‘Charles told me you have some puppies needing a home.’
‘Aye, I have that, the poor little buggers were dumped on the main road.’ Phil stood to one side to allow John Smith into the cottage.
Gazing at the sleeping pups John raised an eyebrow. ‘What are they?’
‘Can’t rightly tell,’ Phil said comfortably. ‘Like most of us, they didn’t come with a pedigree.’
Grey eyes battled with black ones for a few seconds. Neither won.
‘I meant gender, Mister Tyler.’
‘Titles don’t sit easy with me. The name’s Phil.’ Phil grinned as he held out his hand, leaving John with the uncomfortable feeling he’d seen right through him.
‘John.’ A small, abashed smile inched across his face. ‘I’ve never owned a dog.’
‘These are bitches.’
‘I’ve never own a bitch, either.’
‘Phil chuckled. ‘The kettle’s on the boil, I’ll make us some tea. The black-eared one is Gypsy. She belongs to Susie up at the big house but is boarding with me for the time being.’
‘So, I can have my choice of the other two?’
‘One will chose you when they wake. The other is destined for Jack Bellamy. His dog died last year and he’ll be needing another.’
‘He’s the recluse up at Canford Cottage?’
‘You don’t miss much, do you?’ Phil set a mug of thick brown liquid down in front of him. ‘There’s some who value privacy more than others.’
‘And some who have more to hide?’
‘Aye.’ John was subject to a long uncomfortable stare. ‘Perhaps they figure their business belongs to themselves. To my way of thinking, that man got more than he deserved.’
Intrigued, John stared back at him. He knew about the case. Charles had discussed it with him when he’d enquired about buying Canford Cottage. He’d suggested that Jack Bellamy might have been used as a scapegoat. Strange that two different men should be of like mind.
The victim had been a young village girl who’d subsequently lost her memory of the event. He couldn’t remember reading about it in the papers.
‘It was you who found the girl, wasn’t it?’
Phil’s body became as still as stone. ‘Aye, me and my son. I said my piece at the trial, and can see no reason to repeat it to an outsider.’
‘An outsider could present an unbiased viewpoint because he lacks emotional involvement,’ John said just as bluntly. ‘You should consider that before you make snap judgments.’
‘Could be I should. I’ll think on it.’
Prickly customer, John thought, and as closed as an oyster. Suddenly uncomfortable, he realized that Phil was assessing his worth and was relieved when the puppies decided to wake.
One immediately tried to clamber up his leg, peeing excitedly on his shoe in the process. When he lifted her to his lap, she stood against his chest, aiming high-pitched yelps into his ear.
‘Stop nagging,’ he said, beginning to grin as the dog leaped up and down, trying to lick his chin.
Phil chuckled. ‘She’s the liveliest one of the three. She’ll need a lot of exercise, but you look as though you could do with some yourself.’
The yelps changed into short yaps as the puppy attacked the buttons on his cardigan. He turned her over on her back and tickled her belly. ‘I’ll call you Nellie, after Melba, the opera singer.’
‘I’ll be helping Jack Bellamy set his cottage to rights in the morning,’ Phil said as he escorted him to the gate. ‘Drop over in a day or so and meet him?’
So he hadn’t been found wanting, after all. He smiled as he met Phil’s enigmatic glance square on, both knowing he would.
There was a mystery here. A horrendous crime had been committed in this sleepy little village. Mistakes weren’t usually made when bringing a criminal to justice. The act of rape, especially when involving a child, was highly emotive. People were uncomfortable with it, and it would have been dealt with as quickly as possible.
It struck him as odd that the perpetrator of the crime would come back to live in the place where it had been committed – very odd!
He stopped for a moment at the village store to pick up some cans of dog food and a loaf of bread. When he reached home he installed Nellie on a cushion in a cardboard box, and said, ‘You’ll have to wait until I go into town before you get a more luxurious bed.’ He went through to the lounge and dialed a number in London.
Within five minutes he had the information he sought.
‘Jane Renfrew again,’ he whispered, shaken to the core as he gazed at the painting of the lilies. It was almost as if fate had thrown them together. For what purpose; so he could investigate the crime? Jack Bellamy had been convicted on circumstantial evidence, and the trail was cold. All the same ... he didn’t like unsolved mysteries.
The next morning, he took the early train to London.
* * * *
Jack had barely begun to prise the boards from the windows when Phil Tyler arrived.
‘You look like a man in need of companionship, and I’ve got a pup who needs a good home. Her name’s Daisy.’
Jack stared at him for a second, not knowing quite what to do.
The plank of wood in his hands was exchanged for a fat brown puppy. ‘Nice day for it,’ Phil said. ‘Where do you want the wood stacked?’
Jack’s brain scrambled in panic; he was no longer used to making decisions. He thought for a while. ‘The shed, I guess. Yes, the shed. I’ll just settle Daisy in the kitchen.’
They worked in silence for most of the morning and then by common consent downed their tools.
‘They do a good lunch up at the Thatcher’s Arms.’
A knot of worry inched across Jack’s forehead. ‘Is Joe still the landlord?’
Phil’s thumb jerked towards the churchyard. ‘Joe’s over yonder, he and his missus passed on several years ago. A young couple have taken over the pub. They keep a good table.’
Panic attacked him and he searched for an excuse. ‘I haven’t been to the bank, lately.’
‘No problem,’ Phil said gently. ‘I reckon young Janey would be upset if I couldn’t manage to buy her dad some lunch.’
Jack thought he might burst with the sudden surge of pride he experienced at the sound of his daughter’s name. ‘Did she tell you?’
‘Aye, she told me the last time she came to visit. She’s doing quite well for herself from what I gather.’ Phil took the newspaper cutting from his pocket. ‘See, here’s her photograph with some weird looking feller.’
‘What does it say?’
‘Don’t rightly know. I’m not much good at reading and such. I thought you might tell me.’
Snatching the cutting from Phil’s fingers he began to read, his words tripping over each other in their eagerness to get out. ‘She’s using the name Mistral ... sell out ... another exhibition in America.’ He glanced up at Phil, his eyes shining. ‘She said she’s my daughter.’
‘Aye, well why shouldn’t she? Tis nothing for her to be ashamed of.’
‘But that means ...? Tell me about her,’ he said, eagerly. ‘How is she? What’s she been doing?’
Phil shrugged into his jacket. ‘A man can’t talk on an empty stomach, and half a pint of bitter would slide down real well on such a warm day, I reckon.’ He ambled off towards the road, leaving Jack to follow.
Within two days, Canford Cottage was clean inside and out, and they’d started on the garden.
There was a certain enjoyment in physical work, Jack thought, enjoying the motion of the scythe slipping through the long grass. He tired easily though, and his muscles protested every time he took a rest. For the last two nights he’d slept like a dog, waking in the morning with every joint aching – and Daisy eager to greet him.
‘Take it nice and easy,’ Phil had said. ‘It’s not a race.’
But it seemed like a race to Jack. He was ashamed of the state he’d fallen into. He wanted his house in order before he contacted Janey and invited her to visit.
He winced as he stopped for a breather. Lowering himself to the ground under the shade of a tree, he drew the chamois gardening gloves from his hands and flipped the top from a bottle of brown ale. Carefully, he flexed his palms. ‘My hands haven’t been this blistered since I was apprenticed to my father’s boat yard.’
‘They’ll soon harden up.’ Phil handed him a pasty, courtesy of young Susie. She often visited, using his kitchen to practice the recipes Ada taught her. She was a right nice little cook.
Sometimes Pamela came with her, and they’d sit and jaw over a cup of tea. He didn’t usually feel comfortable around women, but there was something different about Pamela. If she wasn’t married ...? Phil shook his head and grinned. No good hankering after something that couldn’t be.
‘Tell me about the process of building boats. I suppose it’s a bit like making cars.’
‘Nothing like it.’ Leaning back against the tree Jack grinned with pleasure. ‘A boat – a real boat is alive.’
‘Oh, go on!’ he teased.
‘It’s true. Have you ever been on the ocean?’
‘Can’t say I’ve ever needed anything but the earth beneath my feet.’
‘One day I’ll take you out. When you feel a boat respond to your touch, when you experience the deck quivering beneath your feet and the wind in your hair, when you feel the ocean singing in your veins then you’ll know she’s got a heart and a soul – just like a woman.’
As clear as if she’d spoken on the wind, Phil heard Janey on the man’s breath. He blinked back tears when Jack’s eyes clouded over.
‘I had a good boat once, with a brave heart. She was named Margaret Jane. Somebody set fire to her. She burnt to the waterline, and it damned near broke my heart.’
‘Did you ever think of building another?’
‘She’d have been too expensive, and I didn’t really have time, then.’
‘You have now?’
‘Yes ...’ His brow furrowed in thought.’ And I have the money from the sale of the yard.’ Leaping to his feet Jack stepped into the sunshine, then sliding him a sideways look, grinned. ‘I have the original plans my father drew up. Would you like to help me build her?’ He threw his arms wide as a cloud moved over the sun. ‘We could call her the Saffy Jane.’
‘That we could, but I doubt I’d be much use to you. I prefer to plant seeds and watch them grow.’
Jack cast a long shadow shaped like a cross when the sun returned in all its brightness.
Hairs prickled at the nape of Phil’s neck and he was filled with a sudden sense of urgency. ‘How long will the boat take to build?’
‘She.’ Jack’s grin was as wide and hungry as the ocean. ‘A boat is a she. Twelve months if all goes well.’
They both turned as the gate squeaked a protest.
‘Good-day, Phil.’
The two men exchanged a conspiratorial smile, and then John stepped forward, introduced himself and said. ‘I hope you don’t mind me dropping in.’
‘Not at all. We were just going inside to look at some plans. I’m trying to persuade Phil to help me build a boat.’
‘I grew up on a barge, if that’s any help ... and I’ve got some spare time on my hands.’
Yes ... Phil thought. You’re exactly the sort of help he needs.
Janey received her father’s letter at the end of July. Immediately, she was all smiles, all bounce, reading bits out to Devlin as he prepared a side salad to serve with the Chicken Kiev.
‘He’s building a boat in his back garden. Griff’s father is helping him, and John Smith.’ Her eyes were shining blue as they came up to his, though they were focused somewhere in the past. ‘John Smith keeps cropping up in my life. How very odd.’
‘Very,’ Devlin muttered, grinning as he wondered who the hell John Smith was.
‘I’m going to see my father at the weekend.’
‘I’ll drive you.’
She was distant, evasive. ‘There’s really no need. I can take a train.’
‘I’d like to meet him,’ Devlin persisted, still annoyed that she’d kept her relationship with John Gregory a secret.
‘Not this time.’
‘What’s got into you, Janey?’ He gave her the benefit of his frown. Not that it did any good. Of late she’d displayed an unexpected, independent streak.
She worked like one possessed, rising early and only stopping for meals. She spent an hour or so playing with Saffy before her bedtime. Often she forgot the time, and sometimes, the day.
She glared back at him. ‘Do I have to spell it out for you? I didn’t think you were totally lacking in sensitivity, Devlin.’
Christ! He’d forgotten the circumstances of this meeting. How could he have? His pride deflated like a punctured balloon. ‘Of course! How stupid of me.’ Placing the salads into the refrigerator he slid his arms around her.
‘Don’t,’ she said, pushing him away.
He was losing her. Inch by inch he was losing her and he didn’t know what to do about it.
He stared at her in angry bafflement. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘Do what?’ She looked totally mystified.
‘Push me away when I touched you.’
She slid from her chair and stood. Her body was a mass of pent-up energy. ‘I feel edgy. I have to get back to work.’
How infuriating she was. ‘Haven’t you done enough for one day? You’re going to have a breakdown if you’re not careful. You need to relax. I’ll take you out dancing or something.’
Her jaw tightened. ‘I can’t dance very well. Besides, if you want Mistral paintings I have to work.’
He took her by the shoulders and gently shook her. ‘Something’s wrong, Janey. What is it?’
‘Nothing’s wrong. I just want to work. I want to get everything over and done with.’ She shrugged away from his touch for the second time. ‘Damn it, Devlin, stop pushing me.’
He was devastated when she placed her hands against her face and began to sob.
‘Janey ... angel ... what is it?’
‘Leave me alone,’ she shouted, and then turned and ran from the room.
He let her cry for a while. Later, when he thought the time was right, he took up a tray with a pot of tea and some dainty asparagus and chicken sandwiches, because she’d missed lunch.
She was working on the abstract, but she quickly threw the cloth over it and joined him. Her face was set and pale, her eyes slightly swollen from crying.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said straight away. ‘There’s nothing wrong. I was listening to a news broadcast about Vietnam before I came down.’
Devlin said nothing, but his jaw tightened.
‘How is it they managed to put two men on the moon last month, but can’t stop the war in Vietnam?’
‘Drifter isn’t in Vietnam, if that’s what’s eating at you.’
Her mouth and eyes formed three surprised ovals, reminding him of a Modigliani portrait.
‘Grandpappy pulled some strings and got wonder-boy a nice little desk job in Washington.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
How could she look so accusing? How the hell was he supposed to know she thought Drifter was in Vietnam! He’d put a stop to this hero worship, right now. He’d crush Drifter and make her spit him out. Be damned if he’d spare her this time.
‘Wait there. I want to show you something.’ Taking the stairs two at a time he removed a file from the cabinet in the office. When he returned, he dropped it on the table in front of her.
‘I wasn’t going to show you this but it’s time you faced facts. I don’t imagine you’ll thank me for it.’
One finger cagily touched it, as if it might suddenly spit venom at her. The smear of paint she left was as blue and wounded as her eyes.
He felt like all sorts of heels, but it was too late to change his mind. He left her staring at it, and strode away – out through the front door into the evening sunshine.
He had no idea of where he was going and didn’t really care. All he needed was a pub. He intended to get drunk. Janey could get her own damn dinner if she wanted to eat! He was through babysitting her.
* * * *
It didn’t take Janey long to open the file. It contained a dozen or so published articles, titled, An American in London. They were biting accounts of the life of the people who’d lived in the Finsbury Park house. She read each one carefully.
Connor, Felicity, Stephen and Dion – everyone was there, including herself. Drifter had examined every weakness, and with the cruelty and delicacy of a cat with a nest of mice to play with had shredded the skin from them all.
Why hadn’t she noticed he was studying them like impaled insects? Because she’d been blinded by an adolescent emotion called first love.
It had been a long, lingering sickness that she hadn’t quite recovered from yet. But this dose of medicine was designed to have the effect of a laxative.
The writing was slick and sardonic. It was an expose of the cruelest sort, as if Drifter had imagined himself some superior being standing in judgment over them all.
There was a talented female artist who’d lost the meaning of subtlety when dealing with people. Because her emotions came in tubes of primary colors, when she mixed them she only got shades of grey.
There was enough truth in the statement to shatter her.
Crushed, she flung herself into a chair. Drifter had been nothing but a voyeur. How dared he have done this to her ... to any of them!
There were three other papers in the file. One was a newspaper cutting announcing Darius Taunt had been posted to Washington. She examined the photograph, imprinting it on her mind. This was a different man to the one she’d known. Clean-shaven and smart in his uniform, he was smiling into the camera. How sincere he looked, she thought bitterly ... and how perfectly charming. She despised him!
Then there was Drifter with Ingram Taunt, his paternal grandfather. They were attending the funeral of Darius Rhodes. They looked very much alike as they gazed at each other.
The third cutting was a biographical article about the Taunt family, dated fifteen years previously. His parents had been drowned when he was young in a boating accident in France. There was a picture of his mother, tall and slim, her hair flowing about her shoulders in long fair ripples. Lost in the Mistral wind, it said, making her death seem somehow romantic.
The Mistral wind!
She suddenly felt sick. Taking the article she strode to her bedroom and stared at herself in the mirror. Her anger was transferred to Devlin. He’d known. He’d always known!
‘Devlin!’ she yelled down the stairs. ‘Why didn’t you tell me I looked like his bloody mother?’
Saffy’s nanny gave her a slightly apprehensive glance when she stormed into the kitchen to confront him.
‘Mister Cox has gone out,’ she said. ‘I saw him turn the corner as I came across the park. Is everything all right?’
Janey’s bad mood melted away when Saffy smiled and held out her arms. ‘Mum, mum, mum!’
‘Everything’s fine. I’ll take over if you like. You can go home early. Sorry I shouted, it’s been one of those days.’
‘Well, if you’re sure ... thank you, that’s very kind of you.’
Left alone with Saffy, Janey finished spooning a bowl of mush into her daughter’s mouth, then gave her a couple of slices of banana to eat. Afterwards, she took Drifter’s child upstairs, playing with her until it was time for bed.
‘D’you know something?’ she said, exchanging kisses with her daughter. ‘Your father wasn’t all bad ... at least he gave me you.’
Just after she went to bed she heard Devlin arrive home. She was surprised when he knocked on her door, and hurriedly threw on her robe.
He peered at her, owlishly. ‘I s’pose you hate my guts.’
‘Not really, at least you’ve got some, which is more than some men I’ve known.’ She’d never seen Devlin drunk, and she grinned as he swayed unsteadily on his feet. ‘Go to bed, Devlin. I’ll lock up.’
‘This can’t go on.’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘I just thought I’d let you know that being in love with you is hell. I haven’t laid a finger on another woman since I met you, let alone anything else. I’m as frustrated as hell. Kiss me good-night, Janey.’
He ignored her peck on the cheek. Sliding his hand to the back of her head he turned her mouth around to his.
Passion was lost in the whisky fumes on his breath and she found it hard not to recoil when he backed her into the room and against the bed.
He was precious to her and she took him so very much for granted. She wished she could love him the way he wanted – wished she could offer herself to him without reservation. What was the matter with her? Her emotions were shades of grey, Drifter had said. Shades of grey!
‘You don’t have to worry,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve had too much to drink to get a hard on.’
‘If I put a match to your breath you’d go up in flames.’
He released her with a lop-sided grin. ‘I wouldn’t hurt you for all the tea in China. Marry me, Janey.’
Shades of grey, like clouds in a storm or a winter sea stretching to a grey horizon, and beyond that more shades of grey. He deserved more woman than that.
‘Ask me in the morning, Dev. When you’re sober.’
He gazed at her for a moment, his eyes all silvery and sad. ‘I don’t think I want to hear your answer when I’m sober. Good-night, angel.’ He turned and ambled away.
They were awkward with each other at breakfast.
Devlin’s face was haggard as he swallowed a couple of codeine tablets with some coffee, and he winced when Saffy banged her spoon on the table.
‘Can you do that quietly, my darling?’ he said piteously. ‘Uncle Devlin is dying.’ A pair of red-rimmed eyes touched her for a second and then slid away. ‘Did I say or do anything I should apologize for last night?’
Her hand covered his for a moment. ‘Nothing. Why don’t you go back to bed for a while?’
‘I think I might.’ He turned at the door, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’
‘Positive.’
He looked so relieved she wanted to giggle, but she waited for a decent interval, giving him time to get out of earshot.
* * * *
Janey hadn’t told her father she was visiting him that weekend and had taken the early train. Paying the taxi off, she gazed at Canford Cottage, marveling at the change in the place. The garden wilderness had been tamed and the windows gleamed with morning sunlight.
She inhaled the subtle mixed fragrances of wild herbs, summer flowers, and newly mowed grass that filled the air. Joy filled her to the brim. Before too long she’d come back here to live, and she’d never go away again.
‘Doggy,’ Saffy whispered, pulling at her hand. And there was a dog – a fat brown puppy sniffing in the long grass at the base of an apple tree.
Releasing her daughter’s hand Janey watched the child run towards the pup, waving her arms and laughing.
Jack emerged from the house just as Saffy and dog met in the middle of his lawn. His eyes widened as they collided, then Saffy was flat on her back, giggling, and the pup was standing on her, licking her face.
‘Get off, Daisy.’ Taking the pup by the scruff of the neck he dragged it aside and stood Saffy up. Crouching on his haunches in front of her, he said, ‘Now, young lady, where might you have come from?’
‘Dada,’ Saffy said, one finger reaching out to touch his scar.
‘No ... I’m not your dad.’ He glanced towards the gate and a grin slowly dawned on his face when their eyes met. ‘But I’ve got a wonderful feeling I could be your granddad.’
Janey looked tall and graceful in her flared jeans and smocked cheesecloth top. The sun was behind her. Her hair absorbed its rays and shone with a silver brightness that made his eyes ache.
Jack wanted to laugh, and he wanted to cry. He wanted to leap into the air and swing from the branches of the tree, hollering like Tarzan. The first two were undignified, the second, though just as undignified, was also impossible for a man with his aching bones.
He couldn’t stop grinning though, as if his lips had been starched into position. He was grinning inside too, tingling with lightness. His veins sang with it, the blood coursing like champagne through his body.
She came towards him on brown sandaled feet, her bag swinging from her shoulder. She wasn’t much like her mother ... perhaps a touch about the mouth. But then, he didn’t often think of Margaret these days and her appearance had faded somewhat from his memory.
Up close, he saw the resemblance to himself Mary had talked about. Not that he’d ever doubted Janey was his daughter, it was just that he was seeing her through fresh eyes - a grown up woman with a child of her own. The last time he’d seen her she’d been a child. He didn’t want to remember what she’d suffered. Instead, he allowed pride to swell inside him until he thought he might burst from it.
There was a scattering of freckles across her nose, like grains of golden sand, and her eyes ... it was like looking at himself in the mirror.
‘You’ve come, then?’ They were banal words, designed to hide the emotional churning inside him.
Her eyes closed for the few seconds it took her to blurt out. ‘I’m so sorry you went to prison. It wasn’t your fault. I know that now. Can you forgive me?’
He couldn’t prevent the tears coming to his eyes. Dear God! What had it cost her to say that? Had she been blaming herself? She’d been a frightened child at the time. He didn’t hold her responsible for anything she’d said.
Reaching out, he took her hands in his. ‘It’s over, Janey love. Forget it and let’s concentrate on getting to know one another. We may never be able to establish a father and daughter relationship, but we can be friends.’ His eyes slid towards Saffy who was charging around the garden after the puppy. ‘Perhaps I can be a successful grandfather instead.’
‘Do you think,’ and her eyes were uncertain, almost shy. ‘Do you think it would be all right if I hugged you? I mean, you wouldn’t mind or anything, would you?’
Their arms came round each other, both of them careful at first, stiff, each ready to withdraw from the other’s embrace. Slowly she relaxed, her head against his shoulder. Her tears dampened his shirt as he cuddled her against him.
‘Hush, Janey,’ he comforted. ‘Everything’s over now.’
Nothing was over, Janey was thinking, and nothing would be resolved until she could prove his innocence. But she didn’t know where to start or who she could confide in.
The weekend was the beginning of a learning path for them both. By mutual consent they left the past alone, concentrating instead on establishing a relationship.
Jack did nothing to change his plans for the weekend. Some of the materials for his boat were being delivered, and both Phil and John came to help him unload them.
Phil greeted Janey with nod and a smile of approval. ‘Griff’s taking a week off at the end of September. Why don’t you come down for a holiday then.’
‘I’ll try, but I have work to finish.’ It was possible her paintings would be finished by September, that Mistral would be no more. The present series was the best she’d done, full of darkness and power. Each brush-stroke and slash of the palette knife had eradicated a little bit more of Drifter from her heart.
Her intention was to cut him out altogether and nobody, not even Griff, would be allowed to stop her.
Soon she’d be free of him, her last painting already planned in her mind. It was a woman in a boat, her hair streaming in the Mistral wind as she was ferried across the River Styx. She would keep for the right time – the right moment. A moment she was sure would come.
John gave nothing away of his thoughts when Jack referred to her as his daughter. It only confirmed what he already suspected.
Then she was laughing at him, teasing him because he hadn’t contacted her like he’d said, making him splutter apologies and give excuses.
He was flattered by her attention, but bounced back to tell her he’d bought one of her paintings. She was interested in which one, and more interested still when he said Charles had offered double what he’d paid for it.
‘My agent will be pleased. He’d tell you not to accept the first offer to buy.’
‘I have no intention of selling it. I bought it because I love it.’
‘Those lilies grow on the banks of the stream in the woods. When spring comes I’ll show you the place in the painting.’ Her eyes became far away, and John thought he’d never seen anything quite so lovely. ‘When I was small I used to think the place was my secret, but I daresay you’ve been there already.’
‘No ... no, I haven’t. I’d very much like to see it.’
‘Then you shall, in the spring.’ She moved off then, to stop Saffy devouring a snail, admonished her gently before running her lips through her silky curls in a sliding kiss.
Saffy’s father was Darius Taunt junior, otherwise known as Drifter. John felt a twinge of remorse that he’d been responsible for the child losing her father, even though he hadn’t known of her existence at the time.
Later, he went into his study and stared at a graph on the wall. He removed a question mark from Janey’s name and picking up a ruler, he drew a thin red thread from her to Jack Bellamy. There were already two other lines, connecting her to Linda Pitt, and the late Margaret Renfrew. The jigsaw was slowly taking shape.
At the centre of the graph, sitting like a malevolent spider in a web, was Edward Renfrew’s name.