a report I hadn’t written than sitting in a pub for three hours, I wouldn’t have believed you,’ Tucker said morosely.

    ‘If you’d told me I could nurse one pint of shandy for three hours—’

    ‘Two pints, but who’s counting?’

    ‘Well, two then, and I don’t even like the bloody stuff. And what have we got to show for it? We know she was a wee hoor from the way she was going on before she ever left Galloway and it’s not our business if she’d decided to forfeit her amateur status and turn pro.’

    ‘We weren’t going to have got them to open up however we came on to them, Tam. They’ve all heard she was murdered. They’re not exactly going to say, “Oh, that’s right, she was my bit on the side,” are they?’ Tucker was resigned.

    ‘Waste of time, all this, when we’ve got our man anyway. And God knows what that pair of jokers back home are doing with the questioning. More likely to take him round the back and fill him in to make him confess.’

    ‘Maybe your Big Marge has turned up something.’

    Tam pulled a face. ‘“Maybe aye, and maybe hooch aye.” That’s Scots for “Oh sure, that’ll be right.”’

    ‘“That’ll be right” isn’t English either. But me having a talent for languages, I know what you mean.’

    ‘Right, Tommy, since you’re so smart, you can probably tell me where we go from here?’

    Tucker groaned. ‘Not as smart as that.’

    It was half-past five and Mandy had gone off for a break (‘Toodle-loo, boys, won’t be long!’). There was a lull in custom and the barman who, when questioned earlier, had said that he knew Natasha only as someone whose bar shifts had sometimes coincided with his, came over to them, looking surly.

    ‘What will it take to get you two out of here? Haven’t had a tip all afternoon and at this rate the bar’ll be empty all evening.’

    Tucker was quick off the mark. ‘Information.’

    ‘Haven’t got any. But—’ He paused. ‘If you want a hunch  . . .’

    ‘We’ll settle for something your granny saw in the tea leaves, if it’s useful,’ said MacNee.

    ‘She was a right little tart, we all knew that. But just lately, I wondered if she’d a new idea. Saw her having a couple of conversations that looked more like she was putting on the pressure than chatting them up – know what I mean? They weren’t looking very pleased by the end of them. Not sure she was getting far, mind you. One guy burst out laughing and she flounced away in a huff. And I noticed after that a lot of the punters were backing off.’

    ‘Names?’

    He shrugged. ‘Don’t know their names. Don’t want to. Wouldn’t demean myself with that kind of thing – I’ve got standards, haven’t I? Not like some.

    ‘That’s it. That’s all. Now, will you effing get out of here? You’ve done enough damage for one day.’

    ‘That’s your guv now,’ Tucker said suddenly as the door opened and Marjory Fleming appeared. ‘Any chance she’ll let us knock off and find a decent pub somewhere?’

 

When Kerr came back to the CID room, Kingsley was staring at a computer while Allan, his arms folded, was perched on a desk talking gloomily to one of the other detectives. They both looked round.

    ‘Well?’ Allan snapped.

    ‘He gave us his version, anyway – found the body lying on the grass outside his house, was scared he’d be blamed, wrapped it in a tarpaulin and took it off into the forest to get rid of it.’

    Allan guffawed. ‘Oh, I like a villain with a talent for fiction! Nice one. We can have a lot of fun with that.’

    ‘Obviously we have to check it out,’ Kerr said and Allan stared at her.

    ‘You’re kidding! You’re saying you fell for that? “I just found this body, officer – don’t know where it came from but thought I’d get rid of it without telling anyone.” Like you do.’

    ‘No.’ Kerr was annoyed. ‘I’m not saying that. I mean what I said – we have to check it out.’

    Hot colour came to Allan’s face. ‘And what am I supposed to do meantime? Release him on police bail without charge? And the next thing we know is a postcard from South America?

    ‘No, I’m going along there right now to charge him. And I think you’ll find the Super will back me on this. Right, Jon?’

    Kingsley had got up and come over to join them. He was looking edgy and irritable. ‘Let’s get it over with, then. I’ve been dealing with the bastard all day and I’ve had enough of this. Charge him, and then I’m going on my break.’ He turned to Kerr. ‘There’s no alternative, Tansy. You couldn’t call it a convincing story, and he tried to do a runner before. With the evidence we’ve got – he’s even admitted to you that it was her blood on the tarpaulin  . . .’

    Kerr could see that, of course. But the boss wasn’t going to be happy. If Ingles had been released, she could have pulled him in later for further questioning. Once he was charged, the questioning had to stop.

    Well, it wasn’t her job to break the news to Big Marge and she’d take a small bet that Allan wouldn’t either. It would be a nasty surprise for her when she got back.

 

MacNee and Tucker had given Fleming their report over beers which went down rather quicker than the shandies, then left. Fleming, finishing a glass of wine, sat on at the table by the window where they had retreated to be out of earshot of the rested and effusive Mandy.

    This was a good time to catch Bill and she fished in her handbag for her mobile. But it was Cat who answered: Dad had had to go out and she wasn’t sure how long he’d be. Yes, they were coping. Yes, they’d had supper. Yes, Cammie was remembering he had work to do on his project. Probably. No, he wasn’t watching TV. Yes, she’d remember to shut in the hens.

    ‘Tell Dad I’ll phone him later.’ Smiling, Marjory switched off the phone, seeing them in her mind’s eye: Cammie, in his room, most likely reading a rugby magazine or else lifting weights, which was his latest obsession; Cat, getting down to work after checking that her make-up was suitable to the occasion; Bill, sorting out some problem with the sheep, which as every sheep-farmer knew had only one ambition – to die in some peculiarly inconvenient way.

    For a moment she felt almost homesick, then she thought of the evening ahead. A long bath, with no one to rattle the handle of the door. Room service. Room service. She lingered over the delicious words. Later, bed and the telly. She loved her family, of course she did, but there were times when you needed a little break in order to appreciate them even more. She’d phone Bill for a chat at ten, before he went to bed.

    And she felt she had at least something to show for the day’s work. According to Tam and Tommy, Davina seemed to have been developing a little side-line in blackmail. And the newspaper cutting told her that someone in Galloway knew where she was, or at the very least, had known. Of course, if Ingles confessed, or if it really did turn out they had hard evidence, it would be of no more than academic interest, but when the defence started trying to break your case, you were as well to be in possession of the fullest possible explanation. God, she hoped he’d confessed! She didn’t trust Allan if it came to anything more subtle.

    Absorbed in her thoughts, Marjory hadn’t noticed the tall figure of DCI Carter pass the window and glance in. She jumped as he spoke at her elbow.

    ‘On your own? I thought you’d have Tweedledum and Tweedledee still with you. Another of these?’

    He headed for the bar without waiting for her refusal. ‘What was it?’ he called over his shoulder.

    How could she shout, ‘I don’t want anything’? ‘Rioja. If you insist.’

    He brought it back to the table, with a glass for himself.

    ‘Thank you,’ she said with heavy irony. ‘Very masterful.’

    Carter looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you a one-glass woman or something?’

    ‘No, of course not.’ Marjory was annoyed to hear herself sounding defensive.

    ‘Glad to hear it. Unhealthy, that. My old ma’s ninety and she could see me off.

    ‘Now, how did you get on?’

    ‘I think we can safely say she’s off your patch.’ Fleming finished the first glass and picked up the second; the sooner it was empty, the sooner she could get back to the hotel. ‘She packed before she went. I’d like confirmation of a car hire somewhere – your Tommy Tucker said he’d check that out – but everything points to Galloway.

    ‘Mind you, she seems to have had quite a nice lifestyle on what one of the other barmaids described as “presents” from admirers.’

    Carter raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Presents?’

    ‘Presents,’ she said firmly. ‘What else do you call it when you do a gentleman the favour of stepping out with him and he gives you something to show his appreciation?’

    He was amused. ‘Tricky call, that.’

    ‘The only little kicker is that the boy behind the bar there says that latterly she may have been trying a spot of blackmail.’

    Carter twisted round to look at him. ‘The gay?’

    ‘Is he?’ Fleming was startled. ‘How do you know?’

    ‘Trust me. Was she having any success? Mmm – looks as if we’ll have to send someone in to check on what goes on in this establishment, whether or not it’s linked to the murder.’

    ‘Don’t send Tucker. He and MacNee didn’t exactly fit in unobtrusively. Apparently they were the kiss of death to trade. The barman was all but offering them money to clear out.’

    Carter leaned back in his chair, his eyes on her face. He had, Fleming noticed, very dark blue eyes. Police officers were trained to notice these details.

    She went on, ‘If that’s her mindset, it makes me wonder if the sudden departure to Scotland was prompted by the notion there was money to be made there. For instance, what more does she know about the boyfriend who got sent down, that she might think was worth money? Was he on the fiddle or something – solicitors have a lot of temptations  . . .’

    Carter was genuinely interested, and then, somehow, the talk drifted to his recent case, and suddenly the glasses were empty. She stood her round; by then, they were discussing the particular difficulties of their level in the Force.

    It was eight o’clock when he looked at his watch. ‘Where are you going to eat? I know a good place, just round the corner—’

    ‘Oh.’ Fleming stopped short. The conversation had been an indulgence, a rare chance to talk shop with someone who knew all the problems but wasn’t involved in her own professional life. But her luxurious bath – room service . . . ‘I wouldn’t want you to feel you had to entertain me. Don’t you have someone at home who’ll be expecting you?’

    His face darkened. ‘Not recently. And it was a mutual decision to call it a day, so there’s no need to go saying, “Oh, I’m sorry!” ’

    It was unnecessarily savage, and she had no intention of being bounced into discussion of his personal life. ‘It’s all right,’ Fleming said sweetly, ‘I wouldn’t have meant it, except in the most conventional and indifferent way.’

    Carter blinked, and then the corners of his mouth twitched. ‘You don’t pull your punches, do you?’

    ‘Not as a general rule. It only means having to hit harder later. Where’s this restaurant, then?’

 

Jenna Murdoch looked anxiously at the time. That was the Channel 4 news coming on, and she’d told Mirren to be back at half-past six. She was normally fairly relaxed about Mirren’s time-keeping, but with all that was going on at the moment she was on edge, and when the phone rang she answered it with uncharacteristic nervousness – was Mirren all right?

    But it was her husband’s voice she heard, telling her he wouldn’t be in for supper. He had spoken civilly enough; her sharp reply, ‘Oh, had a better offer then, have you?’ was needlessly provocative. There was a short pause, then, ‘Just letting you know,’ he said, and put down the phone.

    Taking her anxiety out on Niall wasn’t exactly going to improve their relationship, she acknowledged wryly, but she was past caring. What was the point? Sooner rather than later, she was going to have to deal with the whole sorry mess.

    It was with some relief that, after quarter of an hour of watching a news story of political chicanery without taking in a word of it, she saw Mirren appear unhurriedly up the path, pausing to talk to the chained-up dog on the way. She turned off the set.

    Don’t alienate your daughter the way you have your husband, an inner voice cautioned, and when the child came into the room she said lightly, ‘You’re very late, Mirren. What have you been doing?’

    Mirren seemed surprised as she looked at the clock. ‘Sorry, Mum.’ She sat down at the table.

    ‘What were you doing?’ Jenna persisted.

    ‘Oh, just kind of walking round,’ she said. ‘I didn’t notice the time. Is it pizza? Oh good.’

    Admitting defeat, Jenna put the pizza into the microwave and removed the place she had set for Niall. ‘Your father won’t be in for supper this evening,’ she said, but her daughter didn’t reply. Staring blankly out of the window, she seemed lost in thought.

 

Laura Harvey was on the phone to a friend at a little after seven o’clock when there was a knock on the door and the collie started to bark.

    ‘All right, Daisy, that’s enough. Someone at the door, Maggie – I’ll call you back.’

    Jon Kingsley stood on the doorstep. ‘Sorry – is this a bad time?’ he asked, as the dog sniffed round his feet.

    ‘No, not at all. Come on in.’ Laura stood aside to let him pass. ‘This is a surprise! I thought that with all that’s going on you wouldn’t have seen daylight for a week.’

    ‘Was going on,’ he corrected her. ‘All that was going on. We’ve got our man under lock and key.’

    ‘That was quick! I did think you were looking very pleased with yourself. Coffee? Or would you like a drink?’

    ‘Better be coffee. I’ve got the car and with the red-hot policing about here, you can’t be too careful.’

    Laura laughed. There was something very engaging about such childish strutting. ‘Shall we have “Show and Tell” while I make your coffee?’ she teased.

    The kitchen was very tiny. With Daisy, as always, making herself Laura’s shadow, there was room only for Jon to stand in the doorway.

    ‘Actually, I’ll have to go back in shortly. There’s quite a bit of paperwork to process, but I needed a break and decided to pop in to see you.

    ‘It’ll be in the papers tomorrow. We’ve got solid evidence – better not say what it is, but it nails him good. And he didn’t quite confess, but he had to admit to everything short of the killing. Greg Allan – my sergeant – is the Super’s blue-eyed boy, and I got a great big pat on the back as well. Should be a step towards my stripe!

    ‘Oh, Greg’s a buffoon, of course – brain of a backward goldfish – but at least he doesn’t muck about like some people.’

    Laura, taking the lid off a tin and peering doubtfully at the shortbread inside, frowned. Slagging off your colleagues like that wasn’t attractive. And it suggested, too, some sort of insecurity, as if the only way you could shine was by denigrating someone else. She was beginning to understand Tam’s attitude to Jon.

    She handed him a mug. ‘Come on through. I can’t vouch for the shortbread – it’s a bit elderly, I think.’

    They sat down and Daisy, bribed with a small piece, lay down at her mistress’s feet.

    ‘So do I take it this isn’t a consultation?’ Laura asked. ‘Since you’ve got your man?’

    He wisely refused the shortbread. ‘I came for the pleasure of your company, of course – what else? But you were very kind to agree when I asked you. I pride myself on taking an in-depth view of the cases I’m involved in, though we’re not going to have to do anything very subtle here. It’s the sort of motive even a jury can’t fail to understand – she did the dirty on him, he killed her when he got the chance.’

    ‘Why did she give him the chance, though?’ Laura wondered. ‘The report in the paper today said she’d changed her name and gone to live in Manchester, which would suggest she’d had a guilty conscience and was avoiding him.’

    ‘We did talk about that. But why she came back – who knows? Any ideas to put forward? It’s a question someone’s going to ask, isn’t it?’

    Whatever he might say, he was pumping her. But she was prepared to indulge him that far. ‘It would depend on what sort of person she was. She might have wanted to make her peace with him – guilty conscience. Or she might just have got tired of the inconvenience of living under an assumed name. Or didn’t like Manchester and wanted to come back.’

    ‘Mmm. More likely the second, I’d guess. But thanks, anyway. Her motive isn’t really our business, but it just could be helpful to be able to offer some sort of rationale.

    ‘The big question, of course, is what Big Marge is going to say. She won’t like it; she’s been off in Manchester and she’s going to come back and find we’ve got it all tied up and there’s nothing for her to do. She’s completely out of the loop, so how’s she going to react? Is she going to try to rubbish what we’ve done? You’re the psychologist, you know her – tell me that!’

    Was this what it was all about? Laura looked at him with profound distaste. ‘I think you’re forgetting that Marjory is my friend. Not just that – I owe her my life. If you’re playing some sort of dirty little game to undermine her position, I want nothing to do with it. Or you.’ She stood up. Daisy, immediately alert to her mistress’s tone, began to growl.

    The expression of dismay on his face was almost comical. ‘Laura, you’ve got it wrong! I didn’t mean – it’s just—’

    In steely silence, she moved towards the door.

    ‘Laura,’ he tried again, ‘I’m an idiot. Sorry. We had something going here – I don’t want it to end like this. Please sit down again and let me apologize – explain  . . .’

    When she still said nothing, Jon smiled ruefully. ‘They say you shouldn’t do that, don’t they? “Never apologize, never explain” – it’s just supposed to make matters worse. But in this case, they seem to be about as bad as they can be. Please sit down.’

    She hesitated, then, as he said, ‘Please?’ again, sat down on the edge of her chair, Daisy at her feet eyeing Jon watchfully.

    ‘I know, I know, I’m a young man in a hurry.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and hands together as if in prayer. ‘You’re a psychologist; perhaps you’ll understand.

    ‘My father was a very successful businessman and then one day everything went pear-shaped and he lost the lot. He was a man who’d told a hundred people what to do, and suddenly he was – nothing.

    ‘So he needs me to be successful – for him, really, more than for me. And nothing I’ve done so far has been good enough. So I suppose I’m inclined to lose sight of everything except the need to prove to him what I’m made of.’

    Interested against her will, Laura said, quite gently, ‘You do realize, don’t you, that whatever you do might not be good enough?’

    ‘Of course. Even policemen have to know some psychology. But you see, if I’m a high flier, if I can make rank ahead of everyone else, I can look him in the eye and say, “I don’t care what you think, Dad, I’m a success and I have the stripes to prove it.”’

    She doubted that. Reason didn’t come into this; you couldn’t argue it away. She said only, ‘If you push too hard, and you try to do it by cutting other people down, it often backfires.’

    ‘Like it just did. Sorry.’ Jon looked down at his hands. ‘I enjoy the job anyway – you know that? It’s a great job, and part of the reason I want to get further up the ladder is because I know I’m good at it.’

    He looked up, then grinned. ‘And the money’s a lot better, too.’

    She found herself smiling back. Oh, he had charm; there was no doubt about that. ‘All right, you’ve made your point. But lay off Marjory, OK?’ She got up again and this time he did too.

    ‘I promise. But I haven’t blown it completely with you?’

    ‘Not completely, no.’

    But after he had left, she stood staring into space, thinking over what he had said. Daisy, unsettled by the tension there had been in the atmosphere, nudged her with her nose; she patted the dog absent-mindedly and went to sit down again.

    Jon had promised. Did she believe him? She wasn’t sure that it was even a promise he was able to keep. It was a textbook scenario – and curiously enough, one she had seen affecting Marjory as well. There could be breakers ahead.

 

It was a small Indian restaurant in a back street. They knew Chris Carter there, and Marjory felt embarrassed by the proprietor’s attentions.

    ‘I feel you should tell him that this is a purely professional relationship,’ Marjory said as the man, beaming, led them to their table.

    ‘Not a chance,’ Chris said. ‘You’re doing wonders for my cred. I’ve eaten here alone too often recently. What about you? Significant other?’

    It was strange to think of Bill that way. She told him, briefly, about the farm and her family.

    He said only, ‘Lucky you. Now, there’s no menu here. They work out what you’d like, then bring it. Trust me – you’ll love it.’ Then he went back to talking about the job which possessed both of them, quite possibly to an unhealthy extent.

    ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘what other job is there that’s so important? Being a doctor, OK. But short of that, you’re dealing with the most vital thing in anyone’s life – freedom.’

    ‘And justice,’ Marjory said eagerly. ‘How would you have coped with the death penalty – if someone would actually die as a result of your investigation, whether you were right or wrong?’

    They were off. The food, delicious, unobtrusive, appeared and was removed as they talked on. They talked about their cases: his, where there were firearms and multiple deaths, hers where an occasional death sent a whole community into shock.

    ‘The stakes are probably almost higher, in a way,’ Chris said thoughtfully. ‘A gang death is a gang death, but they know the risks – they accept them at the initiation ceremonies. Mostly it doesn’t involve anybody else unless they’re caught in the crossfire, so ordinary folk will just shrug. Within a community  . . .’

    ‘You’re going to have to deal with another death tomorrow. With us, it’ll all settle down again. We’d a quiet spell before this when quite honestly, apart from the usual trivial stuff, it was deathly boring. I thought of sending Tam out to mug someone, just for the sake of variety.’

    ‘Now, why don’t I find it as hard as I should to picture your sergeant in that role?’

    Marjory smiled. ‘I know. But he’s invaluable. He’s seen the other side, and decided against it. Or at least, his wife has seen to it that he decided. If I were asked who should run the penal system, I’d nominate Bunty.’

    The supply of food had stopped. There were several bottles of Kingfisher beer on the table, and they were all empty. ‘So,’ Chris said, ‘back to the farm tomorrow?’

    ‘Oh God, what time is it?’ Stricken, Marjory looked at her watch. ‘Eleven – too late to phone Bill!’

    ‘He’ll be in bed already?’

    ‘You don’t stay up late, if you’re up at half-past five – probably nearer five, as the light gets better. I hate going to bed without saying goodnight.’

    Chris looked at her for a long moment. Then he said, ‘It sounds idyllically happy. I envy you.’

    ‘Yes,’ she agreed, and then for no reason she could think of, apart from the number of empty bottles on the table, she started talking to him about the serpent in her Eden, the woman who had spat in her face and was now her nearest neighbour.

    Chris listened, his elbows on the table, his mouth covered by his hands and his eyes never leaving her face. As she finished, he said, ‘Bit rough, your husband inflicting that on you.’

    And it was a bit rough. She did feel hard done by, and sympathy was very soothing.

    ‘Yes, I know.’ She said it, aware that she was being disloyal. ‘It’s tainting everything. Bill’s a saint, but it would be nice if just occasionally he bore in mind that I’m not.

    ‘Still, it’s done now, and I just have to get on with it.’

    Chris’s eyes were very warm as he looked at her. ‘You’re quite a woman, Big Marge. If there’s ever a vacancy, give me first refusal.’

    Alarm bells rang. Marjory looked at her watch again, jumped up. ‘Good gracious, look at the time!’ She insisted on splitting the bill – somehow that seemed important – but when she got back to the hotel the luxurious bath wasn’t as relaxing as she had hoped it would be. She hesitated as she went to switch off the main lights. Should she phone HQ before she went to sleep? She’d rather expected to hear from Allan . . . But it was late, she was tired and she’d find out soon enough. Marjory climbed into bed.

    There was nothing on late-night TV that she could bear to watch, and she couldn’t get comfortable with the pillows – somehow one seemed too low and two were too high. She tried not to think that her discomfort was anything other than physical.

 

Jenna Murdoch was suddenly awake. She didn’t know why. She sat up in bed and looked at the clock. It was just after midnight; she was alone, and Niall’s side of the bed hadn’t been slept in.

    There had been a noise – some sort of thunderous crash – or had she dreamed it? And there was a smell – smoke! Mirren! In a panic, she flung herself out of bed, but through a chink in the curtains a flicker of red caught her eye. As she went to tear them open she realized there was a crackling roar too, coming from that direction, the terrifying sound of a fire blazing out of control.

    The bedroom window looked out across the yard to the stone-built open shed. It was well ablaze, the roof struts now nothing more than thin, charred sticks; it must have been the roof falling in that had woken her. Below, there was nothing but a boiling sea of flame.

    The dog! That was where the dog was kept chained up, surrounded by bales of straw, unwanted timber, old pots of paint. All it would take to send that lot up would be a carelessly tossed cigarette end.

    The dog, poor creature, would be dead now. There was nothing that could have withstood that raging inferno. Her main concern, as she dialled 999, was what that would do to Mirren. Devoutly hoping she was still asleep, Jenna pulled on a dressing gown and opened her bedroom door as quietly as she could.

    But Mirren wasn’t. She was out on the landing in her pyjamas. ‘What’s happening?’ she demanded when her mother appeared.

    ‘It’s all right – something’s gone on fire. The Fire Brigade will deal with it – it’s not a problem. Just go back to bed,’ Jenna said, not hopefully. But to her astonishment, for once Mirren obeyed.

    ‘OK,’ she said meekly and went back into her bedroom and shut the door.

    Thank God for that! Jenna hurried downstairs, past the long, uncurtained staircase window. In the flickering light of the flames, lurid, unhealthy, she shivered. Götterdämmerung: her mouth shaped the word. The Twilight of the Gods, when the known world began to crumble.

    A foolish thought! She snapped on all the lights and flooded the hall with comfortable, familiar electric illumination. Drawing her dressing-gown tightly about her, she went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. The Fire Brigade, they had promised her, would not be long.