The cottage where Mark Roberts had been staying was along a narrow lane that ended in a farmyard. It was one of four joined together, with views away from Highford, in a valley that twisted around bracken-topped spurs, so that whoever was staying there could imagine they were in some remote idyll. Jayne was sure it looked great in the brochure, although she suspected that they didn’t show pictures of the approach, past the broken windows of an old factory that was awaiting demolition.
The cottage was a country cliché, with roses around a wooden trestle that surrounded the door, a modern one mocked up to look like a stable door, and flowers grew out of an old milk churn.
Jayne had called ahead. There was a man pacing outside, not much older than thirty. In his pinstripe suit and pink tie, he didn’t look like he was from the countryside.
As Jayne pulled over and got out, he said, ‘Is it Jayne?’ He lifted his arm to display his watch. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere, that’s all.’ His tone was brusque but friendly, but it was obvious he regarded meeting her as a great inconvenience. He gestured towards her clothes. ‘You said you’re from a law firm.’
‘I’m an investigator working a case for them, but I won’t keep you. Do you remember Mark Roberts, the man who rented your cottage earlier this year?’
‘Of course. It’s not every day I’ve got to deal with stuff like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Just the things that are unimportant but seem insensitive. Like, where do I send the security deposit he left? Or do I send it back at all, because the police made a mess when they went searching the place? I had to pay the cleaners extra to make it ready for the next guest.’ He held his hands up in apology. ‘I know, small change when compared to what he suffered, but it means I can’t forget it.’
She looked towards the house. ‘Can I look inside?’
‘Why? It’s just a holiday cottage?’
‘Just to get a feel for his last days.’
He shrugged as he turned to unlock the door and went inside. Jayne followed.
The cottage was pleasant enough, with a sofa on a deep carpet and in front of a wood‑burning stove, the fireplace ringed by coloured tiles. There were pictures on the wall, but it was chain-store stuff, picked up for a tenner to give it the feel of a home. There were some books in a bookcase against the wall, a random collection of romance and thrillers, perhaps left behind by previous guests.
Jayne went to a round table by a window, with a view towards the farm further down. Was this where Mark had planned out his book, his laptop there, before he set out for his fatal meeting?
She became aware of the owner behind her. She turned. ‘Did you meet Mark?’
‘Just when he came to collect the keys.’
‘How was he?’
‘Pleasant enough, but I was only showing him around. Made all the right noises, like he understood how to use the dishwasher and not to light a fire if he was going out. If he hadn’t been murdered, I don’t think I’d have remembered him.’
‘Did he say why he was visiting Highford?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t remember if he did or not, and I don’t ask. Some people come to walk the hills. Others because they have family nearby but don’t want to stay with them. If they don’t want to tell me, that’s fine too. As long as they pay the rent and look after the place, they can do what they want.’
‘Did he leave anything behind?’
‘What, like his clothes?’
‘Anything really.’
He thought back. ‘The police looked through his stuff but told me there was nothing there of any use. Just his clothes and toiletries.’
‘What about a laptop? He was a journalist, and I bet this was his desk.’
‘If they took one, they didn’t tell me, and I don’t remember one.’
‘What happened to his stuff?’
‘A woman came for it. An older woman. His mother, she said, but that was after the police had been here.’
Jayne thanked him and was about to leave when she thought of something. ‘When I called you before, and mentioned his name, what came to mind?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Memories rely on triggers, like the way a song can take you back to a specific time. What image popped into your head when I mentioned his name?’
He thought about that. ‘A tall man. Green coat and scarf. A holdall and a bag over his shoulder, just coming in through the door. It was his accent. Southern, in some way, although I couldn’t say where.’
‘The bag on his shoulder. A slim one?’
‘Like a laptop bag? You mentioned a laptop before.’ He frowned. ‘Yes, just like one. I remember him clunking it onto the table as he came in.’
‘Thank you,’ Jayne said. ‘That’s really helpful.’
Just as she was about to leave, he said, ‘I was sad to hear about him. It felt weird, seeing his stuff here, and a young bloke, too. A shame.’
She looked back around the room, once more seeing the view he’d enjoyed as he researched his book, no idea what was awaiting him. An image of Jimmy flashed into her mind, him laughing, the times they’d spent before she killed him, those moments where he was the man she’d believed him to be when they first started out. So young, so full of promise.
She’d brought that to an end, all right.
‘Yeah, a young death is the hardest,’ she said, and closed the door behind her as she went back to her car.