

### PEBBLETON-ON-EDGE

by

D. A. Gregory

SMASHWORDS EDITION

***

PUBLISHED BY:

D. A. Gregory on Smashwords

Pebbleton-on-Edge

Copyright 2011 D. A. Gregory

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

***

Grateful thanks to all those who encouraged the writing of this book and helped with details of authenticity, including my former colleagues at LTC, Les and Colin from the ship, school friends Sue and Angela, and Hannah for proofreading and advice. Special thanks to my dear husband Keith for his patience throughout.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, events, characters, organisations and businesses are either used fictitiously or are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 1 – Meetings

Reluctant to let this final interview end on a bitter note, the man with the quiet voice told the sullen individual who stood before his desk his usual anecdote for such occasions:

"When my little girl started school, she came home and asked what I do at work. Before I could think how to explain, my wife cut in with 'Daddy tries to stop naughty men doing naughty things.' Good description, I'd say, wouldn't you?"

Show no emotion, no reaction. The ambiguous reply came: "For a child, yes, sir."

Embarrassed, the quiet-voiced man hesitated, the smile fading from his tired face. He stood and leaned forward, offering a hand to shake. This was accepted politely, and they both headed for the door of the office. "Well, goodbye, Simon....er, sorry, um......and all the best in your new life. We will, of course, keep a little eye on your.....welfare."

'Simon' bit back the retort 'That would be a first'. He passed through the door and down the corridor, checked at the lift by a security officer, the first of three he had to get past before finally emerging onto a street near the embankment. It was a cold November afternoon, the approach of winter sending the young London business generation in smart suits leaping from taxis and scuttling into the warmth of buildings, scorning coats and scarves. 'Simon', a little older and wiser, pulled a thick coat over his suit. It still seemed odd to be wearing a suit, after getting used to.....no, no more thinking about the past. He breathed deeply of the damp air, eager to start on his plans. However vaguely formed in detail, these plans had a general purpose, an upward trend toward which pure human instinct led him. Already the groundwork was prepared, the necessary documents in a thin folder hidden under his mattress, thanks to the few useful contacts he had made in the building behind him. Every single document, carefully prepared and suitably aged where applicable, bore the name by which he would now be known. The thought gladdened his heart, and detaching himself from the crowd on the street he practically danced down the long flight of steps to the tube station. Now to pick up his few possessions from that horrible little bedsit, and then....!

Watching his departure from the office window several floors above, the man with the quiet voice breathed deeply and released the air in a discontented gust. The office door opened and his secretary joined him at the window, murmuring, "Gone, has he?"

"Hmmm. Definitely have to put him down as a failure, that one.....Damn it, I couldn't even get his name right. 'Stop naughty men'....more like 'take screwed-up men and make them ten times worse'.....what _have_ we just let loose on society?"

Chocolate digestives are not the right choice for the up-and-coming local government employee. Sue had already got crumbs in her keyboard, and now she was wiping a smear of chocolate off a letter that was waiting to be signed by the Parish Clerk. Still, it would be worthwhile if the Clerk in question would overcome his inhibitions (whatever they might be) and take a certain lady out on a proper date. Sue had let the chocolate melt in her fingers while gazing out of the window, watching the object of these musings walking away from the building with Paula Rivers, the youngest of the Parish Councillors, and the easiest on the eye by a long stretch.

Jealousy played no part in Sue's mental wanderings, for she preferred men who were open and direct, and preferably a little younger than James Goswell. No, Paula was the girl for him, she cared about local issues and could talk intelligently about current affairs. Miss Sue Cheam, on the other hand, left her desk at five sharp and emptied her mind of the day's work. Life, in her opinion, was to be lived, which meant zumba classes, helping run charity events, and catching up with her friends to plan the next holiday or weekend trip. Anything to make sure that earning money was a means to an end, not the end itself.

The two people on Sue's mind were by this time walking in a grove of pine trees, out of the blinding sunlight of a mid-June day. The dry needles whispered beneath their feet as they walked on in cool shadows, until they reached the wire fence that prevented further progress. Past the wire, a blazing sunlit panorama lay shimmering in heat haze –the cliff edge, the sea rocking gently, and down to the left a tiny beach baking below a stony path. The bleached sand gave way to grey shingle, and then another cliff rose sharply out of the shallow waters, topped by a large flat area of grassy meadow. No sound disturbed them but the cries of seagulls, and the muted crush and sigh of the waves. Finally the woman spoke. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"Why?" Spoken with surprise but devoid of anger, though he had so much riding on it.

"I – I can't tell you exactly. I just have the oddest feeling – oh, I know it's good for Pebbleton, and everything, but – well, there's something so _wrong_ about spoiling all this!" She flung her hand round at the view, passionate in her distress.

He pretended to jump out of the way of her flailing arm, and she laughed. He was taken aback at the unexpected strength of her feelings. Slim and brunette, her long hair twisted up into a clip, her face animated by emotion, she looked beautiful to him. He resisted the urge to touch her as he quietly replied, "I didn't know you were so crazy about the view – or Pebbleton, for that matter."

She turned to him, amazed. "I _love_ this place, James – I came here for holidays when we were kids. There can't be a square inch of that cliff-top we didn't picnic on!"

"Oh, I see," he smiled. "Sentimentality, I understand. But kids today can't be let out to explore alone. Even the picnics are regulated now – we hire them out a barbecue stand, and shoo them away at dusk. And woe betide them if they leave any litter behind!"

"Very funny. Yes, I know it's not the same now, and we have to move on and all that – but there is something nagging away in my mind. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I just feel uneasy about this whole thing. Honestly, it's not just sentiment, I have serious misgivings about the Development."

James knew better than to get involved in the politics of the Development project. She was a Councillor, albeit a young and attractive one. All the Councillors had their own agenda, their own interests, not to mention satisfying the pressures put on them by their political parties.

"Oh well," he shrugged and sighed, "It won't be up to me, anyway." He added with a smile: "Fortunately. I love being the Parish Clerk – I can always blame you Councillors if the decisions you make turn out to be rubbish!" She took a friendly swipe at him, and they turned and strolled back through the trees to the main path. As they reached the beginning of the tarmac road, she got out her car keys.

"See you tonight, then," she said, keeping her voice casual.

"Yep, don't be late," he teased.

"Me? Late? As if!" she laughed, and climbed into her little hatchback. Willing himself not to look back, James casually walked on towards the white pillared entrance of the square mansion that stood bathed in sunshine at the curve of the road. She watched him in her rear-view mirror, waiting until he disappeared before she began a careful three-point turn. Why did his opinion, even of her driving, have to _matter_ so much? It wasn't just his looks - James was, admittedly, tall, lean and had a long, handsome profile, his short hair just beginning to grey. She remembered him at a recent Council function, wearing a bow tie and tuxedo, looking far too classy for the modest Parish Council of a seaside village. He wouldn't look out of place at a Royal garden party, she had thought at the time - he had beautiful manners, and such a warm, confident way of greeting everyone, making them feel genuinely welcome. There was an air of poise about him, which had impressed the Council members who had interviewed him just a few months ago. She was glad she had not been among them – she would have accused herself of being unduly influenced by his high, intelligent forehead, twinkling brown eyes and disarming smile. She had often thought that a Parish Clerk shouldn't look like James – or maybe James should be something other than a Parish Clerk? However, Paula Rivers considered herself a sensible woman, and by now his looks alone would have lost their effect, had his personality not pleased her.

James Goswell strode into the reception lobby, unaware of her eyes upon him. Inside the building two more interested pairs of eyes monitored his progress. "Hi, sweetie", he threw at the receptionist as he shot past her desk towards the stairs. It was always 'sweetie' if he couldn't be bothered to think of names. _Very_ unprofessional, but he had other things on his mind. The Development project would be the main agenda item tonight and if it didn't go through Council – no, it was unthinkable, it _had_ to be passed.

Imogen, the flawlessly groomed receptionist, had been watching him on CCTV from the moment he stepped out of the shadow of the pines with Councillor Rivers. Her smile was that of an indulgent nanny, despite the fact that she was twenty-five to his forty. She would have dearly loved to nudge him into some such daring venture as taking Paula Rivers out to dinner – not on Council time to discuss business, but a _real_ dinner date. She was convinced that she could read the body language going on between them. However there was no way would she dare suggest anything to James – the gossip among the girls in the Parish Council offices was that James Goswell was impossible to catch. Many lovely women had tried, it was said, and quite a few hideous ones as well. The result was just the same – a big fat nothing. James probably started the legend by joking that at least the ladies knew where they were with him – nowhere!

Imogen turned her lovely blonde head away from the CCTV display, away from the sight of Mr. Goswell's trim backside racing up the stairs two at a time, and away from the exciting possibilities of romance in the workplace. Shaking her head sadly, she returned to the riveting task of typing up the Minutes of the last Amenities meeting, her long nails attacking the keyboard like a flock of baby woodpeckers.

The final pair of eyes waited for him on the first floor. He didn't make it into his own office before Miss Fiona Carvell shot out of hers, forcing him to stop dead to avoid an accident. Miss Carvell, spinster of the Parish, was composed of thin bones and sinews, a pale lanky skeleton covered in purple floral cotton. At five foot ten, she was almost as tall as James, making her elbows at a dangerous height in relation to James's ribcage. Her 'threatened collision' manoeuvre was frequently used, yet no-one had found a strategy to counter its deadly force. If Miss Carvell was set on waylaying someone, they stood no chance. He did _not_ address her as 'sweetie'. Ever.

She had been fretting since he had announced at coffee time that he would be having his lunch out, and her suspicions of his motives were aroused. Fiona took pride in knowing everything about the incumbent Parish Clerk; his tastes, his work, his diary and especially his whereabouts. James was proving the most difficult Clerk she had ever studied. He did not conform to any pattern known to her from the previous Clerks, yet he was easy enough to work for. Nothing upset her more than his sudden unscheduled absences. No matter that he planned to go into the village to have his hair cut, grab a quick sandwich from Lacey's Café, and then stroll the back way round to the pine grove for an off-the-record chat with Councillor Rivers – Fiona would feel as much hurt by the lack of communication about the haircut as she did about the unspecified activity among the pines. After an initial question that he pretended not to hear, she said no more, but loped about fretfully until he departed. Once he had gone, she sat hunched at her desk, strategically positioned with a view of the stairs and the windows, resembling an unhappy vulture. No-one ever saw her eat, and cruel rumour had it that to avoid wasting time on such a frivolous indulgence her wiry frame was sustained by energy pills as supplied on space missions, the packaging providing the only padding in her ill-fitting bra. Sue Cheam maintained that she wasn't even human and had stolen the food supply from a doomed astronaut who had the misfortune to land on her planet, wherever that was.

James had learned soon after his arrival six months ago to humour Fiona, knowing that he needed her. She had been Secretary to five successive Parish Clerks, and knew more about the running of Pebbleton-on-Edge Parish Council than anyone. It was irritating that he could think of no way to replace her, but he was philosophical about life and accepted that she was a fixture. A little flattery now and then seemed to be all she needed, and he reassured her at appropriate intervals of the value of her support. 'Indispensible' was how she viewed herself, so that was his stock phrase when a pat on the back was due. When she got too overbearing he kept her in her place by an impromptu departure from the building, casually unexplained. Dodging Fiona had become a game, and he had developed quite a few strategies to outwit her. She should have been angry with him, but she seemed to see him as a troublesome child whose bad behaviour had to be endured. He played along, truancy his only rebellion.

"Ah, James, I'm glad you're back," she announced, as if there had been a chance he would have absented himself for the whole afternoon and gone sun-bathing. "I need you to check the final agenda for the Tourism meeting – we only have three days and it really must be sent out to the Councillors this afternoon. And" - as he opened his mouth to reply \- "I was rather at a loss to tell Councillor Denby where you were – he turned up at one o'clock – oh, don't worry, I didn't say where you were – but he was rather put out as he expected to discuss the Development with you."

She fixed her eye on him, hoping for an explanation. "Councillor Denby? The poor old guy is losing it – I told him two o'clock. Well, back to the grindstone, eh? Let's have that Agenda and I'll get busy." He held out his hand, forcing her to back into her office to pick up the document.

Fiona's great tragedy was that due to her knowing every detail about the running of a Parish Council, she had missed seeing the big picture. Her obsession with schedules, minutes and records left her a mine of information about the past and present running of the Council, but lacking any instinct about her colleagues, or awareness of approaching problems. She had no idea of her boss's fear of commitment, for example, otherwise she would have felt as sorry for Paula Rivers as Imogen did. Worse still, despite her proximity to the main players in the dramas unfolding around her, she had no sense of impending disaster. But then, no-one did on that warm summer day.

It was cooler by six-fifteen, to the relief of the Council members who were heading towards Southcliff Hall. They were to meet in the recently redecorated Clandecy Room, the focal point and pride of the beautiful building. Built in the 'William and Mary' style, Southcliff Hall enjoyed the status of a listed building. It sat alone, halfway along a turning from the main village street, like a white oblong temple, with a neo-classical portico added at the centre of the front elevation, supported by four columns. Neatly planted gardens were laid out in front, either side of a concrete slope designed for wheelchair access. There were no other buildings in the road apart from the converted Hall stables housing the Tourism department, which lay across a courtyard car park adjacent to the main edifice, and beyond that a backdrop of pine trees obscured the view of the cliff edge beyond. After work hours it was an oasis of calm, and even in the week it was visited only by staff, Councillors and those villagers who had dealings with the few departments in the building.

By six James had grabbed a sandwich and cup of tea up in the staff room, and had come alone to the Clandecy room, needing a quiet moment before this most crucial hour. He walked quietly downstairs, passing through Reception to the wide corridor which led to the huge double doors of the Clandecy Room. Even this passageway was a peaceful prelude, from the silent rich carpet under his feet to the commemorative plaques on the walls. He reflected on past Council members and officials, now long dead, who had walked along this way to thrash out decisions, not momentous on a national scale, but important to the lives of generations of residents in the area. He quietly opened and hooked back the two-leaved doors to the Council's meeting room, and walked to the wide oak table with its set of sturdy leather-seated chairs. Beneath the high ceiling white fans rotated lazily. The walls had recently been repainted in a soft grey-green, with white above the picture rail and in the numerous panels. Huge portraits of the Clandecy family, the original owners of Southcliff Hall, were set into the panels, and the eyes of lost generations gazed down on the proceedings.

His favourite portrait was of Lady Elizabeth Clandecy, original source of the family fortune. She had been the sole heiress of a wealthy Earl back in the seventeenth century; a headstrong girl of twenty-one when the young, handsome Major Edward Clandecy had danced with her at a ball (thanks to a bit of skilful social engineering by his ambitious father).

Realising that he had made a conquest, and not one to pass up such an opportunity, the dashing Major Edward had married above himself. So far above, in fact, that he had trouble adjusting to the dizzy heights of the society into which he now found himself accepted. He was ill-equipped for the responsibilities which fell on him, knowing little of managing lands, property and fortune. Happily his shrewd father, with Elizabeth's connivance, had kept the money safely growing, and though Edward died quite young of alcohol-related causes (as it would be described today), his heirs were well provided for. Southcliff Hall had duly been built in the Palladian style, so popular at the time, and the Clandecy heirs were educated in the art of making money grow. All went well until a later generation lost a good deal in American investments during the Great Depression, but still the Clandecys were _the_ family in the area. Memories of past glories kept Clandecy heads high in the Parish. James contemplated Lady Elizabeth's determined chin and the ironic tilt of her eyebrows, and wondered what she would think of events about to unfold.

First to arrive, disturbing James's reverie, was Councillor Denby. "Sorry I missed you earlier," he said, "I just popped in on the off-chance. Fiona said you were out on some important business, obviously she couldn't tell me what. So I thought I'd come in early and have a quick chat. That OK?"

James suppressed a smile, knowing that Fiona had refused to admit ignorance and turned it into discretion. He turned round one of the heavy chairs to face another, gestured to the older man to take a seat, and sat down facing Gordon Denby. "Fire away."

"I've heard that one or two of the others are getting cold feet about letting the land go to developers. Do you think there's a chance we'll lose this? I mean, after all the hard work you chaps have done, it would be simply criminal. What can I say tonight to make this happen?"

"Gordon, you know I'm not supposed to influence anything. Anyway, most of the work was already done when I got here. This began before my time, remember. Chewter was in office when the developers approached the Council. Everything just went on from there, feasibility studies, that sort of thing. Most people know all the pros and cons, we've had plenty of consultation meetings - it will have to be voted on of course, but I'd have thought - in principle - it would be a foregone conclusion."

"Bad job for you if it fails, eh?"

"Bad isn't in it. You know as well as I do this place is falling apart – without new investment, in short without the Development – we'll decline to the point where we'll have to be absorbed into the District Council. As it is we do so little here we can barely justify the upkeep of this place. But that's just us as a Council. For the village – well, with the Development, we'll get tons of infrastructure to go with it. Not to mention cash for the sale of the land. New jobs, new homes, they'll have to build a clinic too – then there's shops, bus routes, a new primary school – we either go up in the world and put ourselves back on the map, or we sink without a trace."

James stopped, hearing himself voicing his own fears. He'd finally found a lovely niche for himself, a comfortable job in a pleasant place. He was afraid that it would all disappear, and he'd have to start all over again – at his age it wasn't so easy to find a well-paid job. His were odd qualifications, his CV read as a motley collection of short careers in several different directions. Depending on which way you viewed it, he was a man of wide and varied experience, or a man who didn't know what he wanted to do and seemed to be always on the move. He knew he'd been incredibly lucky to get this job, and was doing all he could to hang on to it.

Gordon seemed to be absorbed in his own thoughts too, and a silence developed. Finally, Gordon heaved a sigh, and came out with an unusually perceptive comment. "You'd make an excellent politician."

"What? Why?"

"I asked you a question, and you talked on in fine style. You didn't give me an answer and you told me nothing I didn't already know. Yes, my son, you have the makings all right!"

James grinned. He liked Gordon best of all the Councillors, and put up with his ramblings with more patience than others showed. He knew the old man was probably getting a touch senile, certainly he was forgetful and could get confused. His heart was in the right place, however, and he earnestly wanted the best for the little community he loved. He'd been a teacher, and after spending a lifetime successfully encouraging youngsters to make the most of humble beginnings, he often despaired of the failure of the schools and other youth services to do the same now. He insisted on seeing the potential for good in young people, and no amount of graffiti or vandalism around Pebbleton would change his outlook.

A thumping along the corridor announced the arrival of Councillor Alfred Wentley, closely followed by Councillors Paula Rivers and Sheila Cooper. Wentley screwed up his nose in disgust at the sight of the fresh paintwork, muttering about wasted money.

The cheerful Mrs Cooper looked about her and exclaimed "Oh, it's lovely! I do like the colour. I might use this for my bathroom!" She, at least, had her feet on the ground, thought James. Her little council house was adorned with so many colours that a peacock would have felt underdressed, but it was immaculate and very welcoming. Wouldn't it be nice, thought James, if all Councillors were humble folk like Sheila. Maybe realistic decisions would be made, and less self-interest would creep in.

At this point, as if cued by James's train of thought, in marched Councillors Clandecy and Massington. Clandecy, of course, treated the others as if they were unwelcome guests he had to tolerate in his ancestral home. Southcliff Hall had been sold to the Council in the 1930's, long before Piers Clandecy had been born, but he resented the fact that he had never had the chance to play Lord of the Manor, welcoming the lowly residents of Pebbleton to the occasional social event and then getting rid of them for the rest of the year.

Councillor Massington was a different kettle of fish. He was 'new money', and his lack of aristocracy saved him from the haughty attitude that radiated from Clandecy. He had a consultancy job in the city, which occasionally took him off in his beautiful Bentley, but mostly he worked part-time from home, and was able to stroll around Pebbleton, noting everything that went on. In some this would have been irritating, an intrusion by a busybody, but he almost always judged a situation correctly, and only brought to the notice of the Council what was really in need of attention.

Massington was an imposing figure, tall and straight-backed, with a full head of wavy grey hair. He was handsome in a way that all older men would love to be, attractive to women and gracious in his dealings with all, regardless of social status. In these ways he outshone Clandecy, to the other man's fury. Dennis Massington had enough confidence to be relaxed and friendly with all, including Clandecy, despite knowing his efforts were only returned because he was a man of wealth and importance. Clandecy hid his feelings poorly, and an uneasiness came over all present when the two of them entered together. It was unnatural, bizarre, that they should have met by appointment to make such an entrance, and several querying looks passed between those already in the room.

Clandecy was the one to answer the puzzle, by a stream of foul language directed at an unseen mechanic who had failed to correct the problem with his Sports Mercedes. Apparently he had broken down at the end of the village, and had walked a few hundred yards before waving Massington down for a lift. It would have been a blow to his pride, for men of such noble birth cannot be seen walking any more than they can be seen begging lifts from the upwardly mobile. He was to chair the meeting, otherwise he would have probably phoned his wife to come with her car, then left her to get the RAC out to the Mercedes while he drove her Audi to Southcliff Hall.

After another ten minutes some members of the public who intended to protest came into the Clandecy Room and were seated quietly, awed by their surroundings. The meeting got under way. After the usual formalities the main topic was introduced, and James Goswell stood up to give the latest report on the situation. Everything was in place; all surveys, feasibility studies, environmental impact studies and the like had been done, planning permissions and legal technicalities were covered, and it only remained for the Parish Council to agree to the sale of the land. "In conclusion, if Council gives its agreement tonight, Egron Development will start work one week from now. The District Council will keep track with road connections, and Egron will follow their agreed programme to put in the infrastructure. Now, would anyone like to make any comments or ask any questions?"

There was a moment's silence, as the reality sunk in. Every objection had been parried months ago, as factions fought to keep the necessary waste facility away from their corner of the village, and possible horror scenarios were dissolved in a reassuring picture of affordable housing filled with nice nurses and courteous constables, shiny new shopping avenues and, best of all, a fabulous holiday park with cosy log cabins and a heated swimming dome. More jobs for the young people, more tourist money, more hope.

A shuffling from the back of the room broke the spell. A man in a worn suit stood up, urged and pushed by his wife. He fiddled nervously with the knot of his tie, scratched his ear and hitched up one shoulder before he found the courage to speak. "Go on!" hissed his wife.

"Your name, please," said James encouragingly. "Simpson," the man replied in a squeak, then cleared his throat, and tried again. "Simpson. Mr Simpson from Grove Avenue."

"Thank you Mr Simpson, we have to have that for the Minutes. Now please let us have your comments."

"Er, well we wondered if there would be a lot more traffic through our area – especially while the building goes on. I suppose that would be quite a long time?"

James sighed inwardly. "The increase in traffic was part of the environmental impact study, Mr Simpson, and it was judged to be at an acceptable level. Of course there will be some disruption during the building stage, but there are several routes to the sites, so your area will not have to bear the brunt of it."

Simpson's wife jumped up. "Where will the worst of it go, then?" she shouted. "Only our daughter and her kids live right near where the new road will go, and they'll be getting all of it from what I can see!"

"Of course work will only be going on at appropriate times – vehicles will not be allowed to move after certain hours, Mrs Simpson – it is Mrs Simpson I take it? – and you can read all the restrictions in the developer's charter. That has been on display in Reception for several months now. Does that answer your question?"

And so it went on. Pointless questions were countered with banal answers, repeating reassurances that had been covered over and over again in previous meetings. James kept waiting for some rumblings from the Councillors, but none came. Finally the time arrived for the vote. Nobody was surprised when there was an overwhelming majority in favour of the Development. James found himself letting a long breath escape his body, and he moved his head discreetly to release the tension in his neck. He carried on as if no outstanding event had occurred, moving the meeting towards the closing items.

He stole a glance at Paula Rivers, while the members of the public left the meeting. She looked thoughtful, but did not appear upset. There was just one exempt item, which the Council had the right to discuss in private. A trainee was needed for the Tourism Department, and it was agreed that a youngster should be found who would work for less money than a more experienced person. This was couched in less obvious terms, but everyone had their eye on the budget, and knew that it would be a long time before the next year's funds flowed in. Councillor Massington joked that once the land was sold to Egron they could afford Paris Hilton, and Councillor Mrs Cooper surprised everyone by looking very serious and commenting, "My old Dad used to say, 'Wait until the ink's dry', and I reckon we shouldn't count our chickens". She looked so solemn that everyone stifled their laughter, and not before she had blushed. James gallantly interrupted with, "Very true, Sheila, you are a wise woman."

The Council members left the building in unusually companionable mood, not an argument among them. The sun was low and many lingered outside in the pleasant evening air, chatting about the glowing future that awaited Pebbleton-on-Edge. There was a sense of occasion and achievement tonight. Most agreed that the public had no idea how difficult it was to run a small town – for suddenly they saw themselves as a future town, so much more than a village. Their weighty responsibility had been discharged tonight in a triumphant finale to years of effort.

James waited for the last few to amble outside, then set the alarm and locked the doors. He had his hand shaken by many of the Councillors, although he protested that none of it was his doing. Finally he reached Paula, and asked her if she was happy with the decision. She looked down at her shoes, then turned her head sharply and looked over her shoulder at the pine trees. He wondered if she was crying and didn't want him to see her face. He was embarrassed and almost turned away to let her escape the awkward moment, but suddenly she snapped her head around to face him. Something like anger was in her eyes, and her face was tense. "I just hope they know what they're doing," she growled, her teeth gritted. "Paula – what's the matter?" he asked, horrified. "I know you said you had misgivings, but – you never said anything in the meeting – I don't understand......"

"Don't you worry, James, your job is safe. You'll be fine, and as you said, you get to dodge the blame if it all turns out wrong." She looked him straight in the eye, cold and sarcastic, and he was lost for words. Until now she had never spoken harshly to him – what had changed? Before he could think of a reply, she turned and walked to her car, tense and dignified. Suddenly the evening's triumph was blunted, and he realised that part of his enjoyment of life in Pebbleton was his friendship with her. He was puzzled, but not unduly worried. Women, in his experience, had inexplicable moods, and probably she would be completely different tomorrow. Perhaps she would tell him what was wrong, but he rather hoped she would just forget it. James had turned avoidance of confrontation into an art-form – not that Paula knew that yet. He turned as Dennis Massington slapped him on the back and suggested a celebratory drink at The Gull Inn. 'Men,' thought James, 'are just not complicated like women.'

Paula drove to the main road and decided that she needed to unwind before going home, so she pulled over and switched on her mobile. She called her friend Sue Cheam and arranged to meet up at The Gull Inn. Sue told her that she was already there with another friend, Kim Coulthard, but they'd be glad for her to join them. Paula was pleased as Kim was a sweet person who had suffered badly in the last year. She and Sue often set up some relaxing down-time with Kim, from spa days to theatre trips.

Paula turned her car round and headed in the direction of The Gull Inn, a historic pub dating from even earlier than Southcliff Hall. On entering the car park she saw Dennis Massington and James Goswell walking into the pub. She called Sue again and asked if they could change the venue. Sue was puzzled, but agreed, as Paula pleaded. They gathered their bags and walked towards the door, but encountered the men coming in. As both Sue and Kim worked for the Council and knew that the meeting had just finished, they were keen to stay and hear about it, but made their excuses and left to find Paula.

"What a shame," whispered Sue. "Paula is dead keen on James, and she'll miss a brilliant opportunity to socialise with him here."

"I know," Kim replied, "perhaps we should ring her back and tell her." Just then they saw Paula in her car, trying to drive out of the pub car park. She was having difficulty as there were so many cars and others were trying to come in at the same time. The two women ran over to her with beaming faces, and told her who was in the pub. "I know," she replied, frowning. "Not my favourite person right now."

Kim and Sue exchanged glances. "OK," said Sue, "the little wine bar opposite Lacey's, and _there_ , missy, you can tell us what this is all about." Paula nodded, and a few minutes later they all met up again. The wine bar was noisy and too hot, but Kim and Sue were agog to know just how the placid James had managed to upset Paula.

"Come on, tell all," Sue insisted.

"I'm not sure I should," Paula replied unhappily.

"We can keep our mouths shut," said Kim, and Paula knew that was true. The three friends had shared some painful secrets, and each was loyal to the bond of sisterhood that precluded gossiping to outsiders.

"OK," Paula sighed. "It will be a relief to tell you, actually." She took a sip of her house white wine and set the glass down on the table, keeping her hands wrapped round it as if it were a source of security. "At lunchtime," she began, "I had a lovely walk with James and we got on fine. I grumbled a bit about the Development spoiling the landscape, but he didn't seem to mind. I did feel quite strongly about it, because of my happy memories of childhood holidays here, and – well – an uneasy feeling I've had about it for some time. Don't ask me to explain that – I just feel nervous about the future. Sorry, I know your jobs could be in jeopardy if the village doesn't get developed, but that's how I feel. I was actually going to abstain tonight."

Her friends reassured her that she had every right to follow her conscience in voting for or against Council matters, and she nodded.

"The thing is – I didn't think James would be so up in arms about the possibility of the Council getting disbanded and absorbed into Frayminster. He didn't say anything at lunchtime. But while I was at work in the afternoon, I got a message from him. It was a bit garbled, our school secretary is not brilliant at relaying exactly what people say on the phone, but apparently James rang and said that he was very disappointed that I didn't care about everyone's jobs. He mentioned his own job, she said, and he must have said something about yours too – 'my friends' were mentioned. I just couldn't believe it – what a horrible thing to do, making out that I don't care. I do!"

She was gripping the wine glass so tightly it looked in danger of breaking, so Sue gently detached her hands and said "We know, darling. And _I_ think it was a horrible thing to do. Through your workplace, too – that's really rotten."

They sat looking at each other for a moment, then Kim spoke. "I know I'm probably being paranoid," she started, "but you're sure it was really James who left the message?"

The other two knew why Kim would fear being thought paranoid, and ignored that part of her comment. Paula put her head on one side and considered the possibility. "That's quite true – I didn't ask what the voice was like. Well, you don't, do you? But James Goswell was the name given. I suppose anyone could _say_ that....."

"They'd know you were teaching in the afternoon, and couldn't take the call in person," Kim pointed out. Paula taught English at Frayminster College, the large secondary school in the nearby town.

"It doesn't make sense," Sue reasoned. "I mean you and James spoke at lunchtime – I saw you both, you looked fine to me. Maybe someone knew you might not vote for the Development, and wanted to put pressure on you. They might have figured you'd react if you thought James was upset."

"Well, I did react," Paula replied. I was furious, and voted against. Sorry, know I shouldn't tell you, but it made no difference – the vote was not far off unanimous, so my squeak of protest went unheard. I'm afraid I gave James a hard time – oh, my goodness – what if it wasn't him?"

"You could ask him," Kim consoled her. "He doesn't bite, you know."

"Oh, I'm such an idiot," Paula wailed, putting her head down on her arms. The other two looked at each other and grinned. It was obvious that Paula was willing to absolve James of guilt if at all possible, and equally obvious that her feelings for him were back in full force. A little communication might be all that was needed, unless of course James really had made that call.......

It was on Sue's mind as she drove home. What kind of man was James? At work he had managed to give away so little of his background that no-one knew him as a person. Perhaps she shouldn't be encouraging Paula to set her cap at him. What if he was a dodgy customer, a smooth charmer? She tried to apply her considerable common sense to estimate his character, but all she had to go on was how he'd treated everyone at Southcliff Hall for the six months he'd been in the job. That was all right, he was great to work for. Reasonable, cheerful, understanding if anyone had a problem and needed time off – no, this phone call business didn't make sense at all. She would get to the bottom of it. 'Oh, dear, I'm doing it again,' though a repentant Sue. 'None of my business, keep out of it. Supposing I pushed her into his arms and it all turned out badly? OK, for once in your life, Sue Cheam, you're going to stop being an interfering busybody and let your mates work out their own affairs.' With this resolution she pressed harder on the accelerator and broke another of her self-imposed commandments: 'I will not speed down the back roads.'

Chapter 2 – Toffs and Yokels

Imogen arched her back and stretched out her fingers, glad she had finished the data entry. Now all she had to do was set the computer off on preset tasks, and everything would churn out of the printer, even the labels for the envelopes. It was so much easier now they had an IT person, sometimes they went a whole week without a single computer crashing.

There was no-one in Reception to bother her, which suited her fine. She nibbled a cereal bar discreetly, taking tiny mouthfuls in case the telephone rang. Just ten minutes more and Sue Cheam would relieve her on the desk for her lunch hour. She glanced up to the CCTV screen and saw a flash of a figure passing through the entrance porch of Southcliff Hall. He was in Reception and saw her before she could duck out of view, which was her usual reaction whenever Cuthbert Acres decided to visit.

'Cuffy' Acres was about eighty, but fit as a man half his age. He had parted company with his sanity some time ago, and was quite content without it. Unfortunately he was convinced that the village could not run without his help, and tried to ensure that nothing happened without his input. What he thought was happening, however, was so far removed from reality that there was nothing for it but to keep up the pretence that his opinion mattered.

"Mr Acres, good morning," smiled Imogen. At least she was a great favourite of his. He tipped his straw boater to her, took his time fumbling about in the pocket of his jaunty striped jacket, then extracted a monocle. Imogen always wanted to giggle when he did this. He adjusted the monocle in his right eye, and stood to attention.

"Good morning, Miss Imogen," he greeted her graciously. "I hope you are in good spirits this fine day."

"Most excellent spirits, thank you Mr Acres. And you?" Imogen had got used to speaking to him in the manner of the heroine of a Regency novel.

"I am feeling in the pink, Miss Imogen, in the pink, thank you for asking. I am, however, a little concerned at what I hear of this new Olympic pool with which we are to be blessed." His grammar was perfect – she had to think hard sometimes in case she split an infinitive in front of him. He would pounce upon such a lapse, and correct her, 'for you own _good_ , dear girl – you will be unemployable in the world of business if you cannot speak the Queen's English!' If only he could hear the Parish Clerk's dictation tapes.

"Ah, um, the – Olympic pool? Could you just remind me where that will be built?" replied Imogen, keeping a straight face and reaching for a memo pad.

"I _could_ , young lady, and I shall. Most delighted to oblige. Some sort of ghastly holiday camp is planned - I presume that infamous Billy Butlin is behind it – and this pool will be within the grounds of the tawdry enterprise."

Imogen hesitated. She knew that a pool would be built in the holiday complex, and she was astonished that Cuffy was in touch with the real world to this degree. "I will check for you – er, perhaps the pool will not be as large as you fear, Mr Acres." Her pen poised above the memo pad, she considered the quickest way to get rid of him before Sue came down and her lunch hour began. It was imperative that she did not walk out of the door while he was there – he would follow her and suggest buying her lunch, or worse.

"I will make sure that we call you as soon as we have the information. Would that be all right?" she asked, scribbling a note on the pad.

"You have my telephone number, dear girl – though I would be a happy man if I had yours. You may not realise it, sweet child," he intoned solemnly, leaning over the Reception counter towards her, "but we are facing a great threat – an Olympic swimming pool can mean only one thing. Not content with London, England must offer itself a second time for the Olympics – we will be the hosts right here in Pebbleton-on-Edge, crushed 'neath the weight of thousands of international tourists, swamped by perspiring sportsmen, deluged with men of the press with flash-bulb cameras – need I say more?"

His voice had risen with angst, as he developed his nightmare vision. Now Imogen was on familiar ground - 'Cuffy-world', as she and Sue had named it. She looked up at him with her most reassuring smile. "You can leave it with me, Mr Acres, and I can assure you that I have heard only this morning that the Olympic Committee have rejected Pebbleton for the Games. They felt there were too few hotels in the district. The pool will be just for a few holidaymakers. I will, of course, check the size – you can let us know if it is suitable before they build it."

"That will be best – I should regret the necessity of ordering them to remove it. And I would appreciate the reassurance of the Council that they will not allow noisy concerts in this tasteless venture. I have heard rumours that Mr Elvis Presley had taken to the road again, gyrating his hips in the most shameless fashion. Apparently ladies scream and faint at the sight – I _hope_ ," he frowned, "that you, Miss Imogen, do not find this repulsive young man to be attractive."

"Why no, Mr Acres, indeed not," she replied primly. She suppressed a smirk at the thought of his reaction if he had seen her jumping around at the Black Eyed Peas concert last week. And what about the next one she intended to see? The Scissor Sisters would give him a stroke. But she couldn't resist winding him up just a little. "I am going to see Divine Comedy in concert soon, you would approve, I'm sure – they have an orchestra, usually."

He started upright, his eye boggling at her behind the monocle. "Divine Comedy? _The_ Divine Comedy, child," he admonished her severely, "was written by Dante, and you cannot _see_ it, in concert or on the stage in any form. No such thing exists. Someone has been teasing you."

"Oh, dear, I must look into that," she smiled. Next time he came in she'd have a go at a reference to Franz Ferdinand, and enjoy a lecture on an assassinated Archduke. She and Sue had hours of fun thinking of ways to torment him like this. He was living so far in the past that they could get away with comments about groups as far back as the 1970's. Once they had him believing that an avalanche of Bread, Hot Chocolate and Cream was expected, suggested by the Tourism department printing flyers for a week of music by tribute bands.

Sue appeared behind him, and her eyebrows shot up. She instantly retreated out of sight. A minute later the Reception phone rang, and a harsh voice barked "Imogen! Desist from gossiping with that young man and get on with your work!"

Imogen gave an exaggerated jump in her chair, and replied "Yes, Miss Cheam, I will have the reports ready for you in five minutes." She looked up coyly at Cuffy as she replaced the receiver. "I'm so sorry, Mr Acres, I will be in trouble if I talk to you any longer. I really must get on with my work."

" _Mea culpa_ , dear girl, I have kept you long enough. Thank you for your time." He sighed. "I would not be able to carry the responsibility of running this village so easily, if I could not come in here and have you brighten my day." With an elegant bow he raised his straw boater to her again and turned on his heel. Upright and proud, he headed for the door and was gone.

Sue peeped round the corner. "Gone?" she asked.

"Yes. Thanks for the call, I was getting carried away winding him up. I told him I was going to see Divine Comedy – showing my ignorance of classic literature, _again_."

Sue grinned. "What did he want this time? To take you to London to buy a new bonnet, Miss Imogen? Fie, you wanton wretch, how could you be so cruel to your most devoted admirer?" she chortled.

Imogen gave a sardonic smile, got up and grabbed her handbag. "He gets worse – he thinks the Olympics are coming here. Something about the pool at the holiday place. Honestly, he really does think he's responsible for the whole district. Funny, though – he usually gets his ideas from la-la land, but he must have read the local paper for once – he actually knew about something _real_ going on!"

"Oh, that's no fun. He's much more entertaining when he's away with the fairies. At least he's wearing the straw hat, I thought we were never going to be allowed official summer. That trilby thing must have been glued to his head for nine months. Anyway, go on, shoo – I want to get off on time today myself, I've got the electrician coming. I told him I'd be indoors by a quarter to two, I must get that stupid shower fixed."

Imogen swayed out of the building, her long fair hair like spun silk over her shoulders. She was very attractive, but no-one begrudged her the attention this brought, as she was so likeable. Sue sat down on the swivel chair and wriggled a bit, levering the seat up to a suitable height for her dumpy frame.

All was quiet for ten minutes, and Sue fell to wondering if Paula had got around to talking to James Goswell yet. She worked around him every day, and just couldn't see him behaving like that, but then you never knew about people. Sue was determined to let things play out without interfering, but it was such an odd thing to happen. Anything unexplained intrigued her until she could make sense of it. Her pondering was interrupted by an odour of manure, which preceded the entrance of a familiar figure. Mrs Bathgate, resplendent in a green cotton skirt stretched around her bulging hips, teamed with a filthy brown blouse and tattered red cardigan, stood grumpily in front of the counter. Her outfit was completed by dirty old socks and tennis shoes, leaving her stocky brown calves on display under the ragged hem of the skirt. She was probably no more than sixty, but her skin was weather-beaten and leathery, making her look much older. Sue noticed some flies zig-zagging around near the ceiling, and was sure they hadn't been there a minute ago. They must surely have come as a package deal with Mrs Bathgate.

"Come ter pay me 'lotment," she growled between clenched teeth. Sue tried to hold her breath, and dived into the drawer for the paperwork.

"It is quite overdue, Mrs Bathgate, I have a note that you didn't respond to two reminder letters. By rights you have forfeited the allotment, and we can offer it out to the next person on the list." Sue could see that the final due date was actually that very day, but any chance of getting rid of Mrs Bathgate would have the other allotment holders celebrating. It was a chance worth taking. However, Mrs Bathgate had an excellent excuse.

"Ain't my fault, I bin decapitated lately. Doctor told me I weren't to go out. Anyway, I got up 'til today 'ter pay, ain't I?"

"You've been decapitated? I am sorry, of course the Doctor was quite right to keep you indoors. Were you incapacitated as well?" Sue inquired without a trace of sarcasm.

"Yer what? Look 'ere, do yer want this money or not?"

"Cash or cheque, Mrs Bathgate?"

"Cash, 'course. Don't 'old with banks - robbers, all of 'em. Here y'are, twenty quid, flamin' outrageous for a few inches of mud." She handed over two screwed-up, grimy notes. Sue took them with the tips of her fingers, and dropped them on the till. She scribbled out a receipt as fast as she could, and gasped, "Thank you, see you next year, Mrs Bathgate."

Instead of taking the hint and leaving, Mrs Bathgate stamped her feet apart and glared at Sue. "Where's that Imogen? She don't give me no receipt 'til she done the form an' put the money in the till. You're not doin' it right."

Sue knew this accusation was typical of Mrs Bathgate's mean and suspicious nature, and took no notice. "Just doing it now, don't worry," she replied cheerfully. She surreptitiously picked up a pen and used it to slide the notes to the top ledge of the till. She jabbed at the till keys, and when the till opened she flicked the notes in with the pen. Slamming it shut, she scribbled quickly on the allotment invoice, stamped it with the date, and filed the result. "OK?" she asked.

"Yeah, well, I got a complaint ter make, an' all."

"Oh goody," thought Sue. She waited silently, looking at Mrs Bathgate with her face devoid of expression.

"Rats. Rats all over the place, gettin' in from the school playground, I reckon. Been eatin' me early lettuces. Get rid of 'em," she commanded.

Sue had no idea if rats would eat lettuce, but she wondered what desperate rat would sink so low as to visit Mrs Bathgate's allotment. The stench of inadequately rotted manure caused regular complaints from the other allotment holders, and weeds seemed to be the only plants that flourished in her plot. "I'll let the Team know, Mrs Bathgate, leave it with me," she mumbled, trying to keep the overpowering whiff from entering her lungs. What did the woman do, roll in the stuff?

"See you get it sorted!" the lady snarled, and waddled out. As soon as she could see Mrs Bathgate on the CCTV screen at a suitable distance, Sue rushed round flinging up the windows, and hunted for the flyspray. A family of holidaymakers caught her in the act, and she scuttled back to the desk. They wanted to know about camp-sites in the area for a future holiday, but seemed to be rapidly going off the idea as they surreptitiously sniffed the air. She sent them over the car park to the Tourist office as fast as possible, before 'essence of Bathgate' ruined the tourist trade completely.

When Imogen returned later, she noticed the lavender-scented fly-killer lingering in the air. "Mrs B?" she enquired. "Yep, says she's got rats on her allotment," groaned Sue. "Yuk, not surprised," said Imogen. "One all, ha ha!" They kept score of the more difficult visitors in Reception. It made the job more interesting for the long-suffering staff, trapped as a captive audience for the more bizarre residents of Pebbleton.

"Well," Sue replied, "at least it makes the day go by. Sometimes it's dead boring here. Nothing interesting ever happens, unless you count lettuce-eating rats. Right, I'm off to see my dopey electrician, otherwise I'll soon smell like Mrs Bathgate. I'm fed up with getting doused with cold water, or having to boil the kettle and have a lick and a promise at the basin. Ah, what exciting lives we lead. I can't wait to get away on holiday, even if it is Benidorm with my idiot brother and his evil offspring." She heaved her over-filled bag onto her shoulder, and waved as she hurried out.

"Lettuce-eating rats.....what is she on about? She's right, though, I wish something would happen around here, it's so _dull_..." thought Imogen. She wiggled her neat bottom on the chair and adjusted it back to its usual position, and prepared to start a mail merge.

The phone rang at ten to nine that night. The man formerly known as 'Simon' was sure it was the call from London, it was the usual time the quiet voice checked up on him. He muted the TV and reached out an arm to pick up the receiver, wondering if anyone other than this distant vigilante would ever take any interest in his activities.

"Hello?"

"Ah, glad I caught you – thought you'd be home now, and didn't like to ring too late. Just before the news, you know?"

"Very thoughtful of you, sir."

"How's it going?"

"Quite well – the Development sailed through Council, and work has started in earnest."

"Excellent – you have been working hard. Settled in socially?"

"Sort of. Joined a few things, but you know me – never get too close to anyone."

"Simon, you don't have to think like that now. It's summer, get out and enjoy the seaside. You've got a whole new life there – make the most of it!"

"Don't think I'll ever get the hang of being like other people, sir. Not with my past."

"Oh, come on, Simon – I know that's not your name now but I'll always think of you as Simon – you have to try to put it all behind you, you know. I know I wasn't much help, but I'd like you to talk to me any time you want – I'm not much of a father substitute, I know, but at least it's someone who knows your past and can offer support. Will you do that?"

'Simon' paused, then, "Sure. I'll be in touch if anything crops up."

"That's the stuff. By the way, I'm taking quite a long leave this year, I won't be back in the office until late August or early September. But I'll call you as soon as I can after that. Meanwhile, keep up the good work."

The call ended and 'Simon' replaced the receiver gently. He sat back on the sofa, but while his eyes watched the flickering images on the muted TV, his mind revolved around the words spoken by the quiet voice. A father substitute – oh sure, one who couldn't even call him by his right name, and was available only in office hours. He'd never known a father, so perhaps that was about as much as the average son could expect. Still, it was true that someone who understands your past has a better chance of understanding you......only here in Pebbleton, there was absolutely no-one who had the least idea.

Sue had made two supreme sacrifices by the end of July; firstly she had kept her promise to her divorced brother by accompanying him to the Costa Blanca with his two children, which was more expensive than going away during school term-time, and secondly she had kept her promise to herself not to interfere in Paula and James' relationship. She knew the first promise would result in a lot of work rather than a real holiday, but she did feel rather sorry for the youngsters, who had been devastated when their parents split up. They were quite badly behaved, acting out their unsettled frame of mind after spending their lives shuttling between embattled parents. Sue intended to take a firm hand from the outset, which usually meant a difficult first week then a slightly better second week. Sitting on the plane watching the white cloud layer pass beneath, she let her mind drift to the subject of her second great effort.

Why did it bother her so much that Paula and James should sort out their differences? Was it because her brother's marriage had ended horribly, and she wanted to believe that some people could make a go of it? True, her brother and his wife had been squabbling since before they even tied the knot. The whole family had begged him not to go ahead, but baby number two was on the way, and he imagined it would make things better. Of course, nothing changed, just got worse. Then there was Kim's marriage – another disaster, though Kim and her husband Steve had seemed an ideal couple. That really had rattled her more than she cared to admit. Secretly, she knew she desperately wanted Paula to find love, just to make happiness seem less of an impossible dream. Sue sighed, snuggled back in the aircraft seat, and closed her eyes. It was going to be a long two weeks, and by the time she returned it would be well into August. Another summer rushing by, another year of a rather lonely life....

Chapter 3 – Late Summer

Kim woke up early, the August sun forcing her to consciousness. How she would have loved to stay asleep, never to have to face the pain of reality. She slid a hand over the empty sheet on the other side of the double bed, feeling the space, as if checking for the hundredth time that her husband had really left her.

"Steve – why? Just tell me why, then I can move on. Probably I can't move on, I don't know, but if I never know why, how can I tell where I went wrong? Was it me, was our marriage so awful for you, that you couldn't even tell me? I thought we were reasonably happy, that I knew you....did I never know you?"

She stared at the ceiling for a while, then heaving a deep sigh dragged herself upright and sat with her elbows on her knees, slouched in misery. If she didn't get any better soon, she'd have to get something from the doctor to make her sleep more and numb her sensibilities. She was good enough at her job to be able to do it practically without thinking, which was just as well – since Steve left without a word ten months ago, she'd been like a zombie in the office. Her colleagues had spent months tiptoeing round her and being hesitant to laugh in her presence or treat her normally. Still, as Responsible Finance Officer of the Parish Council, she had to see people every day, when she would have rather hidden away from the world.

The worst day had been that horrible Thursday, five days into his absence, when the police had called round to say they had news. She remembered stepping back from the front door, knowing from the officers' faces and manner that it was not a report of an amnesia victim, or any of the other acceptable stories she'd conjured up to explain Steve's absence and allow them to continue their married life happily. She'd taken the officers into the tidy lounge, kept immaculate as if that would be the way to keep Steve happy when he walked back through the door.

The older of the two men had delivered the news, with just the right mixture of delicacy and compassion. She couldn't fault his mode of approaching such a difficult topic, but once he had spoken she wanted to jump up and pummel him, and scream, "No! No! It's all rubbish! It's impossible!" But all she did was ask if they were sure they had the right story, the right man, the right name. "Yes, I'm sorry Mrs Coulthard, we have checked and it appears your husband's friend left at the same time. As you know, the details your husband gave you about the job he was going to look at were false, and his friend gave a similar false story to his mother. She is devastated too, and hasn't heard from her son either. It seems she was unaware that her son was, er, involved in a relationship. With a man, I mean."

"But I knew that – everyone at university knew Joey Fisher was gay. You don't understand, that's why my husband wasn't a close friend of his – it wasn't his scene at all. I just don't believe that Steve was....was....that way inclined. For heaven's sake, he was faithful to me but he used to _notice_ a gorgeous girl – I knew he did – so....no, this – there must be something wrong. Will you let me talk to Joey's mother?"

"We can't give out her details, I'm afraid, so unless you already have the number we would not be able to put you in touch. I'm not sure it would be a good idea just now, anyway, as Mrs Fisher is very shocked and, I would say, in denial. She could react badly if she was contacted by the wife of her son's....." He left Kim to supply whatever word she liked, but she was thinking that utter denial was her own reaction, never mind Joey's mother.

"Do you have anyone, a relative maybe, who could come and be with you? You've had a shock. Can we make you a cup of tea?" She supposed from this that the officers wanted to get out of this awkward scene as quickly as possible.

"No, I'm all right." She thought inwardly, "I'll never be alright again, after what you've just told me, but I'm English and polite and don't want to waste police time."

They had left, and she had stood stiff and upright at the door watching them get in their car and drive away. She hadn't accepted the story then and didn't accept it now, but her mind had gone over it a million times. Doubts had led to fear, memories had led back to denial. Round and round it went, impossible to get past.

The one thing that made her most doubt her own judgement was a series of mysterious phone calls her husband had taken and made over the weeks before he left. Especially disturbing was the one where she'd overheard him saying the ominous words: 'But what if this is wrong? Kim will never forgive me......it's such a big step, everyone will think I've gone off my rocker.....' When she'd questioned him about it, he'd jumped in such a guilty fashion that she had suspected an affair. He'd then refused to answer her, but his halting explanation, when he did give it, made some sort of sense. He'd told her that Joey Fisher had been giving him insider information on an exciting opportunity to purchase land at a ridiculously low price which could later be sold for a small fortune for development. Steve and Joey had both taken a Geology degree at University, but Steve found he was a 'people' person and he ended up teaching Geology instead of digging up rocks. She knew Joey worked in land surveying, because they had run into him in the supermarket outside the nearest town about two months before, and had caught up with each others' career moves.

Kim was sure that what Joey was doing must be illegal. She had chastised Steve for even contemplating getting involved in any dubious dealings, and he had readily promised he would forget all about it. Later she had wondered if his quick acceptance meant he had lied to her, but her experience of men's behaviour in the course of an affair extended only to her friends' accounts; as far as she could see Steve was not using more aftershave, bringing her 'guilt' presents, or staying unaccountably late at work. He was being his usual self, except that she would sometimes catch him with a worried frown, staring out of the window. Once he'd turned round with a look of intense sadness on his face, and wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tight, without a word.

He had definitely been worried about something, and it had been serious, as the secretive phone calls had shown, but she had assumed that he would tell her when and if he felt he could. She was used to him worrying about his students, taking on their problems, and sometimes he had to keep confidentiality. She had got into the habit of knowing there were some things she could not be told, and felt it was best – what she didn't know she couldn't accidentally let slip.

Now Kim replayed that fatal phone call over and over in her mind – 'it's such a big step' – what, spending a few thousand of their savings on a speculative land purchase? 'Everyone will think I've gone off my rocker...' – why would anyone know their private business? Now it was too late, she could see that his explanation didn't make sense. Still, his attitude to her didn't feel like the behaviour of a man contemplating such a drastic change of lifestyle. It was true he had talked more in the weeks before he left about looking for a new job, and had asked her if she fancied moving right away from Pebbleton, which puzzled her. Then he had told her about the job possibility in Northern Ireland, a planned new Geology department where vast sums of money were going to be spent on equipment he could only dream of at his present post.

She had felt her heart sink at the prospect of leaving Pebbleton, her friends, her job and the house she had worked so hard to make home, but she was not about to deny Steve his dream job. So on the Friday night she had ironed his best shirts, packed his suitcase, laughed with him as they tried to weigh it on the bathroom scales, and very early on the Saturday morning she waved him off in the car sent to take him to the airport. Just a long weekend, then they'd discuss everything. All his expenses had been paid, he had said, and he seemed so flattered to have been head-hunted like this – out of thousands of possible candidates, they had sought him out and made the first move. He was to go and discuss the department's design, and look around County Down to see if he'd like to relocate there. The last words they had spoken were so ordinary – "Got your tickets?" "Picking them up at the check-in desk. 'Bye, love, take care."

Just where he'd disappeared on the journey had never become clear, but no Steve Coulthard ever got on a plane that day, and on investigation she had found no new Geology departments planned in any educational establishment in County Down. She had not notified the police until two days after his expected return date, because she was busy phoning every place she could think of and getting no sense out of anyone – the airline hadn't heard of him, the hotel he was supposed to be booked into had no record of him, the man he had gone to meet did not exist. The police had checked everything themselves, concerned that neither his credit card nor debit card had been used. They were getting serious in their search until they got a break on that horrible Thursday.

How they had acquired the break was almost as distasteful as the information itself. After a day or two, letting the news sink in, she had worked up the courage to go to the Police Station and ask the Inspector how they had found these things out. She had felt her neck go cold as he told her that during routine questioning of various contacts in Steve's phone records from the days before his disappearance, one Mr Massington had reluctantly disclosed what he knew. It was Councillor Dennis Massington, familiar to her from her job at the Council. He admitted that Steve had talked to him, and that he had been distressed about his sexual ambivalence. He said that Steve had been seeing 'a boyfriend, someone he'd known at university'. Kim could not understand why Massington had been the one Steve confided in – she had dealings with him at work, but had no idea Steve knew him beyond one or two meetings at staff social functions. Still, that had led the police to check further on Joey's whereabouts, and so the story had been put together. The police were satisfied, and the investigation was at an end.

Councillor Massington had been very kind to her, apologising for failing to tell her anything sooner. He said he'd hoped Steve was just going through a period of confusion, and that he'd never dreamed he would act on his feelings. Massington offered to make any help available to her that she needed. His was a decent approach, unlike her boss at the time, Gerald Chewter. He had left it no more than three weeks before he made indecent comments to her about her 'needs', offering to be available to fulfil any such. At first she was too stunned and appalled to react. "Pity," he'd continued with a leer, "if I'd known which way the land lay with your husband, I'd have offered sooner – a woman like you deserves a proper man." She firmly repulsed his persistent advances, and he became abusive and hinted that her job would be threatened if she didn't play his game. She was livid, and went straight to Dennis Massington to report every word Chewter had uttered.

It turned out that he had been accused of sleazy behaviour around other female staff in previous years, and after several very embarrassing interviews and meetings, she was thankful to hear that he was resigning 'of his own accord'. His elderly mother was dying of cancer, so it was felt that no further action should be taken, in case any publicity reached her. Chewter had duly gone, to general relief, and James Goswell had replaced him. She supposed that other members of staff told him her dismal story, and James had been a model of discretion. She did her job, he did his, and no private lives were discussed.

Kim arrived at Southcliff Hall just a little late, as usual these days. She had to force herself everywhere, lingering in the safety of her house until the last minute. "Morning," she called as she passed each colleague, keeping perpetual motion until she reached the sanctuary of her office and could bury her head in her in-tray. Only Sue was privy to her darkest moments, and often scooped her up for lunch when she was having a really bad day. Sue made her laugh, which seemed impossible sometimes.

At ten-thirty she had to go through the personnel paperwork for a new member of staff. Across the car park in the old stable block lay the Tourism Office, where Eve Thornton ruled supreme. Eve had persuaded the Council to allow her a trainee, and such was the force of Eve's enthusiasm for her work that she had carried her point. Eve was an eternal optimist, coming up with endless schemes to promote Pebbleton as a desirable place to visit and live – she believed it was heaven on earth, and her zeal stemmed from this delusion. More realistic people saw the cracks in the social structure, and could not ignore the relentless tide of mindless vandalism and criminal behaviour creeping from the nearby town into every area of village life. However, now that the Development was under way, it seemed Eve's vision had been vindicated. At ten-fifteen Kim saw from her office window Eve's flowing auburn curls bouncing in the sunlight as she shepherded her new recruit across the car park. The new girl looked a bit dazed, but that was understandable – Eve could talk at incredible speed and few could keep up with her train of thought.

After being introduced to all her new colleagues, the youngster was brought into Kim's office looking bewildered. "Sit down, Melissa", she kindly told her. "This is just to get a few details for your staff record – you know, boring stuff but we have to know who to call if you're ill, that sort of thing." Eve stood in the room, twitching in agitation. "Don't wait if you have things to get on with, Eve – I can send Melissa back to you when we're done". Eve looked pleased. "Great, I can get the flyer finished for the Dance Marathon," she gabbled, pirouetted and left the room with grace and speed.

"I suppose Eve gave you the tour," Kim asked. Melissa looked a bit overawed, but then spoke up. "She showed me the big room where the Council meets. She said there was a hidden tunnel in the basement, where smugglers used to bring stuff up from the caves, but we didn't go down and look. It sounds rather exciting...." Kim did not miss the wistful pleading in the girl's voice – she too had been intrigued by the tunnel when she first came. It was just a brick-lined tube, some twelve feet beneath ground level, running parallel to Southcliff Hall end wall. A side opening connected it to one of the rooms in the basement, but only a few yards of it could be accessed from there. It had been blocked off years ago, for safety. It had reminded her of a small scale London Underground tunnel.

"We only use the storage areas in the basement to keep old archives – everything recent is stored up here. We've even crept into the digital age, and started keeping records on memory sticks. Still, it is your first day....."

Kim grinned conspiratorially at the timid face in front of her, and made a decision. She had the keys to the archive room where the tunnel could be seen at the far end. It wouldn't hurt to give the poor lass a break from Eve's non-stop barrage of new information. "Let's finish this form, and I'll show you – I hope you won't expect much, it's just a hole with two dead ends really!"

Melissa smiled shyly. She was fresh from school, full of knowledge about the latest applications on mobile phones and sporting an enlarged texter's thumb to prove it. Judging by her application form, Kim doubted that she could spell any word correctly if it could be shortened, and feared for future communications from the Tourism Department.

It was one extreme to the other with technology in the Council. Kim had spent months persuading her older colleagues that email was quicker and more reliable than hand-written messages which might never get delivered if they fell under the desk. Now she herself would have to translate the abbreviated text-speak of a younger generation. All she knew was that 'LOL' meant either 'Laughing out Loud' or 'Lots of Love' – she supposed the context of the relationship made the meaning obvious. Sighing, she wondered if this reluctance to learn a new 'language' meant that she was getting older.....dragging herself back to the present, and passing the form to Melissa to sign, she opened the desk drawer to take out the huge bunch of Hall keys.

As they left the accounts office Paula was coming up the stairs to see Kim. She looked miserable, and Kim asked Melissa to wait a moment for her in the staff room. Taking Paula back inside her office and shutting the door, she sat down and waited. "Well, I've got my expenses claim here," Paula offered. "OK," Kim smiled, "and have you talked to James yet?"

"No," Paula admitted. "I don't know how to begin."

"Paula! Good thing Sue's on holiday, she'd go nuts. It's been _weeks_! You must have _seen_ him loads of times!"

Paula grimaced. "I know, I know – I've seen him at meetings once or twice, that's all. It's not really possible to talk privately with everyone else there."

"How has he been acting around you?" Kim wanted to know. She liked her boss and wanted to be sure that he was as decent as he appeared. Her confidence in her own ability to judge men was at an all-time low, so exonerating James seemed all the more important. In a way, both Paula and Sue had also been affected by Steve's disappearance. They had thought highly of Kim's husband and found their own confidence shattered when he had suddenly left. It seemed impossible to trust any man, if even the seemingly straightforward ones could hide so much.

Paula considered the question. "Normal, I think – like nothing's happened. He does try to talk to me sometimes, just casual stuff, you know – but I've felt awkward, so I expect he doesn't want to try anymore."

"This is daft," Kim said in a definite tone. "Sue will be back Saturday, and she'll be on your case if you don't sort it out. For goodness sake, get it out in the open and discuss it – or it will drive you apart completely. You were getting on so well with him before this."

"Yes, I know, you're right. I just need the right opportunity to talk to him, that's all," Paula promised.

"Well, he's in his office now, I think, so just go in and tell him about the message you got. See how he reacts. If he gets defensive, he did make the call. If he doesn't know what you're talking about, then there's your answer."

Paula looked nervous, but agreed to give it a try. Kim arranged to have lunch with her the next day to find out what happened, and then got up to take Melissa on the tour. She told Paula where they were going.

"Wow, I didn't know there was a tunnel down there! Can I come too?" said Paula.

"Oh, no, you don't, my girl. Get yourself into James' office!" Kim laughed, and hurried off to the staff room to find Melissa.

Five minutes later the two of them carefully negotiated the wooden staircase leading down into the basement. It was much cooler down here, despite the heat wave above ground. The stairs led into a wide area with several locked rooms leading off.

"That's the old boiler room, you don't need to see that – that's one of the archive rooms – here's the one we want. As far as I can remember, there are a few funny things in here too. Old advertising hoardings, and a stuffed bird or two from the old museum. I don't suppose you remember the museum? It gave me the creeps, to be honest. I was taken there once as a child – on holiday, you know – and my mother says I got really upset. There was a display of dressed-up kittens, stuffed of course, posed in a stupid scene – a cricket match I think it was. They'd been drowned, too many of them to keep, I guess. Apparently I cried buckets and she had to take us home. My brothers thought it was great, disgusting little beasts. You wouldn't get that sort of thing now, there'd be an outcry. I must have been ahead of my time!"

Melissa smiled dutifully, and eagerly peered round Kim as she tried to push the door open. It had unlocked smoothly, but she found she had to shoulder it with all her might to get it open. Suddenly it gave way, and she almost fell into the room. In front of them was an aisle leading between metal shelving units, stacked with paraphernalia. "Looks a mess, I'd better see if someone can tidy up down here," Kim muttered. Some boxes on the lower shelves stuck out at an angle, and she gingerly pushed one back with her foot. "Rather messy in here - be careful," she warned.

They picked their way carefully towards the end of the room, where an arched opening in the far wall showed gloomy darkness beyond. "What's that?" Melissa gasped, pointing at a rusting metal article on a shelf above her.

"A man-trap," said Kim, turning to look. "The local landowners used to set them, out in the woods, to catch poachers. It's illegal now – don't touch it!" Kim warned, horrified, as Melissa reached up towards the brutal object. As her arm shot out to restrain the girl's hand, and she knocked another exhibit. It was a stuffed eagle with outspread wings, balanced on a log base. It rocked, and toppled over onto Kim, its glassy eyes and vicious beak bearing down on her as if it was descending on prey. She shrieked, and flung up her arms, elbowing the edge of a tray on the opposite shelf. The tray tipped up and spilled its contents – a collection of old coloured glass bottles. Most fell noisily on the floor and smashed, but one hit Melissa on the foot. She yelped in pain, and flapped her hands to fend off the eagle which was now stuck sideways, caught in between the two of them and balancing by the ends of its wide pinions between the shelves.

"Let's get out of here," Kim urged, desperate to get away from the stuffed bird, which made her feel quite ill. She ran to the far end of the row of shelves and, ignoring the tunnel opening, ran round to the side of the room where another aisle gave her an escape route. Melissa hopped about, clutching her foot. Kim helped her back to the door, and after half-pushing the girl outside, she pulled the door shut and tried to lock it. It was too difficult to close, however, so she gave up and pulled it to.

She looked at Melissa's foot, but it was not bleeding. "Can you walk?" she asked. "Yeah, I fink it's just a bruise," Melissa replied, forgetting she was on her first day in a new job.

"OK, let's get you upstairs and we'll have a better look."

On the way back to her office she stopped to ask Harry in the Amenities Department if someone could tidy up in the second archive room. She explained what had happened. "It was a mess, though, before I made it worse. I wondered if someone had been larking around in there. I can't imagine the Museum people left it like that."

"OK, it won't get done this week, though. My lads are busy," Harry laughed. "This is summer, and those parks don't maintain themselves, you know." Harry and his parks were the stuff of legends, and they certainly did him credit. "Maybe I'll take a look tomorrow," he offered.

However, Harry liked Kim, and did what he could to accommodate her request. When his team returned that afternoon, he took out his keys to the basement and asked Ben to take a look. Ben went in, grumbled a bit at the disorder, then picked up the eagle and put it back on the shelf. It held no terrors for him. He had forgotten to bring a broom to sweep up the broken bottles, and noticed a collection of old birch brooms leaning against the far wall by the tunnel archway. 'Witches' broomsticks,' he thought. 'Might work.' Stepping over the broken glass he approached the tunnel entrance and noticed something - it looked as if a heavy object had been dragged from the aisle between the shelves right into the tunnel, leaving a band of clean floor. Either side of the clean section, dust and debris formed two lines, with a few small items knocked from the lower shelves as the object had passed through the aisle. Ben peered into the gloom of the tunnel. He looked left and saw nothing, then he looked right. He rubbed his eyes and looked again into the shadows. Then he turned tail and fled upstairs to fetch Harry.

Ten minutes later they waved a police car into the car park, and within half an hour blue and white tape marked 'POLICE – DO NOT CROSS' began to spread like bindweed around Southcliff Hall.

Chapter 4 – Man of the Cloth

Earlier that same afternoon the Reverend Fabian Brentwood-Green had rung the bell at Mrs Loxwood's beautiful Victorian villa. The red brick walls and tiled elevations, built over a hundred years ago with loving care and artistic design, made him so envious. This was one of the best houses in the village, surrounded by lawns and wide beds, in which exotic flowers grew in tasteful arrangements against a backdrop of perfectly trimmed shrubs.

He was on a mission. Men of the cloth are occasionally fired up with missionary zeal, and none more so than a vicar with a crumbling church who hears that his most affluent parishioner is in danger of straying from the fold. He had received a call from the lady's son, Councillor Piers Clandecy, and was determined to do all he could to avert the disaster that the Councillor envisioned. A mental picture of Clandecy's red face, practically bursting a blood vessel in fury, swum before his eyes. "Mother," he had spluttered, "is thinking of joining a dangerous sect. Just imagine what could happen! She might leave all her money to them!"

Mrs Loxwood herself answered the door, calling out to her maid to stay upstairs with the vacuum cleaner. Perhaps she was already aware that the maid was the one who had informed her son of her unorthodox activities. She smiled at the vicar and invited him in. "Good," he thought, "this won't be as difficult as I had imagined." He had rehearsed in his head the conversation he expected to have with the old lady, aware that as a respected member of the community he had to be careful. She was old enough to be his own mother, indeed he had been at the same junior school as her son.

Mrs Loxwood led him into the sunny drawing room, inclining her head with its prettily coiffured white curls to indicate that he should sit in an upright armchair. He hoped that she was as mentally fragile as she was physically delicate, but he feared that her mind was still as sharp as the last time they had spoken. He had brought her Holy Communion five years ago when she had broken her hip and could not attend church, and she had taken the opportunity to ask him all sorts of deep spiritual questions. He had the feeling that his clichéd answers had failed to impress her.

Now she sat down in her favourite chair, at ease and smiling, and said "To what do I owe this unaccustomed visit? Is there a problem with the church which my cheque-book can solve?"

He hesitated, his eyes widening at this rather cynical attack. He gathered his wits and replied "My dear Mrs Loxwood, can't a minister visit his parishioners without a financial motive? I can assure you that it is concern for your welfare which brings me here. I have heard some disturbing rumours."

"Disturbing rumours?" she countered. "I am sure that I have been conducting myself as a good Christian should – whatever can you mean?" She looked faintly amused, and he was sure then that she knew exactly what he meant.

"I have heard that you have been – shall we say – put upon, by members of a sect which I have in the past warned my flock to avoid. I realise that you are a kind and sympathetic lady who wishes to be polite to all, but I felt it my duty to impress upon you the dangers of allowing these people so much as a foothold in your life. I have only your best interests at heart," he continued as she prepared to reply, "and I can assure you that I will pray for you to be restored to your former, ah, loyal support of our dear St Giles's, er, of course, by that I mean, your regular attendance...." His words tailed off, as she fixed him with a beady eye and a withering look.

She sat there for a minute, looking straight at him, until he felt as uncomfortable as a schoolboy caught cheating. Finally she spoke.

" _Mr_ Brentwood-Green," she began deliberately, the omission of his title boding ill for his chances of success. "You wish me to return to worshipping in your church, and presumably continuing my financial support. Let me be clear on this – I have become an astute businesswoman, thanks to my years of life and experience, and I appreciate value for money. In the days of your predecessors, there were some wonderful vicars in this parish who upheld the Christian principles of goodness, decency and family values, and took a firm moral line. One did not mind putting a contribution in the plate. _Not so today_."

She continued passionately: "My son, whose father failed to set an example for him, could have done with instruction from the Church, and I used to take him to services in the hope of sermons that would have given him an understanding of right and wrong - to reinforce what I strove to teach him at home. I do not blame you," she held up her hand to silence him as he began to protest, "I realise that it was before your tenure, and you have merely continued the downward trend into the moral void, instructed, I presume, by the heads of the Church. However, I have for some time felt that if Church services were a commodity we paid for, there would be a case under the Trades Descriptions Act for failure to deliver what we have a right to expect."

The Reverend Brentwood-Green's jaw dropped. "My dear Mrs Loxwood," he stuttered, "I can assure you that....I mean....why only last Sunday I preached on the subject of humility, and not judging others....."

"Not judging others? How very interesting. Yet you have accused the ladies who have been visiting me of belonging to a sect. Do you know what a sect is, Vicar?"

"Yes, yes, of course, it's ah, it's a group who, well, there's a leader, someone with radical – bizarre – beliefs. It's a defection from the true Church. This group who have been trying to get you into their clutches, well, everyone knows they are led by some American outfit...."

"Rubbish. You as a man of the cloth should be especially careful not to slander others in the community – make sure of your facts, Vicar," she admonished him sternly.

"But they _aren't_ _Christian_ ," he protested, "They don't believe in the Holy Trinity!"

"And neither did the apostles, Mr Brentwood-Green. The Trinity is a fourth-century twist - there if you want it is a defection from the true Christian Church. I can assure you they aspire to be the very definition of true Christians. You see," she continued, more softly, "I have been given the privilege of being shown the true teachings of the Bible."

" _Their_ Bible," he snarled, "You have been taken in by them, as I suspected."

"Again you are wrong – I insisted on using my King James Bible throughout. I was as mistrustful as you could have wished, Vicar, having paid heed to your frequent warnings. I did, however, wonder why you picked on them – after all, I've seen _you_ go along quite happily to the Methodist Hall for their social lunches, _and_ shake hands with Father Pattison from St Mary's – it seems your ecumenical charity extends to other churches, but not to those who give up their own time to teach the Bible."

He was appalled, and in his confusion made the mistake of resorting to abuse. "They are a dangerous threat to the community – pests, a nuisance!"

"They are a force for good in the community," she retorted. They are our _neighbours_ , Mr Brentwood-Green, yes," as he looked shocked, "why, did you think they were shipped in from somewhere else? They are helpful and kind, and have strong family values, which is more than I can say for some of my friends who go to St Giles."

"I can't imagine what your friends will say – and, Mrs Loxwood, surely you care about your own family. Your son will want nothing to do with you if you join this – this – religion!"

Mrs Loxwood looked for a moment at the floor. The Vicar thought that he had finally carried his point, but when she gave her answer he knew that he had lost the battle.

"My son," she sighed, "is not likely to abandon me, not that he appreciates my efforts to share my Bible knowledge with him. We had a little controversy over it, and I have promised him that I will not change my religion unless I am absolutely sure it is the right course. Mind you, Vicar, it's not as easy as that. It means action as well as knowledge, you know \- I would have to give up all my bad habits – my annual flutter on the Grand National..." she giggled.

"No, but seriously," she continued gravely, "my son is not going to walk away from me. I'm afraid he is too attached to his prospects in my will. Piers has an eye to the future. I just wish I could persuade him to consider his everlasting future, for, like most of his generation, he claims to be an atheist. I am very surprised he has appealed to you to help him."

Stung by this pious reminder, Reverend Brentwood-Green tried one last rejoinder. "I fear your own everlasting future is at stake, Mrs Loxwood," he said sternly. "I doubt that heaven will be awaiting those who desert the Church."

Mrs Loxwood stared at him, taking in this thinly-veiled threat. Then slowly her shoulders began to shake with mirth. "Why Vicar," she laughed, "I have attended enough funerals to know that you have already consigned to heavenly bliss both good and bad alike! Some of the most unpleasant people in this village are sitting on clouds playing harps, according to you. Drunks, thieves, adulterers – not one of them the least bit repentant. One of the most comforting things I have learned from the Bible is the meek can inherit _the earth_!"

Goaded beyond endurance, Reverend Brentwood-Green let the mask slip. "Well, Mrs Loxwood, I'd have thought you'd have inherited enough of _that_ in _this_ life," he retorted nastily.

"Maybe so, Vicar, maybe so. And it brought me no pleasure – the best things in life really _are_ free, you know. And it may interest you to know that now the majority of our land has been sold to Egron, I intend to turn the remainder of the estate over to Piers. I wish to live simply, and my needs are few. I will have very little to _give away_ ," she finished pointedly.

She stood, indicating that the interview was over. Brentwood-Green looked up at her, not knowing how to respond. Defeated, he rose from the chair and followed her to the front door. She held out her hand to him, and he was tempted to refuse to shake it – but he did, in the hope of a further chance to influence her.

As he drove away from the house, he glanced back at the elegant villa, warmed by the afternoon sun. A fury overcame him, rage that he had not been able to demand her return to the fold, and a sense of his own failure to browbeat her into submission. She was an influential figure in village society, and who knew what mischief she could make if she spread her new-found knowledge to others?

He envisioned himself facing empty pews at Sunday services, the few stalwart churchgoers who did attend diverted to feed on richer spiritual pastures. She was right about her son's contemporaries – there was no room for God in most of their lives. If she really gave most of her money to Piers, the church would never see a penny. "Oh come on," he said to himself, "she keeps half the village in business – hairdressers, gardeners, cleaners, boutiques.....I bet she won't do it really. I wonder how much money she got for that land? Must have been worth a lot more once the Development began." He hunched over the wheel, grinding his teeth. Her comments on his sermons came back to him.

It wasn't his fault, people didn't want to hear the truth, so vast passages of the Bible were out of bounds to a modern cleric. 'Pacify them with promises,' the more cynical teachers at the seminary had implied. 'No rules, no guilt. You're a Christian if you clear out your wardrobe for the Bring-and-Buy sale. And if _you_ want to get on, man, don't rock the boat.'

He'd suffocated his own early questions, eager to get on, and had earned himself a cosy little number in this quiet village. It was true that numbers had dropped so much that he now had to cover several villages, working in a team ministry with Heather Beamish, an energetic female vicar. She wasn't so bad, better than the awful Lance Preston, who had flaunted his homosexuality so openly that the older villagers had protested. The Bishop had quietly removed him to a London parish.

He drove on, and the memory of Lance Preston recalled to him the story about the lady who ran the finance section at the Council. The rumour was that her husband ran off unexpectedly with another man. Odd – he'd met Steve Coulthard, who struck him as a laid-back rugby-playing 'straight bloke'. But nothing surprised him these days.

He passed the road leading to Southcliff Hall, and his thoughts moved on to the Council. He pondered what Mrs Loxwood had told him about Councillor Clandecy, her son from her first marriage. Piers, that horrible little boy he had first seen marching round the playground trying to impress everyone with his aristocratic airs and graces, had fallen on his feet as usual. Fancy having the proceeds from all that land, it must have been worth a fortune – now that Pebbleton was 'on the map'. But Piers was used to wealth and privilege, sent after 'juniors' to a private senior school, pony and all.

He remembered the teenaged Piers' tragic face at the funeral of his father, Henry Clandecy. Henry had been a rogue, but a crafty one. The family fortunes had revived in his day, and his early demise from a severe stroke left his widow very comfortable. She had surprised everyone twelve years later by marrying John Loxwood, a quiet and decent man. Piers was thirty by then, and past reform. Piers had hated the man, afraid that he would spend 'Clandecy money', as Piers put it.

John Loxwood had done no such thing, and had died fifteen years later with the whole estate intact. Piers wore a very different face at this funeral, his jubilation barely suppressed as he firmly held his mother's elbow. She and the Clandecy money were now in his grasp, his expression said. He could well believe Mrs Loxwood's confidence that her son would stand by any decision she made, as long as her will was not to be changed.

Money, money – everything revolved around money. No wonder Mrs Loxwood was turning away, sickened. Suddenly, he had a curious idea. Surely, as a Councillor, Clandecy should not have profited by a Council decision in which he took part? Would that not be abusing his position? A mean desire for revenge on Mrs Loxwood, and her over-privileged son, took root in his heart. He might just mention a few things to someone at the Council......James Goswell, he seemed easy to influence. And he was neutral to the political scene – it was important not to alienate any of the local parties. Yes, James Goswell would be the one to talk to.

He jumped slightly as a police siren whined a little way ahead. Traffic was busier than usual since the Development began, and it was the end of the working day. He couldn't see any emergency vehicles, but he slowed down and peered up the road. An unmarked car with a small blue light on top swung around the roundabout ahead, and sped towards him. It passed, and in his rear-view mirror he saw it turn into the road towards Southcliff Hall. Odd – only the Council building there....

He continued his journey, absorbed in his own thoughts. Later, at home in his comfortable modern vicarage, he switched on Clifftop FM, the local radio station. It was always useful to keep up with local news.

".....police were called to the Parish Council offices of Pebbleton-on-Edge, after a report of a suspicious death. In other news, a last treat for the children before school starts next week, don't forget the Extreme Sports Weekend. And for the younger children, the annual Painting Competition will be held this Saturday. Go along to Frayminster shopping precinct at one-thirty......."

The vicar switched off the radio and stood, lost in thought. That must have been the vehicle he saw. A suspicious death? A vicar should make himself available in such a circumstance, perhaps. He twitched an eyebrow, a small smile creeping up one side of his mouth, as he formulated a plan for the morning.

Chapter 5 – The Boys in Blue

Detective Inspector Keith Helford switched off his computer, and drained the cold remains of the coffee he'd started two hours ago. So much paperwork had been shifted today he felt he deserved a medal. He was half-way to the door, delighted to be leaving on time for once, when the phone rang. "Noooooo....." he groaned.

He turned round and picked up the receiver. "Helford."

"Sir, glad I caught you. A report's just come in - the Council found a body."

A vision swum before Helford's eyes of a circle of local dignitaries gazing down at a corpse. "Dean, say that in English. You mean at Southcliff Hall?"

"Yes, sir. A body's been found in a tunnel at Southcliff Hall. Uniform's there," Dean explained. His voice was tense with excitement.

"Good Lord. Sounds unreal. I didn't know there _was_ a tunnel there." He sighed. "OK, I'll be down in a minute. Get the car round to the front and I'll meet you."

As he went downstairs his mind started the usual routine of preparing for the worst while hoping for the best. The worst case scenario was murder, the best would be a skeleton so old he could turn it over to the history boys. That would be nice – just call in forensics, then home for tea a little later than expected. Murder – well, he could forget getting home on time for weeks to come.

He climbed into the car, and Detective Sergeant Dean handed him the brief details they had so far. Jeff Dean was eager to get to the scene, as Keith Helford had been once many years ago. Now, he dreaded what he might find. Contrary to the impression given by popular television shows, a murder cannot be tidied up in a few scenes. It is a vile beast, like an octopus, the tentacles stretching back into the past, sucking up old evils, and flicking consequences at future generations. Many people were caught up even in the process of detection, innocent as well as guilty.

He glanced at the paper in his hand. Reported by the Amenities Manager, Mr Harry Tanner. Found in a tunnel which runs along the back of the basement. Suspected gunshot victim. Nasty – this didn't sound like an ancient skeleton. His mind raced – who had access to the basement, who had been there last....better call in scene-of-crime as soon as they'd had a quick look.

"Know anything about this tunnel, Dean?"

"As it happens, I do, sir. When we were kids we tried to get up the smugglers tunnels from the caves on the beach. We couldn't, it was all blocked off, but we knew that one went all the way up to Southcliff Hall. I remember my mum said it was to deliver booze to the rich folk up there!"

"Very likely," Helford replied sourly. "The old families round here had ways and means around the law. Happens everywhere. Southcliff Hall used to belong to the Clandecy family, I do know that. Look, this is going to take a while – have you told your Mum?" He couldn't resist teasing his junior colleague.

"Sent her a text while I was waiting for you, sir." Dean grinned, though he was always embarrassed by his Mum's eternal attempts to feed him and half the local force as well. Helford, though, wanted to get Dean into good habits for the future. Dean wouldn't always be single, and it was well known that many marriages fell apart under the strain of police work. He'd heard quite enough of colleagues succumbing to drink problems and stress-related illnesses. Long hours in pubs trying to get familiar with informants and other lowlife made alcoholism a real risk. At least the smoking ban had reduced the risk of lung cancer.

"Traffic's heavy today – going home time, I guess," Dean muttered, taking the portable siren from the dashboard and reaching out of the window to fasten its magnetic base onto the roof. He loved that siren, the flashing light and the noise made him feel he was a real cop – even though he drove his boss around in an unmarked car.

"Are you sure CID is the right place for you? Missing the excitement of belting round in a marked car with 'blues and twos' going nineteen to the dozen?" Helford enquired sarcastically. "Turn it off, Dean, the body's not going to make a run for it," he sighed. They swung into the road leading to Southcliff Hall, and parked in one of the Council spaces.

Uniformed officers waited with two anxious men under the porch. Before the policemen could get a word in, the older man spoke. "Thank you for getting here quickly. I'm Harry Tanner and this is Ben Wickens. We found the body. We have made sure that nobody has gone in the basement."

"Nobody would want to," put in Ben, "It's not a pretty sight."

"Thank you. I'm Detective Inspector Keith Helford and this is Detective Sergeant Jeff Dean. Is there a room somewhere we could set up for the investigation?"

Harry replied immediately. "They said you'd want one - I'll ask James – I mean Mr Goswell, the Clerk. Come in, I think you'd better speak to him yourself. Sorry, I don't have a clue what happens. I just knew we shouldn't touch anything."

He led the officers through Reception to the door leading to the basement. They followed him down the wooden staircase, and Ben came along behind, agog with the drama of it all.

In the basement a tall man stood beside another uniformed officer, guarding a closed door. The man had a handkerchief clutched in his hand, and was discreetly wiping the back of his neck. He put it away and held out his hand to shake theirs. "James Goswell, Parish Clerk. Thought I'd better help keep guard here."

"Very responsible of you, sir," Helford reassured him, wondering why the uniformed officers were not considered competent to do the job.

After the introductions Harry unlocked the door. They made their way between the shelves and grouped around the dark hole at the back of the room. Harry shone his torch behind the right hand wall, lighting up a cylindrical cavern about seven feet in height and ending abruptly in a flat wall about six feet from them. Sitting on the floor, with the upper body slumped against this wall, lay a man, or what had been a man. The face was turned towards them, but it was crushed and unrecognisable, covered in dried blood. The body was dressed in a man's jacket and trousers, with an open-necked shirt just visible inside the jacket. In the middle of the chest a huge dark stain spread around a messy hole – the eye flinched away from the revolting sight. One trouser leg had ridden up to show a plump hairy calf, wearing a thin sock and a smart leather shoe. The other leg was bent under the body, as if the man had been standing upright, then had slumped down on his own ankle. The detectives and Council employees stood in silence, taking in the awful sight.

Someone made a choking noise, and the other four turned. James Goswell had stayed at the back but had peered round to see where the torchlight shone – he was now pale and trembling. He leaned against the metal shelving and closed his eyes.

"Get him upstairs quickly," ordered Helford.

"Ben, help me get Mr Goswell out of here," Harry commanded, and they all retreated back to the normality and sunshine of the Reception area, where they sat James on a chair with his head between his knees.

When he had recovered a little, he readily suggested his own office as their base for the investigation. "Are you sure, sir – it may take some time," replied Helford gently. "Oh, yes, I see – well, perhaps the Clandecy room? No, wait a minute, the Council need that for meetings, what am I saying.....well, Fiona will have to give up her office, I think. Yes, Harry, would you mind taking the officers to Fiona's office?"

Harry thought that this was a terrible idea, not least because Fiona would go berserk. She kept so much crucial paperwork in her office – it was the real hub of Council operations. James, on the other hand, kept very little in his office except vintage desks and chairs and some old leather-bound volumes. The room was for private meetings and for the incumbent Clerk to impress visitors.

"Are you sure, James?" he ventured. "Fiona will have to move into your office with you.....and move all her work, and files......but if you or I move out of our offices we can float around more easily, you know...I could sit in with Kim or you at a pinch."

The prospect of Fiona in his office for any extended time made James sit up and gather his wits. "OK, first thoughts are often best – my office it shall be, really, Inspector. It's ideal for interviews or whatever you do, and I can move around easiest. You can't, Harry, you've got as many files as Fiona, and the Team need you in one place."

D.S. Dean had made a call to the station, the scene-of-crime team now arrived, and the uniformed officers started unrolling tape from the pillars outside. The S.O.C.O.'s went to work, covered in protective clothing, and in Reception the two plain clothes man and the three council officers had a conference about who was left in the building. It appeared that almost everyone had gone home by ten past five, and only James had been still in his office at five-fifteen when Harry had raced upstairs to phone the police.

"Fair enough, now an obvious question - " He looked around at the serious faces of the three Council employees. "Any idea who that is down there?"

James shook his head immediately. Ben looked bewildered and spread his hands in a shrug, but Harry looked worried. "Mr Tanner?" Helford prompted.

"I could be wrong, but the clothes – it could be – doesn't make any sense, but it looked like – like - Mr Chewter. What he wore – and the size – stocky, bit big round the waist...." His voice tailed off unhappily, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as if to erase the image.

"Blimey – you're right, Harry," Ben spluttered. "I didn't see much of him at work, but I remember his funny jackets, tweedy sort of things he wore. Ruddy hell, what's he doing down there? He got kicked out months ago!"

Harry fixed Ben with a stern look. Helford decided that all three men would have to interviewed tonight, and then he would widen the net tomorrow. "I suggest we make a start in your office, Mr Goswell, if you would all be so good as to come with us. I will try to take as little of your time as possible, gentlemen, but I'm sure you appreciate that everything you can tell me now will help. Sergeant Dean, please get an officer to accompany Mr Tanner and Mr, er, Wickens, to another room to wait while we speak to Mr Goswell."

They trooped upstairs to James's office. He began to stack the few files on his desk, preparing to move himself into the Accounts office. Helford asked him to stop for a moment. "You can do that in a moment, sir. First please tell me why you were still in the building after everyone else had left."

James stared at him, blinked, and stuttered "I – I – well, I was just finishing reading a report. Anyway, I knew Harry was still here – we usually check on each other and leave around the same time, so we can set the alarm. I mean, it only takes one to set it, but we're not supposed to be here alone, you see, it's policy."

"Which report were you reading?"

James looked down at the files he had gathered, and passed the Inspector the top manila folder. It bore the title 'Graffiti and Vandalism'.

"It'll be discussed at the next Full Council meeting, at the end of this week. I was just mugging up on what has been going on before I got here."

"How long have you been here, sir?"

"Since January. I was taken on to replace this chap Chewter, the one Harry mentioned. He was Parish Clerk here, in this very office." James looked around nervously as if a vengeful apparition might leap out from the volumes in the bookcase.

"And why did he leave? From the story you were given, I mean."

"He had an elderly mother dying of cancer, that's what they told me at my interview. But I have heard since that he was accused of sexual harassment. I don't know who he harassed, if anyone."

"Did you meet him?"

"Yes, he came in once or twice, made himself known to me, said he hoped I would settle down in the job. He was pleasant enough to me."

"Did you see him interact with others?"

"I – well, I must admit I noticed that people here were not pleased to see him. I got the impression that he was not popular. But they never said anything to me. Sorry, I'm not being very much help."

"What can you tell me about Harry Tanner?"

"Harry? Oh, he's a good man. Keeps the boys working well - that's the Amenities Team, you know – gets the best out of them, and everyone likes him. He loves his parks, and his roundabouts – all that planting you see every summer, that's his work, his designs – he puts his heart and soul into it. He loves this village, been here all his life."

"And Ben, er, Wickens?" Helford continued. D.S. Dean, his head bent over his notebook, grinned. His boss was famous for remembering only about two names he heard at the start of any investigation. He suspected that the third name depended on a link in Helford's mind – more than likely to the chain of builder's merchants of a similar name.

James considered what he knew about Ben. "I haven't had much to do with him – he works outdoors with the rest of the Team. But I've not heard anything against him. He's just young, doesn't know when to keep quiet."

"We shan't want him or anyone to keep quiet in this investigation. Now, tell me who had keys to the basement."

"Hmm, I think more or less everyone up here did. We get a bunch of keys to all the rooms, and the basement key is one of them. I suppose the other doors down there open with their own keys – come to think of it, I don't know if we all could get in to the archive rooms. Let me look at my bunch."

He fumbled about in his desk drawer, bringing out a large set of keys, and checked through them. "Accounts, front door, my office, Clandecy Room, alarms, basement, admin, desk, safe, file room - hmm, looks as though I don't have anything for those doors down there. Come to think of it, I only went down there with Fiona on my first day, and she used her key. So she has one, and obviously Harry has one – I'm sorry, I'm not being helpful. I think I'm too new here, you'd better ask Fiona. She knows everything about this place."

"Fiona? That would be....?"

"Fiona Carvell, the – my, er, secretary. I can give you her address, if you want to see her tonight. Or she'll be in at eight-thirty tomorrow morning."

James found the Inspector a staff list in the filing cabinet in Fiona's office, complete with addresses and telephone numbers. Helford thought he seemed unduly pleased with himself for this burst of efficiency. He was then allowed to remove his files and person to the Accounts room, and given permission to go home. The two officers waited politely until he left.

"What do you make of him, sir?" Dean whispered.

"Probably only survives in the job because this Fiona woman keeps him on track. The power behind the throne – notice how he hesitated when he had to think of her job title? I thought he was about to say 'The Boss', not 'my secretary'. Mind you, he genuinely doesn't seem to know anything. Couldn't have even got in the room, it seems."

"So he says."

"Oh, we will be checking everything, fear not, Dean. Nothing will be taken on trust. Now let me think – Tanner or the kid first?"

Chapter 6 – Tell Us What You Know

"Let's have the kid in first," Helford decided. "I want to get him to shoot his mouth off about Whatsisname getting kicked out."

Dean consulted his notebook. "Chewter, sir. Hadn't we better get a first name out of Mr Tanner?"

"Good thinking, Dean." Helford liked his Sergeant to put in suggestions – but never in front of witnesses. "Well, bring on the next act..."

Dean came back with Ben Wickens, who sat in front of D.I.Helford with rapt attention.

"You said that Mr Chewter was 'kicked out' of the job – please tell us what you know about that. Don't feel you have to hold back - after all this is a murder investigation," Helford told him.

Ben jutted his chin forward. "Harry said it could be spreading idle gossip, if it turned out not to be Mr Chewter down there after all. He might be sitting at home right now, and I'd be giving him a bad name."

Helford's eyebrows rose. "That is certainly true, Mr Wickens. Perhaps you could help us determine if Mr Chewter is indeed sitting at home. Do you know his first name, or his address?"

Dean looked up in surprise. Ben screwed up his eyes in concentration. "Gerald, he was. Perilous Gerald, the girls called him. 'Cos he made them feel – er, in peril I suppose. He lives in that nice house on the corner of Edge Lane and the new Development. I often saw him standing outside it, on my way in to work, watching the lorries coming in and out of the site."

Keith Helford reached for a telephone directory that he had seen earlier on a shelf under the window. He flicked the pages until he came to the right entry. He picked up the phone and dialled '9' for an outside line, guessing correctly that this office had the conventional system. He punched in the numbers, and listened for a while to a ringing tone.

"Dean," he said, "put your head outside and call a couple of constables. Send them to this address," as he scribbled on a piece of paper, "and if they get no reply, tell them to ask the neighbours if there's been any sight of Mr Chewter in the past few days."

Jeff did as he was told, then sat back down with his notebook. Helford sat back in the chair and gazed at Ben. "All right, Mr Wickens, we'll leave that subject for the moment. Tell me about your boss, Mr Tanner."

"Harry's the best. He'd do anything for anyone, he would. And anything for Pebbleton."

"So I hear – I gather he is very devoted to the village."

"He'd flatten anyone who bad-mouthed this place. Oh, not literally – I just meant that he's put so much in, that he'd defend Pebbleton to his last breath."

"How did he get on with Mr Chewter?"

"Fine. Harry just gets on with the job, doesn't really care who's in charge in here. He knows what needs doing better than they do anyway. Chewter wasn't interested in flowers and plants, so he just left it to Harry. They didn't get along like great buddies, but they were totally different personalities."

'Observant,' thought Helford. He nodded and asked, "How long have you been working for the Council?"

"I joined about a year and a half ago, a year before Chewter left anyway."

"What do you make of the new Parish Clerk?"

"He's OK, seems friendly. He doesn't take himself too seriously, you can have a laugh with him, like. The girls here like him."

This comment revealed a lot, by contrast, of what Ben really thought of Chewter. Helford scribbled on a pad 'Took himself seriously? Girls didn't like him?' and thought for a moment.

"Tell me about Fiona Carvell."

Ben looked surprised. "Don't know where she parks her broomstick," he blurted out, before he remembered Harry's advice just a few minutes ago to mind his tongue about his work colleagues' reputations. In Fiona's case, however, he decided to be candid.

"You don't like her? She isn't your manager, is she?"

"She thinks she's everyone's manager. We get told off if we get dirt on the carpet, if we order too much stuff, if we don't get our timesheets in on the right day, you name it. Can't see her smacking Chewter, though. Too untidy for her liking. She'd use hemlock."

Helford could barely stop himself from laughing. "Thank you, Mr Wickens, just leave the detection to us. That'll be all for the moment, but I would appreciate it if you could wait for a while until I've seen Mr Tanner."

Ben got up, and Helford left it until his hand was on the door handle to say: "One more thing - why did Harry send you down to the basement first – he mentioned that was how it happened?"

Ben turned. "I was just hanging about at the end of the day with nothing to do. My mate parks the van, he's the driver - I bring the paperwork in to Harry. He thought it was just a bit of a mess down there, and wanted to know if we could leave it till tomorrow."

"Thanks." Helford made another note. Ben hesitated, so Helford nodded at him to leave.

"I wonder," Helford mused. "Tanner has the keys, he makes sure he isn't alone when the body is found, he is passionately defensive over the village – maybe Chewter threatened to trample on his prize dahlias."

"If only it were that easy...." Dean replied. "My mum says gardeners are the most psychologically balanced people, in touch with the soil and all that. Not many homicidal tendencies."

"Let's see if your mum is right. Bring forth Mr Tanner."

Harry Tanner looked glum as he entered the room. "I hope that young idiot hasn't been putting ideas into your heads," he began before Helford could speak.

"We listen to everyone, but we are not fools, Mr Tanner. Please tell me first of all what you can about your new Parish Clerk."

Tanner looked surprised, but relaxed a little. "Decent fellow, knows a bit about plants. Lets me get on with my job, doesn't interfere, that's all I ask. I've no complaints."

Helford wrote something down, then looked up. "Ben Wickens, tell me about him."

"He's all right, coming along nicely if he pays attention to his work and doesn't try to be too smart. Young 'uns, think they know everything. No, he's a bright lad, I've had worse on the Team."

"Can you tell me who has the keys to the basement and the door to the room with the tunnel?"

"Ah." Harry thought for a minute. "Apart from me, there would be Mr Goswell, Miss Carvell, and......probably Mrs Coulthard. Accounts, she is – must have put _some_ stuff in the archives, I suppose. Anyone else would just ask one of us for the key, if they needed anything. It's ages since anyone wanted to get anything out of there, though. Don't know why they don't clear all that old rubbish out."

"How did Ben get in today?"

"I gave him my keys, of course. Reckoned it was just a fuss about nothing, a bit of broken glass. She – Mrs Couthard – said it was messy before she knocked over the bottles, but I thought it might have been a rat, or something, got in there."

"How would a rat get in there? It looked sealed to me."

"Ah, the tunnel goes back beyond......." he was lost in thought for a moment. Then he slowly resumed the sentence. "Beyond the wall you saw. It's not sealed completely, there are air gaps, and the tunnel comes up in different places in the village. Something could have got in that way. Look, I don't know what I thought, I just wanted to keep Kim Coulthard happy."

"Sorry? How would it keep her happy?"

"She was upset by the stuffed eagle falling over on her." The Inspector's eyebrows twisted upwards in a question, so Harry explained the story of Kim and Melissa's visit to the basement.

Helford consulted the staff list James had given him. Kim's name and details were there. So it was she who had opened this particular can of worms. He made a mental note to speak to her as soon as possible. He looked in vain for a Melissa, and scribbled that name on his notepad.

"Do you know why Mrs Coulthard and this Melissa went to the basement?"

"Melissa is a new employee. As I understand it, Kim was giving her a tour." Helford nodded, then asked, "Is that usual?"

"I know some people get taken down there, just to see the tunnel. They think it's exciting, smugglers and contraband and all that stuff. But it's just a bricked out hole - " He stopped dead, a look of puzzlement creasing his forehead into a frown.

Helford waited, hoping that something important was dawning in this intelligent man's mind. He was not disappointed. Harry sat there staring over Helford's shoulder toward the window, his eyes narrowed, seeing nothing but the image in his mind's eye. Finally he made a decision.

"Inspector," he said slowly, "I may be wrong, but as far as I can remember, the tunnel finished at both sides in a rough sort of brick wall. Not completely sealed, but enough to stop anyone trying to explore. Now you saw what I saw down there – did it look to you like brick? It looked like breeze block to me."

Helford looked at his junior officer. "What do you think, Dean? Brick or breeze block?"

"I thought it was big greyish blocks, I don't think it was bricks."

"Yes, I thought so too. When did you last look in the tunnel, Mr Tanner?"

"Ages ago – must be eight, ten years ago. When we put up all that shelving for the old museum stuff. I had a look in there to see if anything had fallen down, and I wanted to use a bit of the space to put some of the tall items upright. The right-hand side went further in than the left. I didn't bother though, it was too dirty. Just propped things up against the wall out in the room."

"And it was a brick wall you saw then?"

"That's my recollection. I'm sure it was bricks all the way round. Why would anyone use breeze blocks on one side, and bricks everywhere else? Besides, the work was done so many years ago, they probably hadn't invented breeze blocks then."

Helford had a sick feeling that this investigation had just doubled in size. If there were breeze blocks where they shouldn't be, yet the body was in front of them, then what were the breeze blocks hiding?

There was a knock at the door. "Come in," called Helford. A young constable entered and handed him a piece of paper, then withdrew discreetly. The Inspector read the note, made a reasonable assumption, and considered his next move. He decided to exert his authority.

"Mr Tanner, it seems Mr Chewter's neighbours have not seen him in his customary routine today, and a local shopkeeper says he did not come in as usual this morning....now it's too early to be definite, but I think we must assume that you were right. The body is very likely to be Mr Chewter's. So I need to know everything you can tell me, now please," he finished firmly.

Harry looked even more unhappy, but he knew that his resistance had to end. He began to tell the Inspector of the thoroughly unpleasant Gerald Chewter. It was a sordid tale of a pompous, delusional man who had never had a girlfriend, never had a real friend of either sex, and had a manner that continually rubbed his colleagues up the wrong way.

Chewter had got the job of Parish Clerk in a rather rushed interview process after the sudden death of the previous incumbent. No other suitably qualified candidates had been available. After his appointment it had been only a few weeks before the complaints started in the office, but his work seemed satisfactory, so the Council members took little notice.

He knew how to say the right things to the Councillors, pretending to agree with first this party then that, and it was months into his contract before the first serious charge of sexual harassment was levelled at him. He denied misconduct, and the victim could not prove anything. She was so furious that she resigned, and in her bitterness she upset a few of the Councillors by sending them vitriolic emails. Chewter capitalised on this, and it was not until the repeat performance with Kim Coulthard that Chewter was suspected of lying the first time. Kim had handled the unpleasant complaints process with quiet dignity, and was believed – as is often the case with the second witness. Chewter played his last card - his sick mother. That saved him from too much public disgrace, and he had left the Council's employment three years after he arrived.

Helford listened, thought, and asked Dean to arrange for Ben to go home. Harry had told him enough, but Kim Coulthard no doubt had plenty more to say. He thanked Harry, and asked him if he could bring himself to take another look at the body with a view to a more positive identification. The breeze-blocks also needed another viewing. Harry Tanner reluctantly agreed, and back in the tunnel, with the aid of a powerful torch, he noticed a smart watch on the right wrist. It was a diver's watch, which Gerald Chewter had proudly shown off to anyone who would listen.

"I remember that watch," he told Helford. "We all thought it was a ridiculous waste of money, as he'd never been diving and probably never would."

"So you're sure it is him?" the Inspector pressed him.

"As sure as I can be, I had a look at the face – what there was of it. If it's not him, I'll be very surprised."

"And the breeze-blocks?"

"Definitely not the way I remember it. And not the work of any of our lads – a horrible job. Messy, obviously done in a hurry. I don't care if no-one sees your work, you should do a good job every time."

Harry was then allowed to go home, but insisted he should stay to lock up and set the alarm. He was gently reminded that there was activity in the basement that would mean an all-night vigil by officers from the local force. Harry gave in and went home. The Inspector wondered – could Harry Tanner be such a perfectionist that he only noticed the unprofessional workmanship in the tunnel, without realising the implications of such work existing?

Helford sent Dean back to the basement to alert the team working below of the breeze-block problem. When he returned, the two detectives sat in James's office for a while, jotting down their immediate impressions and lines of enquiry. Then, leaving a constable to guard their makeshift base, they went out into the summer evening to pay a visit to Mrs Coulthard.

In the car they threw a few more suggestions at each other. "The first woman Chewter harassed – she sounds promising, sir," Dean offered. "It's on the list, but I'm not hopeful," Helford replied. "She could have done anything in the last few years if she wanted to get back at Chewter – lure him somewhere and kill him, for instance. Why wait until now?"

"OK, what about this Fiona, the secretary? She'd have had to work for him, maybe he had a thing going with her, and then dumped her – recently?"

"Maybe lots of things, Dean. We'll have to look at everyone, everything. The only anomaly we have so far is the key – the Clerk says he never had one, Harry Tanner says he should. I mean to get to the bottom of that, for a start."

"Yes, maybe the Clerk knew Chewter before – no, I know, maybe Chewter found out something that the new Clerk was doing wrong – illegal – and threatened to shop him."

"Don't get too carried away, Dean. Theories are all very well, but of you get too obsessed with one idea you ignore other lines of enquiry. Method and thoroughness, remember."

"Yes, I know sir. But I did get the feeling that James Goswell was – how shall I put it – not what he seemed? I mean, I wouldn't employ him as the head of anything, he didn't seem to have a clue."

"Lucky for him you weren't on the interview panel, then....."

Chapter 7 – More Bad News

Jeff Dean rapped at the door of Kim Coulthard's attractive modern home. He and D.I. Helford stood looking up at the climbing plant over the door frame. Long orange-red tubular flowers hung in rows among dark-green sprays of leaves. "Nice," Helford remarked.

"Window's open – should be in," Dean muttered.

Nothing happened, so they called out her name over the gate at the side of the property. From the back garden came a voice, "Hello?"

They identified themselves, and she quickly came through the house and opened the door. She looked expectant, almost excited, though she wasn't smiling. Helford was puzzled.

"Mrs Coulthard, were you expecting a visit from the police?" he asked.

"Well, you've got some news about Steve.....haven't you?" Now it was her turn to look puzzled.

"May we sit down, Mrs Coulthard, and then we can enlighten each other. We seem to be at cross purposes."

She led them to the cool lounge at the back of the house, where there was a good view of the pretty garden. Jeff Dean, who was a keen gardener himself, appreciated the delightful way that the rectangular space had been broken up by curved beds, with paths winding along to disappear behind tall plants. She saw him looking out and said "I was just weeding when I heard you call out. My husband does – did – the garden, and he would hate it if all his hard work got ruined and overgrown. I try to keep it tidy, but I'm not really a gardener." She heard herself prattling on, delaying whatever news they had come to tell her.

"I take it Steve was – is – your husband?" Helford enquired gently.

Kim turned in amazement, and stared at him. Then she shrugged, and said, "I suppose you don't tell each other about cases. It was an Inspector Fielding who was dealing with it – Steve disappeared last year, at the end of October. The police took it very seriously until – well, until there was a development, and they closed the case. But to be honest, I wasn't satisfied – sorry, I know it's a colleague of yours. But you see, I didn't believe the explanation then and I don't believe it now. I thought you might have some news for me."

"I see," said Helford slowly, and took out his notebook. "I'd like to just take a few details, Mrs Coulthard, and I promise you I will take a quick look at the case again. Not that I would tread on Inspector Fielding's toes, you understand, but he has gone to join the West Yorkshire force, so I'm sure he won't mind if I have a little peek."

Keith Helford's warm manner had its usual effect, and Kim felt she was in the capable hands of a policeman who might actually get some answers. She sat down in an armchair, and gave him the details he wanted. That done, she frowned at the two of them and asked "So what _does_ bring you here?"

Dean thought to himself that she was either a good actress, or was genuinely ignorant of the chaos going on at Southcliff Hall. Helford cleared his throat and began: "You went down to the basement of Southcliff Hall today, Mrs Coulthard, and reported to the Amenities Manager that it needed looking at. Please tell me in your own words exactly what happened."

Kim looked baffled. She told him of the new girl's interest in the old tunnel, and their trip downstairs.

"You have the key to the archive room door, the one with the tunnel?"

Kim's curiosity was aroused. He knew the difference between the two archive rooms in the basement – what on earth had been going on?

"Yes, I have the keys for both of them – I occasionally have to look up some old records for financial details. I am the RFO – Responsible Finance Officer."

Helford made a note, knowing that Dean was taking full notes as well. "Who else would have the key – to that room I mean?"

Kim thought for a moment. "Let me see, the Clerk would, his secretary, and Harry – that's the Amenities Manager, and, er – no, not the cleaners, they don't clean beyond the door to the basement. It's hardly ever used, you see. I'm not sure if anyone else would have a key."

"Thank you. Now I have to ask some rather painful questions, Mrs Coulthard, which may seem irrelevant, but please answer as fully as you can. When was the last time you saw," he hesitated and consulted his notebook, "Gerald Chewter?"

Kim's eyes opened wide in amazement. _"Gerald Chewter?!"_ she almost spat the words out. "What on earth – well ok, I'll do my best to remember. I suppose it would have been his last day at work, back in....December, I think. He did come in to Southcliff Hall once or twice after that, but I didn't see him to speak to. Just in the distance, going in or out of James's office, I can't remember."

"Were you on good terms with him, when he left the job?" Act dumb, thought Helford.

"Hardly. I was probably the reason he resigned. He was trying to - well, he was - sexually harassing me, and he'd done it to another member of staff before. So he was asked to leave." She spoke candidly, and sat waiting for the next question.

"I see, and he left without bearing a grudge against you?"

"A grudge? Well, he didn't seem to have any ill-will to me in particular – he almost ignored the whole thing, come to think of it, as though he had more important things on his mind. Yes, I remember the last thing he said to me that it was 'all very trivial', but I suppose he was just trying to make out that I'd exaggerated."

"He didn't even seem that worried by being asked to resign," Kim continued. "I thought that he used his mother's illness – she had cancer at the time, and died a few months later – otherwise there would have been a bigger fuss. I mean, he should have been sacked rather publicly. Councillor Denby and Councillor Massington were all for prosecuting him, given that he'd picked on me when I was going through all that upset with my husband's disappearance, but they decided to be lenient. I didn't want to go that far anyway, I just wanted to see the back of him."

"Thank you, that is helpful. Now can you tell me who was in the building when you left work today?"

"Um, everyone, I suppose, because I left five minutes early to run to the post office. I had a few urgent letters and I couldn't get them finished in time for the post run."

"What is your opinion of your new boss, Mr – er – Goswell?"

"Mr Goswell? He's fine – no problem with him, we get on and he lets me do my job. Please can I ask what all this is about?"

"In just a moment, Mrs Coulthard. Please give me your opinion of Mr Tanner. I gather he wanted to oblige you by sorting out the problem you had reported to him."

"Did he? Oh, that's sweet. Harry is a dear, he pretends to be a grumpy old cuss but he's really lovely. So he had a look in the basement, is that what you're telling me? "

The two officers sat looking at her, trying to detect any anxiety or fear. They saw nothing except normal curiosity. The prolonged silence gradually had an effect on her – she turned from one to the other, and a look of dread crept over her face. "What are you trying to tell me......." she whispered.

"A body was found," Helford said quietly. "Perhaps you have an idea who's....."

"Oh......Steve....." she moaned softly, and her eyes rolled upwards as she fell back in the armchair.

The men rushed forward, and Jeff Dean checked her pulse and breathing, thanking his recent first-aid refresher course. Helford hovered awkwardly, then went to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen.

"I think she's coming round – she thought you meant her husband, sir."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, Jeff," replied his boss, lapsing into familiarity in his embarrassment.

Dean was on a roll. "She must think he could be dead instead of just disappeared," he whispered. Helford gave him a warning look and said "Ok, ok, let's get her comfortable, shall we – that's the second person we've knocked out in one evening. That Clerk was almost out for the count – I've never seen anyone go that green around the gills."

Before long Kim revived her senses, and they helped her drink some water. "I do apologise, Mrs Coulthard," said Helford sincerely, "I had no idea you would spring to that conclusion. We have no reason to believe that at all."

"Then who......?" Kim murmured. Helford looked at Dean, and nodded. Just to be on the safe side, he'd let someone else tell her the news.

"We have reason to believe that it is Mr Chewter, though we will not be making that official until we have confirmation," said Dean. "It is important to get as much information as soon as possible. We have reason to believe that he was....murdered." Jeff Dean watched her before he continued. "So we had to see you tonight, Mrs Coulthard. Tomorrow it could be all over the village."

She stared at him with her mouth open, and for an awful moment he thought she was going to pass out again. But her mouth twisted into a querying grimace. "Wha......" was all that came out.

"I quite agree, Mrs Coulthard," Helford assured her, gently removing the glass from her drooping hand. "Why, What with, Where, Who – these are the questions we will be trying to answer. Now, I think we have troubled you enough. Is there someone you could call to come and be with you? You've had a nasty shock."

The words were familiar to her, and reminded her of another day, another police Inspector, and another horror. She shook her head, and put her hand out to Helford's sleeve. "Please," she urged him, "you will take a look at my husband's case, won't you?"

Helford nodded. "Don't worry, I promise to get the file and read it as soon as possible. You understand, I will be tied up with this case for some time, but I want to eliminate the possibility of any connection. Your husband didn't work for the Council, did he?"

"No, he was a teacher. At Frayminster College. Geology," Kim mumbled, feeling disappointed. For some reason she had thought that D.I. Helford would put his energies into finding Steve, but now it seemed he was making excuses.

"Are you all right? Do you want us to call a friend for you?" asked Dean kindly. Kim shook her head again, and promised that she would get to work early the next day to organise any paperwork they might need to look at in their investigation.

They let themselves out of the house as the sun sank lower, casting golden fingers of light through the leaves of the poplars lining the street. Back in the car, they discussed the unexpected development of Kim's own unsolved mystery. "Do you really think it's got anything to do with this?" Dean asked. "You seemed pretty keen to look into it."

"I hope I'm horribly wrong, but I have a bad feeling about it. She's an attractive girl, and men don't often run away from decent wives. They have affairs, sure – they cheat on their decent wives, who find out and divorce them – but they don't often leave without warning."

"It does happen, sir – my cousin's husband ran off, and it was five weeks before she found out that he was in Frayminster, living with a barmaid."

"Exactly, Dean – she found out in five weeks. This lady hasn't heard anything of her husband in ten months. Bit odd, don't you think?"

"I'll tell you what's odd – the climber over the front door."

Helford looked confused, so Dean continued: "It's a Chilean Glory Flower, _Eccre-_ something. Flippin' difficult to grow. I tried to get one going, and they're very sensitive. If her husband grew that, babied it over the winters and waited for it to flower like that over the door – well, I wouldn't go anywhere, I'd be so proud."

Helford sometimes found Dean's logic a little weird, but he supposed he had a point. "So you think keen gardeners would put plants above romance? That is supposing the husband was having an affair. She never specified what Fielding found out, did you notice?"

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. They were coming to the end of the small seaside estate where Kim lived. "Where to now, sir?"

"We should see Fiona Carvell tonight if possible, she lives just a little way from Southcliff Hall. Back up to the coast road, then left just after Southcliff Hall road."

"Edge Lane, you mean, sir? That's where Chewter lived. So she lived near him...."

"Yes, she lives just off there, Edge Close. Number seven. And stop making wild connections, Dean, just drive us there."

Chapter 8 – Fiona

Number seven was a tidy cottage in a row of eight. A cat was lazing on the roof in the fading sunlight, and dainty lace curtains took the place of nets behind the squared window panes. The small front lawn was neatly bordered with dwarf begonias and fuschias at regular intervals, but the effect was too military to please the eye.

Dean's stomach rumbled as the delicious aroma of barbecue wafted from one of the back gardens. He looked at Helford with a pitiful expression, and the older man smiled.

The gaunt figure of Fiona opened the door abruptly, a tight-lipped scarecrow wearing a brown plastic apron over her summer dress. She looked irritated, as though she had been interrupted in the middle of something. The detectives identified themselves, and held up their badges. Her attitude changed, and she beckoned them inside, away from the gaze of her neighbours. Dean found this amusing as there was no-one in the Close to see them.

"Yes, how can I help?" she demanded, as soon as the door was closed. They were standing in a tiny front lounge, which seemed filled with a three-piece suite in floral tapestry, and other low wooden furniture. She did not invite them to sit down, so they remained standing.

"You are Miss Fiona Carvell, the secretary at the Parish Council?" Helford asked, making it sound vaguely like an accusation. "Yes," she replied, "What is all this about?" Her tone was aggressive. Helford could see that this lady would not easily be intimidated. He decided to lay his cards on the table quickly, not least for the sake of Dean's stomach.

"Miss Carvell, we were called to Southcliff Hall earlier after a report of a body in the basement." He watched with satisfaction as her composure cracked, and her eyes widened in astonishment. "Please sit down, we need to ask you some questions."

Fiona sat down with a thud on the edge of the sofa. The officers took the two armchairs without being asked, and took out their notebooks. "A _body_ – in Southcliff Hall – ?" Fiona spluttered, as if she had been told that a blue whale had been found in a bathroom at Buckingham Palace.

"What time did you leave work this evening?"

"About ten past five."

"Who was still in the building when you left?"

"The Clerk, Mr Goswell, and the Amenities Manager, Mr Tanner. Oh, I think he had one of his lads with him. I'm sure – yes, I'm sure everyone else had left before me."

Helford was glad that at least Miss Carvell was used to giving accurate information, and answered automatically with no hint of calculation in her responses. She would make an excellent witness, if she had seen anything.

"You live just around the corner from Mr Gerald Chewter, please can you tell me the last time you saw him?"

"Mr Chewter? He doesn't work for the Council any more. He – ah – retired. At the end of last year."

"So I understand. But you may have seen him since, perhaps in the corner shop, or when he dropped in to say hello to his old colleagues?" Helford was doing his 'Act Dumb' performance again.

"Yes, well, he did come in to the offices once or twice, wanting to help Mr Goswell ease into the job. But he just said 'Hello' to me, that was all. I don't see him locally."

"Did you like him?"

"That is an improper question, officer. Mr Chewter is entitled to his privacy. Why are you asking these questions about him?"

"We have reason to believe that the body found in the basement is Mr Chewter's." Helford waited for his words to have their effect.

Fiona gaped at him. "Mr Chewter? Whatever was he doing in the basement? How did he get in? He should have handed his keys back when he left! I mean, I'm sorry if the poor man felt so badly that he decided to take his own life, but really – in the basement of Southcliff Hall! It's – its - _disgraceful_!"

Dean was beginning to feel light-headed from hunger, and the tempting smell of the barbecue next door wasn't helping. He had a sudden urge to giggle at this skinny woman's outrage. He concentrated very hard on his notebook and kept his face down as Helford continued the questioning.

"Could you tell me who had keys to the basement, and in particular the archive rooms?"

"Yes, I have a full set of keys, so does Mr Goswell, and also Mr Tanner. Wait, though, you tell me Mr Chewter let himself into the basement? Perhaps he kept a key – but I'm sure – dear me, perhaps he intended to do this all along. In the morning I must check Mr Goswell's keys, in case any are missing. Mr Goswell is very lax about locking his desk, anyone could have taken his key without too much trouble."

Unaware that she had just incriminated every one of her colleagues in a murder investigation, Miss Carvell sat upright with her hands folded on her lap. She had regained her composure now, and tilted her head to one side waiting for any further questions. Helford concluded that she was either lacking in imagination or a very clever murderess. "Oh well," he thought, "Here we go again. At least she's not the fainting kind."

"We have reason to believe that Mr Chewter was murdered."

Miss Carvell sat perfectly still. Dean looked up at her from his notebook, and then looked at Helford. Silence reigned. The clock ticked, and one of the neighbours laughed loudly in the next garden.

Finally she spoke. "So I suppose you will be all over Southcliff Hall, looking into everything, and getting under our feet. The Council business must go on, you know – whatever's happened."

Helford was astonished. He had never come across such breath-taking single-mindedness.

"We have set up an investigation room in Mr Goswell's office, and we will require your full co-operation in this investigation, Miss Carvell. If you can tell us anything now that you think may be relevant, I would appreciate it." He waited.

"Of course I will co-operate with the police. I will get in to the office early tomorrow and start organising the files you will need," she stated grimly.

Helford wondered just how she would know which files he would need. Never mind – tomorrow he could start work preventing this steely female from picking and choosing what he found out. Clearly he would need to exert his full authority on her – he determined to get a search warrant without delay.

He briefly asked her opinion of Harry Tanner, which produced nothing helpful, and moved on to James Goswell. Here he detected a restraint in her answers – she claimed to have nothing bad to say against him, but she stiffened and seemed unhappy discussing him.

He wondered how old Fiona was. Her clothes and manner made her seem like an uptight school mistress from another era, but she couldn't be more than fifty – perhaps she pined secretly for a little romantic attention from the new Clerk. How often he had come across the syndrome: employees with passionate feelings for their bosses, teenagers in love with their teachers, spinsters swooning over the new vicar – it was the lot of the man in authority to have such an effect on the more impressionable female. Was Fiona impressionable? Repressed, definitely. In love with her boss? It was easy to see that James Goswell was a more likely object of desire than Gerald Chewter.

Finally he turned to the most interesting possibility on his list of initial suspects. "Please give me your views on Mrs Coulthard," he asked.

Fiona's mouth twitched primly. "She is a very capable RFO. Our jobs do not overlap a great deal, so I cannot say I know her personally to any degree," she responded, turning her gaze slightly away from Helford's face.

"When Mr Chewter left his employment with the Council, was there any bad feeling, any parting words for example, between him and Mrs Coulthard? She has told me herself the circumstances of his resignation."

The bony face of the lady on the sofa sneered just a little, and she replied dismissively, "Mrs Coulthard made a great deal of fuss, she had already had quite enough sympathy in the weeks before she made her complaint against Mr Chewter, and in my opinion she just wanted to remain the centre of attention. Her husband had left her, why I do not wish to know, and she wanted to pretend that another man was showing an interest in her. I'm sure he only made a few remarks to bolster her ego, and she took his compliments in the wrong spirit. That is what he told me, and I had no reason to doubt him. He was perfectly gentlemanly to me, and never behaved improperly. Perhaps that is because _I maintain_ _proper and respectful boundaries_ in the office environment."

"Or perhaps it's because you're a spiteful cat," thought Dean, making his notes. "Even Chewter wouldn't have touched you with a barge pole."

Helford remained impassive, jotting a brief note on his pad. "Thank you, Miss Carvell, that will be all for tonight. We will be at Southcliff Hall early tomorrow morning, and I will be needing access to every room and file. We are unclear yet as to motive, so we must leave no stone unturned." He rather hoped this would alarm her, and flag up anything she had to hide – or anything she would try to hide out of loyalty to her boss or the Council. People who feared discovery were so anxious to conceal certain evidence they might as well mark it with red ink in huge letters – if it didn't get offered to him in the first place, he wanted to know why immediately.

They took their leave of her and walked to the end of Edge Close to see where Chewter's house stood in relation to Fiona's. They could see it on the opposite side of Edge Lane, facing them on a corner. The road turning in front of it was a dusty mess, where even now a few construction vans were pulling out to go home at the end of a long day.

So this was the famous Development, the great hope of Pebbleton's future. Certainly it commanded plenty of acreage – where there had once been nothing but wooded fields, allotments and the odd smallholding behind Edge Lane, hidden from view by hedges and trees. Now Egron had acquired a massive area, and were rapidly laying out roads to accommodate housing and shopping centres, and to the right, flung along the cliff top, the beginnings of a holiday complex to include a swimming dome and numerous attractions. The Frayminster Guardian carried a story every week, following the construction project. It was still in Phase One, but even from here the policemen could see steel girders outlining future large structures. At this time of year, work was moving ahead rapidly.

"Bet it's noisy here during the day," Dean remarked. "And dusty."

"Quite," Helford agreed. "But look – see this side of the corner? A little newsagents-cum-grocers. What's the betting Miss Fiona Carvell pops in there regularly, and bumps into Mr Chewter from time to time? Shall we ask?"

They strolled down to the corner shop and Dean fished a pound coin from his pocket. "Starving," he said sheepishly when Helford looked at him. "Oh, your Mum is going to give you what-for. Ruining your dinner," Helford grinned. "Actually she'll give me what-for. But I won't mind if she gives me a slice of her rich fruit cake to go with it."

"Sir......!" Dean groaned at the mention of cake. They entered the shop and Dean was allowed to buy a snack and stuff it into his mouth before Helford claimed the shopkeeper as a witness. He established that Miss Carvell was a regular customer, then asked: "Are you familiar with the gentleman who lives over the road in that house?" The man raised an eyebrow and replied "You 'Press'?"

"Press? No, police." They showed their badges. "Ah," the man relented. "Had your lot in here earlier – uniform. Told them all I could – he ain't been in for his paper this mornin'. Usually pays me today - owes me a week now. Ain't seen him, not even watching them lorries. Always stood there outside his house, he is, morning or afternoon, watching all the comings and goings, like he was supervising it. Must be hard on 'im, having to leave it all before the big day."

"The big day?"

"When Council decided it would go ahead – worked hard for it, he had, as Parish Clerk. Still, he didn't look fed up, I must say – looked like he was enjoying it all, which was fair-minded of 'im. Not every man can do all the work and see another take the prize."

Helford was baffled by this view. "Would he have benefited, then, if he'd still been in office when the Council made the decision?"

"Course he would – public office like that, gotta get a backhander or two for a big 'un like that. Imagine all them contracts – never mind the glory of bein' the man in charge when it all gets opened. Won't be no Mayor of Frayminster cuts the ribbon on that, not likely – it'll be Parish Clerk, I reckon. We've always liked to keep it local, here on the Edge."

Helford blinked. Either this man knew of dark and dodgy deals associated with Egron's Development, or he had a jaded view of local government. But it was the last part that confused him most. "The Edge?" he enquired.

The man looked him up and down. "You bin here less than forty years, I reckon, or you'd know – we called it the Edge when we was nippers. Pebbleton, that's over there," he jerked his thumb towards Miss Carvell's side of Edge Lane, "But this side is The Edge. Old families, keepin' the land, and our families workin' for 'em – that's all there was, till now. Some said it was the river divided us, but it were more than that – _they_ were a different class, over there," the thumb jerked again, "and _we_ knew where _we_ was best off. Did alright, we did, out of Clandecys and Monkfords and Acres. Nothin' left now," he finished sadly, "most of 'em dead, land all sold."

"River?" Dean asked, fascinated. "I grew up here, and I never heard of a river."

"Gone underground, it has, don't recall seeing any of it over ground since I were a teenager. Ran along this side of Edge Lane, used to be like a little brook. Don't know how it happened, but it just drained to nothin', and now it's so far down they reckoned it was all right to build this side. This shop, built in 'seventies. Same all along, nearly. Mr Chewter's house, see it's set back a bit? That was older, had a lovely view once before they put these up. Had the brook running round the front. Imagine, looking at that and then looking right out over the cliff, and the sea. Best house here, it were, apart from the big ones, o' course."

Helford wanted to take some notes, before the shopkeeper's words were forgotten. He hurried Dean out of the shop. Dean began to chat about the information they'd heard, but Helford made him be quiet until they had got in the car and as much as could be remembered was written down.

"What's up, sir?" Dean could finally ask. "I don't know, I just feel he's said something important," Helford frowned.

"About Chewter's house?"

"Maybe.......or possibly about backhanders to the Council, though I'm sure he was talking out of the back of his head for the most part."

They drove in silence, heading back to the police station, both tired and their heads bursting with information and questions.

"Night, sir," said Dean, as they parted company. "Early tomorrow, Dean," his boss replied. "Here, then wherever life leads." Dean smiled at Helford's ritual farewell.

Chapter 9 – Where Life Leads

At eleven that night, the phone rang in an elegant penthouse apartment in a new Docklands development. A slim young man languidly reached a manicured hand over the back of the cream leather sofa and picked up the handset.

"A body's been found in the Council offices at Pebbleton." The voice was controlled, but it continued with menace: "Well?"

The young man sat up, gulping air. "You – you said you didn't want to know anything...."

"I still don't," the voice growled. "I just want to know that I don't have to be concerned."

"I – I didn't want to know anything either, I'll have to make a call before I can tell you anything."

"Make the call. Don't phone here \- I'll call you in an hour. _Have answers_." The call was cut, and the dialling tone began.

The young man sat holding the phone for a minute, staring at it. Then he punched in numbers and waited.

The phone rang in a respectable semi in a suburb of South London. A middle-aged man looked at the number displayed, and picked up the receiver. "Yeah?"

"Don't talk - just listen. A body's been found in the Council offices at Pebbleton. My client wants to be assured that it's nothing to do with his personal problem. Find out and call me back immediately." The line disconnected.

The middle-aged man frowned, then went in search of his mobile. He found a number and pressed 'Call'. It was answered after several rings, and over a cacophony of noise a voice shouted "Wassup?!"

"Go somewhere quiet and call me back – now!" he bellowed. He rang off and glared at the mobile as it should take the blame.

When it rang he stabbed his finger at the button and yelled "Listen, you little moron. You gave me your word that the Pebbleton job was done up tidy. _Tell me why they've found a body!"_

There was a long silence at the other end. Clearly the 'little moron' was considering his options, and finally decided that anything but honesty would leave him bereft of various vital parts of his anatomy.

"We done the job, guv, it woz a clean hit, no sweat! We just had a bit of a problem wiv the removal. Dezzer's van had an oil leak, so we couldn't go far last night. We got it fixed this mornin' and we woz gerna go back to get 'im ternight – like you said, we woz gonna dump 'im out Clapham way. We already done his face."

The middle-aged man gripped the mobile as if he'd like to choke the caller at the other end. He snarled _"Where did you leave him?"_

"We had a quick fink, and Dezzer found 'is keys, like you said, and you gave us the alarm code. We knew we could get back in, see – we woz right there, guv, so we reckoned it were easiest. Let ourselves out, no problem, everyfink left tidy. He woz outta sight, in the tunnel, stuck 'im against that block wall we done last time. We even put a bit o' tape round the door, so when we pulled it closed it stuck real tight, then we locked it. Way we reckoned it, even if somebody tries openin' it, they gonna fink it's jammed. Nobody's gonna find 'im, so we can come back, take 'im away soon as we got that oil pipe fixed. Dezzer sez we can't drive it like that, he's worried 'is engine might blow up."

"Brilliant. You and your genius friend Dezzer have just got yourselves a life sentence. I hope you bothered wearing gloves? I don't think I really care, you deserve whatever happens to you - for your own stupidity. If you take my advice, you'll grab what cash you haven't already spent, and leave the country. Goodbye." He stabbed a chubby finger at the 'End Call' button, and swore mightily as he threw the mobile on the floor and went to the landline to call the penthouse.

The young man in the penthouse was pacing the floor, biting his manicured nails. When the phone rang he grabbed it and barked "Yes?"

The news made the back of his neck go cold. He sat down on the leather sofa and gasped for breath. This was supposed to be easy money, far remote from him and easily forgotten. "How – how could they – this is your fault - what kind of goons did you get? What am I going to tell Mr – my client?" He babbled on in the same vein for a while, as the older man listened wearily. _He_ was thinking that he was surrounded by goons, and the biggest was the one talking to him who had hoped to make a lot of money without getting his hands dirty.

Finally, the young man ran out of expletives, and the call ended. Within the promised hour, the penthouse phone rang again with the call he'd been dreading. He stumbled through an explanation, making sure that his client was in no doubt where the blame lay. He thought he was doing well until the client coldly told him to shut up. There was a long pause, then the client made him repeat the part about how the body had been placed. "What block wall? What happened last time?"

The morning came all too soon, as Keith Helford had tossed and turned for most of the seven hours he'd lain in bed. When he finally dropped off he dreamed of faceless bodies drifting down rivers which poured down wooden stairs and disappeared behind breeze blocks.

He got a burst of energy from a coffee and brought a cup up to his wife. She opened a sleepy eye in acknowledgement, and he knew she'd make a token effort to drink it, even though she wanted to stay asleep. It was nearly the end of the school holidays, and she had just a few precious days left to lie in. Soon enough every day would be an early start.

He crept into the bathroom and made a face at himself in the mirror – youth was now a fading memory. As he shaved he tried to make a mental list of priorities, but it was hopeless. His method relied on paper, lists and questions, crossing off possibilities until he had a clear line of enquiry. This investigation had so many questions and no obvious lines to follow. Worst of all, he had a feeling that they were not through with the bad news. That breeze block wall was on his mind.

He drove into his parking space just as Jeff Dean ran up the police station steps and vanished inside. 'Keen Dean', the other officers called him, but Helford was glad he had an enthusiastic youngster at his side, especially now he had a tangle involving local officialdom to unravel. Crime in the world of habitual criminals was relatively easy to solve, as informants usually came up with names after a suitable interval and some strategic prodding. Not that it was any easier proving the guilt of the named party, but at least you had a fair idea who you were after. In this case a local figure had been murdered, a man with a relatively uneventful past record, and no known links to crime. The media would get hold of it, and results would be expected.

It annoyed him sometimes, as he'd worked on a case where a sleazy drug-dealer had been dispatched by rivals in the area, and after a brief paragraph in the local paper and a one-day sensation on local radio, nobody cared to find out if the perpetrators had been caught. He'd not only caught the appalling gang involved, but he'd helped Vice to tighten the net on a drug ring operating around Frayminster, preying on foolish youngsters. He felt strongly about drugs, having two teenagers in local schools, and he was exhilarated at the time. Because of the ongoing drug operation, his arrests were kept quiet. Of course it looked good on his record, but the success had been quick, fairly straightforward, and private. This promised to be slow, public, and for all he knew, impossible to solve.

These negative thoughts didn't help concentration, so he tried to clear his mind. At his desk, he made a list – 'Identification, Finances, Income, Relatives, Friends, Enemies, Love life' – he paused, then wrote 'Political Affiliations'. It was a long shot, but the Council was composed of members of the various parties, and Chewter had moved among them. If, indeed, it was Chewter. Politics? It was unlikely at this local level that radical views would lead to murder, surely? Oh well, leave it on the list. He had to cover all angles.

Dean knocked on his door, and entered quickly. He had the pathologist's report, and handed it over. It had been done in double-quick time, after a long night's work. Helford took a quick look and stopped at the interesting paragraph on 'Cause of Death'. There had been a small gunshot entry wound in the back, and the bullet had pierced the heart, exiting in a mass of gore at the front. Helford had already suspected that the bloodied mess in the middle of the chest was an exit wound. The pathologist had left a scribbled pencil note to Helford, which read 'Looks like a professional hit.' Placing the note aside, he read on in the report. The way the blood had collected showed that the victim had been laying face down for a short time after death. Obviously he'd later been moved and propped up in a sitting position in the tunnel, but his face had been smashed with a wide, flat instrument soon after death. Some blood had run slowly from this area, covering what remained of his face and congealing quickly.

Helford had supposed immediately after seeing the body that the face had been smashed to delay identification, but that made no sense if the body was Chewter. If he'd turned up in London, it would have taken a long time to get dental records checked countrywide to find a match. On the other hand, if Chewter would be quickly recognised by locals who knew his clothing, why smash the face?

"Got anywhere with dental records?" he asked Dean. The teeth had not been wrecked so badly that they could not be at least partially matched.

"Beavon's ringing round the local dentists now sir, leaving messages. They open soon, so if it's Chewter we should get somewhere quickly. And I've asked for the warrants for Chewter's house and the Council offices."

"Good man. We'd better get over to Southcliff Hall now, the delightful Miss Carvell is probably shredding files now in case we find out the Council spent too much on fairy lights last Christmas."

"She wouldn't dare, would she? Destroying evidence?"

"Ruthless type, Dean. Wouldn't put it past her. She didn't mind shredding her colleague's reputation."

"That was good old-fashioned jealousy. Don't worry sir, we'll be able to grab everything and lock it up once the warrant arrives. I've told them to send it up to Southcliff Hall. Oh, one thing Beavon found - last year, there was a call-out to Southcliff Hall at two-thirty on a Sunday morning, after a couple of left-over Saturday-night lovers heard noises coming from the back of the building – or possibly underneath it. Uniform tried to knock up Mr Chewter out of bed, but they couldn't get any answer. They eventually got Fiona Carvell up, and she opened the building up – but it was all quiet by then. Nothing was found wrong, uniform checked again the next morning."

"Interesting," Helford mused. "I wonder where Chewter was?" After a quick visit to Records to collect the file on Steve Coulthard's disappearance, they left. Ten minutes later they walked towards the porch of the Council building. A constable stood on guard, and a group of people were hanging around outside. A familiar face hurried towards them. Bill Perry was the chief reporter for the Frayminster Guardian, and his relationship with the police was one of mutual dependency. He often found out things and passed them on, but in return he expected to be told at once of any local crime.

"Bill," Helford greeted him. "I have nothing to tell you yet, so if you have something to tell me, please tell me now and quickly. We have loads to do."

"Not me, lads. I heard the local news last night and got myself over here, but your boys won't spill the beans."

"Quite right." Helford had heard from his wife that the finding of a body had been reported on Clifftop FM, and he'd wondered if young Ben Wickens had been the source of the leak. At least no name of the victim had been mentioned.

They carried on as Bill Perry chased after them, still begging for a morsel. A reporter from Clifftop FM was waiting at the police tape, looking equally hopeful. They pressed on and passed under the tape as the constable held it up for them.

As they entered Reception Miss Carvell met them, striding forward to lead them up the stairs. "Thank you, Miss Carvell, we were here last night, we know the way," Helford said firmly. She took a step back, looking offended. A group of employees were standing talking as they arrived, and now an awed hush fell. Helford took charge. He introduced himself and Dean, and asked them to go about their normal routines, but to refrain from discussing the events taking place with anyone, especially the press.

"I will be interviewing each of you in due course, so please make sure you tell me anything you have noticed out of the ordinary, no matter how irrelevant it may seem to you. It would also be in your own best interests to tell no-one else what you know, only the police. We do not as yet have a positive identification of the victim. That is all for now."

He turned and started for the stairs, but Dean was not paying attention. He was gazing at a stunning fair-haired girl who was perched on the edge of the Reception desk. She hopped off and gracefully slid into the swivel chair behind the desk, then her pretty head disappeared as she bent to turn on switches underneath.

"Dean – please take a list of names of staff here now, and those expected today." Dean jumped, and nodded at his boss with a soppy smile on his face. "Will do, sir," he replied happily.

"Any messages, constable?" Helford enquired of the young officer standing guard at the door leading to the basement. "They want to see you down in the basement as soon as you get here, sir."

There was no putting it off any longer. He would have to go down and find out what lay beyond the breeze-block wall.

James Goswell had been down in Reception, and now he wandered back upstairs, uncertain whether to make himself too comfortable in the accounts office. It wouldn't be long before Fiona started giving him things to do, and he wanted a few minutes peace first. He sat down and aimlessly picked up a report from his temporary desk, and stared at it without seeing a word. The previous evening he'd paced the floor in his flat, unable to settle or concentrate. He'd gone to bed at midnight, tossed and turned until four in the morning, then fell into a restless slumber for a couple of hours, before waking again. The rest of the night he spent imagining all sorts of outcomes to the situation unfolding.

One recurring thought in the wretched dark hours had rather surprised him. He kept coming back to the puzzle of Paula's behaviour. The previous morning she'd appeared at the door of his office, looking tense, and obviously wanting to speak to him. Just as he'd opened his mouth to invite her inside, Fiona's voice had interrupted, asking what she wanted. Obviously from her office she could see Paula waiting in the corridor. He was in the middle of a frighteningly large Agenda that had to be approved and sent out, but he would have liked to speak to Paula. She'd been uptight with him ever since the big Development meeting, and it saddened him.

Fiona had made it very clear to Paula that he shouldn't be disturbed, and persisted in offering to help. Paula had said it was nothing important, and scuttled away. Now he'd have to wait ages for another opportunity to get a private word with her. What had he done? Why had their easy friendship gone wrong?

The finding of a body in the building where he worked seemed unreal, bizarre, but it was a problem that worried him more than any of his colleagues would suspect. It seemed a remote possibility that any connection could be made to himself, but even the investigation of the crime threatened to dig up things he'd rather keep hidden. He knew the processes involved only too well. It harked back to a period of his life he wanted to forget.

Hour after hour had passed in the night, filled with images he could not erase, and despondent thoughts he wished he could switch off. He had made such progress in Pebbleton, had felt he was becoming a normal member of society – why, oh why, did this ghastly thing have to happen? That horrible sight in the basement, vile death and destruction, the evidence of someone's unfeeling contempt for human life – how could he bear to be involved again with such traumas?

Pebbleton - this little haven of normality, this village where nothing worse happened than a brick thrown at a speed camera – now it was ruined. He would have to move again, start all over. How long would it take before he could forget this? It was so unfair. He'd begun to make friends here, feel like one of a team, maybe even dare to feel for someone.....Paula. He did care for her, he realised. But it was too late, she had turned against him for some unknown reason. She was lost, his fragile peace of mind was lost, it was all shattered.....on and on his thoughts had run, his mind wired and past all hope of sleep.

Now, with a stack of work in front of him and no hope of the concentration to tackle it, he decided to make a call. He softly got up and closed the door, hoping this would keep Kim from coming into her own office. Dialling the familiar numbers after the '9', it all seemed so odd – two worlds colliding. A secretary answered, and he identified himself as 'Simon'. She could only tell him that the man with the quiet voice was still on holiday. He left a message for an urgent call back as soon as his paternally-minded quarry could be located. Nothing more could be done, so he rang off. Leaning forward, his elbows on the desk, he ran his fingers through his hair and gripped handfuls of it tightly, until it hurt. He'd been doing that since childhood, whenever the stress got to him. He wanted to scream and cry, but hearing footsteps approaching the door, he let go of his hair, sat up straight, and resumed the mask.

Chapter 10 – Difficult People

Dean wasted no time in ingratiating himself with the lovely creature behind the Reception desk. He let her know that her help would be invaluable to him, and that she must feel free to lean on him in any emergency. She looked at him from under her eyelashes and smiled beautifully. His heart melted, and he almost forgot his regular device for maintaining contact with favourite female informants. He was writing her name slowly and lovingly in his notebook, his lips forming the musical sounds "Im – O – gen", and almost moved on to the next candidate in a happy dream.

Just in time he remembered, and whipped out a tube of mints from his pocket. He offered her one discreetly, and laid them down on the desk as he murmured his usual line: "Please let me know immediately if you notice anything unusual, or remember anything that may be relevant – however insignificant it may seem." The official-sounding words had their effect – Imogen looked wide-eyed and earnest as she whispered "Oh, yes, I certainly will," and popped the mint into her mouth.

"Now you're one of my mint spies," he grinned. Imogen stopped sucking on the mint and looked at him without comprehension. 'Not on my wavelength, but so gorgeous,' thought Dean.

The enamoured sergeant moved around the building, taking names and making the same request, omitting the peppermint inducement. When he had a complete list of those present and the details of when the rest were expected in, he returned to the Reception area. He badly wanted to know what was happening in the basement, but first he paid another visit to Imogen.

"Did I leave my mints here?" he enquired innocently. "Oooh, yes," she replied, handing them over. Before he could try a line of questioning that established her availability, a commotion erupted at the main entrance. He scraped himself away from leaning on her desk and marched over to where a young constable was trying to prevent a vicar from entering the building. The cleric was loudly proclaiming his identity, and demanding that he be allowed in to see Mr Goswell.

"Can I help, sir? We have no intention of preventing the Council from going about its usual business, but we do have a situation here that may cause some disruption."

"I need to speak to the Parish Clerk, on a matter of some importance – it may even have a bearing on your investigation here. I cannot tell until I have spoken to Mr Goswell," the vicar announced.

"Let him through, Constable," Dean said in a relaxed manner. "Please come this way, sir, and I will take some details. Mr Goswell is not in his office at present, but it may be possible to relay a message to him." He extracted his notebook, taking his time, in order to let the other man know who was in control of the encounter.

"Really, I must protest, I cannot disclose the information to anyone but the Parish Clerk at present," the vicar grumbled. It got him nowhere, and he was forced to stand in front of the Reception desk while Imogen phoned around to find James Goswell. Fiona had seen him in the Clandecy Room, and welcomed the excuse to fetch him. When James appeared in reception Dean immediately arranged that all three of them should go back to the Clandecy Room to hear what the vicar had to say. All the protests the reverend gentleman made fell on deaf ears.

Once in the Clandecy Room, Sergeant Dean asked the Parish Clerk to close the big oak doors. "We are dealing with a murder, gentlemen, and all information which is material to our investigation must be disclosed immediately. Now, vicar, please tell Mr Goswell what you came to say."

Reverend Brentwood-Green looked most unhappy, and began falteringly: "I didn't realise you'd had a murder here, I'm sorry to interrupt – you must be very busy...." James looked at him, then at the sergeant, and replied, "Please don't think you're interrupting me – the police are doing everything, of course. I'm just trying to keep out of the way."

Dean was getting impatient, so he interrupted: "If you could just explain what it is you had to tell the Clerk...."

The clergyman wrung his hands, looking apologetically at the portraits hung around the room. "Well," he began again, "it has to do with.....Councillor Clandecy."

Dean wrote feverishly in his notebook. The vicar continued, "I was told yesterday, by his mother, that the family land has been sold to Egron, and it occurred to me that there might have been a conflict of interest.....I mean, as he would have been involved in the debates before the Development was agreed...." His voice tailed off, and he realised how much he sounded like a sneaky child telling tales - 'Sir, Sir, horrid little Piers, the rich kid, has been naughty, sir'.

Dean, however, was still writing in his notebook. Someone was going to take this seriously anyway. The Parish Clerk stared at the vicar and tried to get his brain in gear. Today was going from bad to worse. Finally he gathered his wits and responded in what he hoped was a suitably official tone: "I see. Well, of course, this will have to be looked into. You can leave it with me, vicar, and I will investigate the circumstances fully." He waited, hoping that Brentwood-Green would take the hint and leave.

"What is the penalty for abusing the position of Councillor?" the vicar asked.

'Honestly,' thought James, 'he sounds positively vindictive!'

Out loud he responded: "If such a thing were to be found true, the Councillor would lose his position, and there could possibly be charges brought against him - depending on the severity of the offense – but of course we do not yet know sufficient detail about this particular instance."

The vicar looked slightly offended, but turned and began to open the door. "Just a moment, please, sir," Dean said firmly. The vicar turned and waited. "Downstairs you implied that your information might have a bearing on the case – could you explain, please?"

Now the vicar really squirmed. It was stretching the imagination to connect the fortunate timing of a land sale with a murder. He had even deliberately implied that the land belonged to both the mother and the son. Now Dean was on to him, just because he'd been stupid enough to throw his weight about in Reception. He decided to retreat. "I merely thought that the Council might decide it had a bearing – it was not for me to judge. Otherwise I would naturally have gone to the Police in the first instance," he said virtuously.

Dean let him go, and waited until he was out of sight before asking the Clerk, "Is that correct, what you told him? Criminal charges could be brought?"

James was relieved that this was one area he knew, and didn't have to ask Fiona for help. He had mugged up on the law surrounding Parish Council procedures when he applied for the job, knowing he would have to impress the interviewers. He explained to Dean that it was definitely against the rules not to declare an interest if something was being discussed in which a Councillor had a personal or financial interest. Councillor Mrs Cooper took it to ridiculous lengths, and had once declared an interest in a proposed extension to a pet shop on the grounds that she loved dogs.

When Dean and James Goswell emerged from the Clandecy Room, D.I. Helford was coming up the stairs. Dean was eager to tell him the new information, but one look at his boss's face told him to save it for later. They went into the Clerk's office and shut the door behind themselves. Helford sat down on the Clerk's leather swivel chair and leaned back with his eyes closed. After a moment or two, he opened his eyes and looked at Dean with a strained expression. He seemed to have aged since the beginning of the day.

"Get your head round this, if you can, Dean." Jeff Dean leaned forward, his eyes intent on Helford's face. "There are two more bodies down there."

Dean's jaw dropped. "Two more.....what, you mean behind that block wall?"

"Exactly. I had a feeling it was hiding something....nasty. Forensics say they've been there a while – months, at least. Badly decomposed, no identifying marks on clothing or personal effects. Male, adult – that's it for now. It took them most of the night to remove the wall without disturbing either side. Good lads......good lads......an awful job....." He sounded so weary, and genuinely appalled that such horrors had been found on his patch.

Helford remained lost in thought for a while, then suddenly asked, "What was that dog collar doing in here? Who let him in?"

Dean explained the information the vicar had brought, and Helford seemed glad of the distraction. "Hmmm, Clandecy – where have I heard that recently?" he mused.

"There's a room in here called the Clandecy room, because they were the family who owned this place before it was the Council offices," Dean answered. Having grown up in Pebbleton, he was familiar with the village talk his mother had passed down.

"Yes, I know that, but Clandecy was mentioned by someone else in connection with......no, it's no good, I'll have to wait until it comes back to me. Anyway, we'd better interview all the staff now. Got the list?"

Dean handed it over, and his boss ticked off those they had talked to the previous evening. They would have to be seen again in due course, but he wanted fresh faces, fresh points of view. "Let's have your latest flame, shall we?" Dean grinned and went off to fetch Imogen. This took some time as she had to be replaced on Reception, and there was a staff shortage due to holidays. Finally Fiona stalked down to the desk, grumbling about the amount of work she had to put on hold.

Imogen had little to say about Gerald Chewter. She did confirm that she had been warned by some other female staff about 'Perilous Gerald', but she had not had a problem with him 'as her boyfriend was a judo expert who picked her up some nights after work wearing his kit.' She giggled shyly, but Dean's face fell at this disclosure. Helford ignored him and pressed on briskly. "Do you know of any staff who had a particular problem with him?"

"Is he the body?" Imogen asked, ignoring the question.

"We are awaiting confirmation, Miss Stanley, but certainly we are concerned that Mr Chewter seems to have disappeared."

"Seems like everyone's disappearing," said Imogen unexpectedly.

Helford waited, but Imogen did not enlarge on this, and he assumed she meant the accounts manager's husband. He did not want to prompt her about Kim, however, as it was her name he was expecting in relation to Chewter's unwanted attentions.

Imogen said that as far as she knew, any problems with Mr Chewter had been minor and had been resolved quite easily. Helford decided to change the subject. "Have you noticed any unusual situations recently?" he asked. She replied that everything was normal. Finally he asked her to describe her new boss, James Goswell. She warmed to this subject, and spoke of his patience and good humour in the face of adversity. On further enquiry it was established that his trials consisted mainly of 'putting up with Fiona Carvell'. He then let her go, and consulted his list.

"The Tourism lady next I think, Dean," he requested. Dean was slumped in a posture of abject misery, so Helford said briskly, "Oh, come on, man – surely you didn't think a glorious vision like that was going to be single! Now get on with it or we'll be all day. And ask whoever's on the door if any reports have been delivered."

Dean set off down to the entrance, and spoke to the constable on the door. He promised to send up anything that came in immediately. Dean crossed the car park to the Tourism office and opened the door. At first he thought the place was deserted, but hearing voices he peered over the counter. A female rear met his gaze first, clothed in green cotton shorts. Its owner was lecturing a junior colleague, also on hands and knees, on the merits of capital letters on banners. They were painting a banner on which the words 'EXTREME SPORTS WEEKEND' were outlined. He coughed.

The lecturer turned her head and gave him a stern look. Realising that he was probably on official business she scrambled to her feet and barked impatiently "Can I help you?"

Dean wondered how she treated tourists, but as he was not dressed in holiday gear he supposed that he would have been given more courtesy wearing a knotted hankie on his head and looking lost. "Eve Thornton?" he enquired, showing her his warrant card.

"Yes – oh, blast, the police. Look, I've got to get this finished by lunchtime for the boys to put up – what is it you want to know?"

"Detective Inspector Helford would like to speak to you in the main building, just routine, but it is important. Perhaps your colleague could take over for a while."

Eve looked as if she didn't trust poor Melissa anywhere near the banner, but begrudgingly agreed. "As long as it's quick," she demanded, and without waiting for Dean, she flung up the hinged section of the counter, shot out of the door and was halfway across the car park before he could follow.

The constable on duty detained Eve long enough for Dean to catch up, and he waved a large envelope at him as he approached. "Just arrived, sir," he announced triumphantly. Dean took Eve upstairs and asked her to wait in the Clandecy Room. He went straight in to the Clerk's office, where Helford was writing a list.

The envelope contained a report confirming that the dental records of Gerald Chewter matched the body found in front of the breeze block wall. There was also a signed warrant to search any area of the Council offices, and another to search Chewter's house. After a few phone calls to get extra men onto these areas, Helford sat back with a sigh. "We need to look at the bank records, just in case there were any backhanders going on. That's the trouble with officials, corruption is the first possibility you look at. Perhaps Chewter was taking bribes to get the Development moving ahead. A lot of people are making a lot of money here lately, I'm not saying illegally, but there's always someone out to make an easy buck......"

"Shall I fetch the Tourism lady, sir, or do you want to start on the Council files now?" Dean asked.

"The Tourism lady, I think. We've made her wait long enough. But any chance you could rustle up a cuppa too?"

Dean went off to see what he could do, and ran into Fiona Carvell. She made such a fuss about being asked to make tea for policemen that James Goswell heard and came out of the accounts office. "I'll do it, Fiona," he said cheerfully. Dean gratefully left him to it and found Eve Thornton stewing in the Clandecy Room.

"Sorry for the delay, the Inspector will see you now," he told her. "Don't be alarmed, it's just routine questions."

"I'm not worried about that, I'm more worried about the banner. Don't know why they couldn't give me the funding to have it printed properly – it's going to look dreadful. And then those idiots from Amenities will probably hang it all wrong like they did last year. Absolute gibbons, the lot of them!" Her auburn curls bounced in annoyance as she marched along beside Dean.

They entered the Clerk's office and she settled herself in a chair, folded her arms and put her head forward. She reminded Dean of a tiger ready to pounce.

Helford asked her about her knowledge of Chewter, her personal dealings with him, and any unpleasantness she knew of between him and the staff. She was frank, announcing: "Ghastly little man. Best day of my life when he went. Had a devil of a job getting anything past him – couldn't bear to spend money on anything; wouldn't back me when Health and Safety tried to stop the Extreme Sports last year – had to deal with everything myself. Only just got an assistant now – took me a year to get that agreed." She spoke rapidly in staccato sentences, and Dean struggled to keeping up with his notes.

Helford probed a bit further on the personal and financial aspects, but it seemed that Eve's job meant more to her than any personal relationships. As long as she could do the things she wanted in Tourism, she was happy. Chewter had been a thorn in her flesh, but no more than that. She had heard the morning's rumours like everyone else, and didn't seem to care if the body had been positively identified. Helford was beginning to get the impression that everyone would be glad it was Chewter and not someone they liked. They had yet to suffer the shock of the two extra bodies.

Eve was dismissed, and raced out of the room. The policemen finished their tea and headed for the accounts office. Kim was ready for them, and had spent the morning getting out all the files she thought they would need. It was great, thought Helford, to have the co-operation of a sensible woman. He felt a pang of pity for her, robbed as she was of the normal pleasure of marriage and children by her bizarre situation. His own marriage had been a peaceful bonding of two placid people, and he wished such gentle happiness on the rest of the world.

He looked through the pile she had stacked on a side table, and noticed there were no employee records. "Fiona – Miss Carvell – has those in her office, in the safe," she told him.

James was in the room, sitting at the spare desk. "You need the staff records?" he asked in a curious tone. "I'd have thought this would be about money, if anything. Surely you don't need to waste time wading through that boring lot?"

"I think we'd better see everything, if you please, Mr Goswell." Helford was interested in the man's reaction. He seemed to have thought about the possible reasons for Chewter's death, for one thing. He also didn't seem keen on the personnel files being examined. In that case his would be the first one checked.

They carried the files through to the Clerk's office, and then went to tackle Fiona. She reacted as expected, horrified that confidential files were to be examined by complete strangers. The fact that the strangers were police investigating a murder did not impress her. Helford suddenly remembered that she had first supposed the death to be a suicide.

He closed the door of her office and quietly asked her who she thought might have committed the murder. She stared at him, then at Dean, and exploded: "Nobody! At least, nobody connected with the Council! The idea is ridiculous. You won't find anything in those files to help you – you're wasting your time. Every one of our staff has been interviewed by an experienced panel, and references are taken up most carefully. We are _scrupulous_!" She drew herself up to her full height, as if to intimidate the officer by looking down on him from an extra inch and a half.

The personnel files were duly removed under her eagle eye, after she counted them and made Helford sign a receipt. He was only taking them to the next room, but he thought it best to humour her. He passed half the files to Dean and they got to work.

The file on James Goswell was one of the thinnest, probably because he was quite new. His references were from a major steel company, where he had been a 'senior executive', and a government department, where he had held a managerial position. It was all bland, and the references were formulaic in their wording. Some questions were asked by the Council, such as 'suitability for the position described', and again the answers were positive but impersonal. Helford looked at the CV, and jotted down some other jobs earlier in the career path. He closed the file and tried Fiona's. He found nothing of interest in any files, and asked Dean: "Have you got Gerald Chewter's file there?"

Dean checked the two files he had not yet looked at, and said, "No." Helford got up, irritated at himself for not checking at the start. He went back to Fiona's office. "I don't see Mr Chewter's file," he said briskly.

She looked up impatiently from her work. "You didn't say you wanted ex-employees – they're filed in the archives downstairs." She sounded faintly smug, knowing that the basement was out of bounds to the staff today.

"Which room?" Helford asked, annoyed.

"The one on the left at the bottom of the stairs."

"Do you have the key?"

She pulled open a drawer, and took out a large bunch of keys. The action reminded Helford that he had to find out more about keyholders, especially the puzzle of James Goswell's missing basement keys.

Fiona was trying to take just one key off the fob, but the Inspector asked her for the whole bunch. She gave him a furious look, and protested that she would need them back immediately, though she gave no reason. Helford told her that he needed a complete set to compare all the other sets, and asked her to identify each key in turn. With a very bad grace she got out a sheet of sticky labels and wrote one for each key, then attached them awkwardly to the keys. She was an efficient woman, but so prickly that the Inspector was beginning to wonder why it wasn't her body in the basement. He told her that later today he would appreciate a complete set of keys for the use of the police until the investigation was finished. She begrudgingly said that she would get a set copied, as long as the police paid. "More paperwork," she muttered.

Armed with the keys he set off for downstairs again, and exchanged a few words with the officers working in the tunnel area. He admired the scene-of-crime boys, as they had a grisly job in many cases. The responsibility was huge, knowing that a case could be won or lost on the integrity of the evidence they found and preserved. He left them working on the final clearing of the site where the last two bodies had been found. Every scrap they found there in the dark tunnel could be vital.

In the other archive room, metal filing cabinets jostled for space with old wooden cupboards and cardboard boxes. There were no dark corners, and he easily found the cabinet marked 'Personnel'. He found the correct label on one of Fiona's keys, opened the cabinet, and searched in vain for Chewter's name among the tatty old folders. He checked all the others, and was bemused – they all dated back at least a decade, except for one – the deceased Parish Clerk before Chewter. Surely someone had left their job in the last ten years? He took the dead Clerk's file, and locked the cabinet and the room.

Upstairs he got out the sandwiches his wife had left in the fridge for him the night before. He always got hungry too early, and often bought a second lunch by one o'clock. Opening the file, he quickly scanned the basic information and looked at the pages detailing the man's previous jobs and qualifications. 'Interesting,' he mused. He closed the file and went to the accounts room.

"Mrs Coulthard," he began, with one eye on James in the corner.

She smiled and waited. James asked, "Do you want me to leave the room, Inspector?"

"Er, yes please, I need a word in private." James removed himself and closed the door after him.

"Miss Carvell said I would find the file on Mr Chewter in one of the archive rooms downstairs. You _did_ tell me that Fiona Carvell had them in her room, isn't that right?"

She looked puzzled. "I don't understand – they _are_ all in her room, I'm sure of it. Even the ex-employees – I had to check one some weeks back, about someone's tax record. Maybe some really old ones might be downstairs, but – Mr Chewter left less than a year ago."

"I looked through the file of ex-employees, and found the Clerk _before_ Chewter, but not his file. Odd, don't you think?"

She looked confused. "That's ridiculous! It must be somewhere. I had to close the file myself – with the final salary details – and I _know_ I left it in order!"

"I need to find that file. Please let me know if you have any other ideas about where it could be," he requested. He left the accounts office and arranged to have the filing cabinet in the basement checked for fingerprints. Then he gave instructions for all the staff to have their fingerprints taken. "That should be interesting," he smiled to Dean.

Meanwhile back in the accounts office, Kim was taking advantage of the absence of James Goswell to do something that had been long overdue. She had access to his diary on her computer, and guessing that Paula still had not asked him about that phone call on the day of the Council meeting, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She clicked back to the correct day and saw that he had meetings all morning with various Councillors – last minute details for the big meeting that evening, no doubt. It was the afternoon, however, that mattered. Nothing was written in. She determined to ask Fiona.

Fiona was in her office, poring over paperwork. She looked up in irritation at the interruption. Kim, however, knew the best way to get round Fiona.

"I need your help, I'm afraid – you are the only person who would know the answer," she began. Fiona softened visibly. Kim continued: "You remember the day of the big Council meeting – the day the Development was voted in?"

"Yes, of course," the other woman replied.

"I just need to know if Mr Goswell worked on the Finance Committee agenda that day, or was that the day he was out all afternoon?"

The ploy worked. Fiona seemed unsuspicious, and scrabbled about in her desk drawer for her personal diary. She had a record of exactly what her boss had done – or should have done – that day. "He had meetings with Councillors all morning, then he was out at lunch time," she began. Kim knew just where he was lunchtime, so that was no surprise. "Then Councillor Denby came in, but James, er, Mr Goswell, was still not back in. I had to insist he check over the agenda for the Tourism meeting in the afternoon, but Councillor Massington came by at about two-thirty. He was in with him for a while, and then at about four he gave me the agenda. It was too late for the post run, I only just had time to get it copied to take to the post myself. I don't have any notes on what he did after four."

"Thank you, Fiona," said Kim graciously. "I expect it was then he started work on the Finance agenda. It's a big one."

Fiona was turning the page to check the next day's entries, so Kim fled before she could reel off any details, or wonder why Kim needed to know. Kim went back to her office, lost in thought. If James had been free before two-thirty, he could have made the call. Certainly not when Councillor Massington was there. Maybe after? By four, the school day would be over. She would have to ask Paula to pin down the time. Of course, if Sue had been here she would have thought of that before going in to Fiona's office. Sue had a very inquisitive mind when there was a mystery to be solved. The biggest mystery was how Sue had exercised enough self-control to leave Paula in peace this long! Heaven knows what would happen once Sue got back and heard the latest news. That active brain of hers would be doing overtime, and the police would find themselves pestered with questions.

Chapter 11 – Fingers and Thumbs

A call was put through to the Clerk's office for D.I. Helford. The team looking through Chewter's house had seen his bank records, and found that large sums of cash had been deposited at intervals since his departure from the Council. No source was obvious, so the officer in charge had contacted the bank to pursue further enquiries. A small diary had been found in a jacket in the wardrobe, and it showed that he was expecting to meet someone two nights ago at 11pm, though no location was written in. The entry looked like 'A.D' but it was scribbled and unclear. The following day a medical appointment was entered, so the officer had checked around the doctor's surgeries, found the right one, and was told that Mr Chewter had failed to turn up yesterday.

"Found any relatives or friends?" the Inspector asked.

"Not yet, sir, seems like a loner to me."

"We need to find out where he went two nights ago – perhaps he went out for a drink first, and met this 'A.D' after the pubs shut. See if you can find any trace of him in the locals."

"Right, sir, just as soon as we finish here."

"Check the paper shop over the road from him – any gossip the man there can give you. Don't forget to look for his laptop, and any storage devices. Oh, and bring me any sets of keys you find in the house."

"Paper shop, laptop, keys, OK, sir." The officer sounded bored.

Helford was wishing he could be there, as he liked to get a feel for the victim's living space. He especially liked to look at their books and music – it gave him an insight into the influences which had shaped the mind of the person. So far all he knew was that Chewter had a cat and bought regular newspapers.

Dean had finished looking through his pile of personnel records, and flipped the last folder shut. "Did you find only current employees?" Helford asked him. Dean had a quick think. "Yes, only people here," was the reply.

Helford's mouth set in an angry line. He got up again and went next door to Fiona's office. Without any preamble he demanded: "I want all the files on ex-employees."

She looked up defiantly. "They're down in the basement, as I told you."

"There was a female employee who left after a problem with Mr Chewter – where is her file?"

"Who do you mean?"

He paused. That was the other thing he'd meant to ask Kim Coulthard while James was out of the room, so as not to embarrass her. If Fiona was going to be infuriating it would be quicker to ask Kim. He made a rapid exit and found Kim in the kitchenette where she was making a coffee. Quietly he asked her for the name of the other employee. "Anya Dortmann," she replied. "I'd better write it down for you. Funny, that was the one whose tax details I needed – she called me because she's moving abroad."

Back in her office Helford watched her write the name down, and began to see a glimmer of hope. 'A.D', a motive, and a rapid exit abroad. Would she have had the means and the opportunity, this Anya Dortmann?

Returning to Fiona's office he insisted that she check in the safe to find Anya Dortmann's file, but she showed him the remaining contents of the safe and he could see for himself that no files were there. "When did you start keeping them down in the basement, Miss Carvell? Mrs Coulthard came in here recently to look up details of Anya Dortmann's tax records, and you had the file in here then."

Fiona looked very uncomfortable. "I moved them about a week ago," she admitted.

"Why?" he pressed her.

"There was too much in the safe – something had to go into the archives."

"You took it upon yourself to make that decision? Surely you should have consulted your colleagues, they might have needed the files."

Fiona winced. She knew she had been caught out, and the same question would be asked by the Clerk, and Kim Coulthard. She suffered an internal struggle, then her bony frame abruptly sat down in her chair and she picked up a pencil, jabbing it into her hand repeatedly. She started to say something, stopped, and started again.

"Well, the truth is" – jab, jab, \- "I had a phone call" – jab – "from, er," – jab – "Mr Chewter."

Helford became alarmed at the jabbing, and said kindly, "Please don't get upset, Miss Carvell, I only want to know how the files came to be moved and when. Please, continue what you were saying."

She put the pencil down with a skinny, trembling hand, and fixed her gaze on the papers in front of her. Quietly she resumed her story: "He said that he was embarrassed about what had happened before he left, and didn't want the new Clerk to see his file. He asked me to take his file – and Miss Dortmann's – and put them in the basement. He told me there was a set of old personnel records in one of the cabinets, and it would be a favour to him if I could put them in there. I didn't see any harm in it – after all, the files were still available if anyone wanted to see them. There were only a few ex-employee files anyway – we've had very little turnover of staff in recent years. People started, but almost no-one left. One died – the Clerk before Mr Chewter. I took all the ex-employee files away, so it didn't look odd just the two going."

"You took all the ex-employee files? How many would that have been?"

"Four – no, five."

"Were they all in beige folders like the ones we've been checking?"

"Manila," she corrected him. "Yes, they were – not like the ones downstairs, that was an older style of folder we used."

This was getting weirder by the minute. Someone had removed _all_ the files that Fiona claimed to have taken to the basement. After the fingerprint team had done their work there, he would have to have the whole room searched.

"Names of the ex-employees, please?"

Fiona took a deep breath, and reeled off the names. "Chewter, Dortmann, DaSilva, Lawless, Newey."

"Can you just briefly tell me why each of them left?"

"You already know all about Mr Chewter, I suppose?" Helford nodded. "Anya Dortmann left because of a...problem...but also she was taking a course in child welfare, and I understand she wanted to become a nanny or something. I believe she is taking up a position soon, working for a family in Portugal. Jennifer DaSilva left to have a baby and didn't come back after maternity leave – she was the receptionist here before Imogen Stanley. Carl Lawless left because he wanted to join the army. He was in the Amenities team. Mr Newey was the Parish Clerk before Mr Chewter. He died of a brain haemorrhage at home, poor man – he was only fifty-nine."

"Yes, that must have been dreadful. I suppose his replacement had to be found quickly?" Helford was determined to get all he could out of Fiona while she was in a chastened mood.

"Yes, it was all rather rushed, looking back. The Council at least had a bit of notice when Mr Chewter resigned – er, left – I mean..."

Helford decided to let her off lightly. "On another subject – can you think of any reason for the other files being removed? Any controversial details in any of those people's files?"

Fiona hesitated. "We-ell.....you know, I suppose why Mr Chewter wanted Anya Dortmann's file put away....?"

The inspector nodded. Fiona seemed relieved to be absolved from the responsibility of telling tales. She frowned for a moment or two with her head down, then shrugged. "I can't think of any other file with any unusual entries – everyone else left for very straightforward reasons, and there were no remarkable circumstances."

"Did Mr Chewter ask you to remove Kim Coulthard's file? After all, she was also the – er – subject of his attentions."

"As a matter of fact he did ask if I could remove any pages from her file dealing with him, but I refused. I said it would be most improper."

"Please wait here a minute," he asked her. Back in the Clerk's office he found Kim's file in the pile Dean had looked through. He took it and laid it in front of Fiona. "Could you show me which pages that would have been?" he asked.

She leafed through the file, and on reaching the end, flipped it over and looked through again. A frown creased her brow. "That's funny – I must have missed it." She went slowly through the file a third time, closing it slowly at the end. "It's gone – it's all missing," she whispered.

"I think we will need to have your fingerprints eliminated, Miss Carvell, and then we may be able to work out who removed the files from downstairs and the pages from this file."

Fiona looked up at him. "Well, isn't it obvious?" she replied caustically. "Mr Chewter did it himself. He must have kept keys, and let himself in."

Helford leaned forward, looking at her in a new light. She had a logical mind, which drew sensible conclusions from evidence, even if she lacked imagination. "How easy would it have been for him to get in, without being seen?" he enquired.

She considered this, and snorted suddenly, making Helford jump. "I told them!" she exploded. "I kept saying that the CCTV should cover the back entrance as well, but they said it was never used except for deliveries during working hours. You can't see it from the road – the vans reverse round the back of that hedge, and they're out of sight. Of course when there's a delivery, someone opens the back door and sees the stuff in, then locks up again, so it doesn't matter. But I always thought it was a security risk."

Helford looked at the keys she had given him, and found the one labelled 'Back Door'. It was a large Chubb, so the back was fitted with a deadlock. This had to be the way that any criminals had got in and out of the building. "Is the back door wired into the alarm system?" he asked.

"Yes, of course."

"And how often do you change the code?"

"Not often enough, in my opinion. The cleaners complain that they can't remember if we change it, so it hasn't been changed for – oh, two or three years, I suppose."

"Thank you, Miss Carvell, you've been most helpful. My sergeant will be round later to take your fingerprints – yes, I'm sorry, it is an unpleasant necessity – and I'd appreciate the set of keys as soon as you can get it done." He smiled at her, but the tight-lipped look had returned to her face.

Dean had been busy directing a pair of officers who had been sent from the station to join the investigation. They were now touring the building arranging to take prints, and had sealed off the other archive room in preparation for a dusting for fingerprints. Helford brought Dean up to speed on the back entrance, and they set off downstairs for a look at the area.

Sure enough, there was an entrance that was quite invisible from the road. A high box hedge, clipped in ornamental style, obscured a slip road that ran behind it, leading to the back entrance.

"Let's walk right round this place, Dean, and see what a burglar would see," Helford suggested. They took a tour, and noticed that even from the small field behind the building, a line of trees and hedgerows in between made it impossible to see a van parked in the little road round the back. As if to prove the point, a Transit van marked with the livery of a well-known office supplies company emerged from the end of the hedge. They had missed seeing it arrive.

In Reception the Inspector asked Imogen about the delivery that had just come in. "That's right," she smiled. "Louie, with the A4 paper. He does two rings on his mobile, and I get someone to open up the back for him. It's much quicker than him stopping in front and lugging it through the porch – he can just open the back of his van and chuck it out in the rear corridor."

Imogen was having quite a day herself. The Pebbleton History Club had a meeting in the Clandecy Room, and she had to explain over and over again why the building was crawling with policemen. The History Club (membership twelve, combined age nine hundred and twelve) was arriving for their monthly meeting. They signed the Visitors book in slow, spidery handwriting, while chatting to her about all sorts of things. She was endlessly patient with them, but her work suffered for at least half-an-hour as they trickled in. They all adored her, and she enjoyed their visits, especially as she had lost the last of her grandparents not long ago.

"I miss Cuffy," she thought to herself, as the final History Club members tottered away to the Clandecy Room. Cuffy wasn't a member of the Club, but he came to her memory as he had earlier that morning, when the inspector said Mr Chewter had disappeared. He hadn't been seen for weeks, with or without his familiar straw boater. Sue was coming back from her holiday on Monday, and she would ask her if she could find out anything.

Sue had useful contacts in the area, as part of her work was to keep in touch with charities and welfare groups in the area. There were youth initiatives, centres for the elderly, day programs for people with learning difficulties, and other worthy efforts. After the latest one began, a drive to improve the health of the village residents, Sue had suggested a slogan: 'Pebbleton – the place to be if you're spotty, potty, dotty or grotty!' Yes, Sue would know how to find out where Cuffy had gone.

The young constable who had taken her fingerprints had made her laugh through the experience, and now she had something to talk about at lunch. Her boyfriend was taking her out, as he had become very protective since the news last night. Her social network had sent her the news via Facebook, but the originator was a Twitter fan.

At that very moment the offending Tweeter was being scolded by Harry Tanner in the Amenities van. "I told you to keep your trap shut, Ben Wickens – now look, the whole village is outside Southcliff Hall. You just couldn't resist showing off, could you. Now, I don't want to hear another word out of you until we get out of here and back to work. We'll never get those shrubs in at this rate."

They were pulling up into the car park outside the building, with a dozen viburnums stacked in the back of the van, their roots wrapped with plastic to stop them drying out. A call from Fiona had brought them back to have their prints taken, at the request of the police. Harry was exaggerating a little about the whole village, but certainly a crowd still hung around the front of the porch. A lucky few were under the shade, but some fanned themselves as they waited in the midday heat. It was unusually warm, for late in an English summer. Harry was grumpy – he preferred to plant shrubs in cool, damp weather. Plants, in his opinion, deserved more attention than people. They gave less trouble and were far more rewarding.

Their two colleagues on the Amenities team were also arriving, and together the team trooped into the building, their distinctive shirts and logos gaining them easy entry past the constable at the door. In Reception the pair of cleaners stood chatting, and a rueful reunion began. Vicky, the youngest, went to the staff room and put the kettle on, and the senior cleaner, Zoe, took orders for tea and coffee. "Might as well be comfortable," she reasoned.

Harry went upstairs to see Fiona, and came back down with a large bunch of keys in his hand and a signed slip of paper. "Ben, make yourself useful," he ordered grumpily. "Fiona says the police need a full set of these copied – go over to Keymate and get them done. Leave them if you have to, and we'll pick them up later. I'll let them know if your name is called."

One by one, each member of staff was escorted upstairs to the large table in the staff room and had their fingerprints taken. It was an unnerving experience, even for the innocent. For those conscious of any illegal activity, it was nerve-wracking. Dean wandered between the waiting group and the few being processing upstairs. As he watched, he was aware of the nerves – it was a bit like being a customs officer, he thought to himself. If only he could open their thoughts as easily as opening a suitcase.

Ben returned, with two keys in his hand. He held them out to Harry. "They can't do these, they're too old – the guy said no-one stocks them anymore."

Harry took the offending keys up to Fiona. "Oh! That's odd – well, never mind. I'll tell the Inspector."

She had borrowed Kim's keys to make the copies, and left her own with the officers. She knew every key by sight, but the Inspector would soon figure out which ones these were. She knew, and was drawing her own conclusions. When she explained to D.I.Helford that these keys were too outdated to be copied, he immediately compared the two old keys to the labelled ones, and found they fitted the archive rooms. He nodded slowly to himself. "Please find me Mr Goswell's set of keys, Miss Carvell."

She disappeared, and returned with another set of keys. She had checked on the way, and her conclusions were borne out. Mr Goswell did not have, probably had never had, the keys to the archive rooms. The inspector looked, made no comment, but wrote in his notebook. "Thank you, that's all," he said, handing the keys back to her. Fiona was mortified, believing that she should have checked the keys before the new Clerk was given them. It never occurred to her that the deceitful actions of the last Clerk were not her responsibility. She returned to her office, suffering all kinds of guilt and self-doubt. How could she have been so blind to Mr Chewter's real nature?

The inspector finished his sandwiches, and closed his eyes for a few minutes. He opened them abruptly when Dean came back in the room. "How's it going?" he asked. Dean updated him on the progress of the fingerprinting. "Any odd reactions?"

"Only one," Dean replied. "I thought the Clerk acted strangely. Not in a guilty way, exactly, but – well, resigned. As though he knew the game was up, as if we'd find out something because of his fingerprints. He put on a good face when it was being done, joking a bit, but I watched him before, while he was waiting, and coming up the stairs. He wasn't relaxed at all."

"Interesting....I've just found out that the previous Clerk _apparently_ failed to hand over the keys to the archive rooms to the new Clerk. My guess is that he tried to have the whole set copied, found that those two were too old, and kept them so he could come in and out as he pleased. He asked Fiona Carvell to move his personnel file to the archive room, and it also looks as though he pinched that and some other files."

"But then why....if Chewter was up to no good, why should the new Clerk be the one to worry?"

"I have a hunch that he has a past. His CV is strangely..... _featureless_. I wondered if some of it was made up, so I wrote down the places he worked a while ago. Most places only check your most recent jobs, and don't bother with the historic stuff. I intend to get his background checked out. Certainly he wasn't as qualified as the Clerk who died – the one Chewter replaced."

"They haven't had much luck with Clerks – how did he die?"

"Brain haemorrhage at home – don't get carried away, Dean," Helford smiled. "But you're right, two dead Clerks must be making Goswell nervous. Perhaps that's what he was thinking about. We mustn't set too much store by our observations of reactions. People are odd, you never know what they are thinking really."

As he said it he reminded himself that the minds of his two teenage sons were as much a mystery. His wife had told him that the boys wanted to take part in the Extreme Sports Weekend, and he had to make a decision. They wanted to bungee jump and try hang-gliding, but his wife was sure that they would be permanently injured, especially by the bungee jumping. She'd heard about eye damage, and he meant to look it up on the internet, but had run out of time last weekend. The boys were getting agitated as time ran out to book places for the events. He pulled out his mobile phone and switched it on. Dean left him to it, and went to get them both some tea.

"Hi, love – can't talk long. Do the boys still want to do the Extreme Sports?" His wife said that it was all they talked about. "OK, I know you don't agree with the bungee jumping, but I understand there's abseiling. That's safer, you're roped on all the time. What about that?"

"Oh, Keith, I don't know...."

"Pip, we can't stop them doing everything – they'll just go and do more dangerous things as soon as they're eighteen. Let me find out what's available. I'm here at the Council offices, just over the way from the Tourism place. They have the booking forms there. If I ask which are the safer ones, I'll book something. OK?" Pippa Helford reluctantly agreed. Like most mothers, she was scared for her offspring, but she trusted her husband to make sensible decisions.

When Dean returned they made a list of things to do. Dean was anxious to follow up the hint provided by the vicar, and wanted to have Councillor Clandecy interrogated. "Not just him," said Helford. "If one can be corrupt, so can two or three. Let's get a list, and just for good measure we'll have them fingerprinted as well."

Dean grinned. Sometimes Helford's working class roots showed, and he took mischievous pleasure in making those of more elevated social status eat humble pie. He was in for a surprise, however.

Chapter 12 – The Council

That afternoon all but one of the Councillors arrived at Southcliff Hall in response to a request from the police via Fiona. They came willingly for the most part, giving their names to the constable on the door and waiting politely in Reception to be called. Only Councillor Clandecy could not be reached. His wife said that he was in London, and 'the police would have to call back tomorrow'.

"Wentley, Alfred. Rivers, Paula. Cooper, Sheila. Denby, Gordon. Massington, Dennis. Pickford, Hugh." Helford read the list, and snorted in annoyance. "Typical, the only one we really want is missing. Right, let's have them, one at a time – ladies first."

Paula Rivers was brought into the room, and sat down gracefully. She answered all Helford's questions calmly, and he was not surprised when he learned that she was a schoolteacher. Nothing of use was gained from the interview, except that she seemed a bit restless when asked about James Goswell. Dean watched while Helford questioned – it was a double act that worked well, as Dean was surprisingly perceptive for a young man.

Mrs Sheila Cooper came in next, and was a revelation to Helford. He had always imagined that Councillors came from the privileged sections of society, but here was a council house tenant, retired from her job as a packer in a local factory. He was fascinated. "What made you become a Councillor?" he asked her. She responded sincerely: "I wanted to help – it takes a lot of organising to keep a place like this tidy and well run, and I had time once I retired. I know what normal people want, what they like, so I reckoned I could put in a word for folks like me. Kind of – well, representing everyday working people."

She had no helpful information either, so Alfred Wentley was brought in. He was clearly not pleased at being summoned, and was as uncooperative as could be. Helford tried many lines of enquiry, but was blocked at every turn. Perhaps the man had nothing to hide, but he was so obstreperous that it made Helford suspicious. 'Bet he's fun in Council meetings,' he thought.

Gordon Denby was a welcome contrast when he came in. He considered each question carefully, then gave as accurate and fair an answer as possible. All the interviewees had been told the identity of the body in the basement, and were asked to flesh out the picture of the dead man for the police.

Denby had been aware of the real reason Gerald Chewter left the Council's employment, but he had no other cause to dislike the man. "On the other hand....." he began, and paused, contemplating the justice of what he was about to say. Helford waited. Finally his patience was rewarded. Denby resumed his comments with: "Chewter was his own worst enemy, I would say. He tried to be on everyone's side, and perhaps because of that, he came across as insincere. No-one can really agree with all views – one can accept, but one must have some private convictions. Chewter wanted to keep a hand in everywhere, pretending to each party that he was their advocate at the Council - but in fact no-one trusted him. We all felt he could be playing us off against one another."

"I cannot guess at his motives, there seemed to be nothing he could gain from his actions. He was paid just the same, whoever was voted to serve as Councillors or whoever won out in disputes."

"Would you say he liked money?" Helford asked, wondering about the sums of cash deposited in recent months.

Denby thought, then responded decidedly: "Yes. He wanted to be up there with the big boys, moving in the same circles as Dennis – Councillor Massington – and Councillor Clandecy. He copied them if he could afford it – I've seen him come to Council meeting dressed in almost identical clothes, right down to the ties – Dennis Massington's, that is. Yes, he liked the things money could bring."

The inspector made notes, and then lifted his head and took a long look at Gordon Denby. He decided that the man before him would be responsible enough to put justice ahead of discretion. "I wonder if I could ask you to help me further, Councillor Denby – I need a man with your experience and perception to give me an insight into the rest of your colleagues. I realise you don't want to be indiscreet, but I only ask that you give me a quick sketch of each one – nothing too personal."

Denby cautiously agreed, and they began with the women. He was enthusiastic about Paula Rivers, describing her as a 'lovely person' and a credit to the teaching profession. Mrs Sheila Cooper had 'a heart of gold – and often serves as the voice of common sense in Council meetings'. He hesitated in telling fashion when asked to describe Alfred Wentley, but gave him a vague commendation: "Al tries to be fair, and sticks to his guns when he believes he has the right view." Helford wrote down 'pig-headed' on his notebook. Dennis Massington fared better, as Denby gave a longer description of him: "He's an energetic worker, always at meetings, and takes a real interest in everything that goes on in Pebbleton. Surprises me sometimes, as he has business interests in the City, but he views this village as his home for the future, and wants to make it as good as it can be." Hugh Pickford was dismissed with the words: "When he's there he does a decent job, but he seems to have too much else going on – always dashing off to one thing or another, you can't rely on him for much. People shouldn't be Councillors if they can't commit a proper amount of time to it."

Helford thanked Gordon Denby and asked if he could call on him in future for more help. Councillor Denby said he'd be happy to oblige. After he left Helford asked Dean to collect some coffee on the return trip, and asked his impressions so far. Dean consulted his notebook. "I liked Ms Rivers, she seemed sensible, but I definitely saw her body language change when you asked her about James Goswell. Mrs Cooper – a real sweetie – I liked her determination."

"Mr Wentley – I'd like to think he's our murderer, but he's almost too irritable. If he was guilty I'd expect him to be charming, to cover up. Mr Denby – well, I'm not surprised you asked him to describe the others – he seemed the most co-operative and experienced. He said he was a retired teacher, didn't he? I guess he knows people. Interesting description of Chewter, copying the style of another man. I'm looking forward to seeing this Councillor Massington."

"OK, we'll have him next. But check if there's any messages while you're collecting him, please."

Dean returned with Dennis Massington, who was carrying a tray of coffee. Dean had a handful of messages for his boss. The Councillor set the tray down, and explained with a gracious smile: "I took the liberty of including myself in the coffee order, I hope you don't mind. Thought if I played waiter I'd get away with it!"

The inspector nodded and smiled back. Massington served the coffee while Helford read the messages, and made a couple of notes. There was a polite silence until the senior officer laid down his pen and took a sip of coffee. He began the interview by thanking the Councillor for taking the time out a busy schedule to help the investigation.

"Not at all - it's a terrible thing to have happened, and we all want to do everything we can."

"Can you tell me your own viewpoint of Mr Chewter?"

"Hmmm, well, one doesn't want to speak ill of the dead, but....he wasn't a popular man. Not good at making friends, sadly. I didn't have a lot to do with him beyond the Council work, so I may not be the best person to ask."

"Who would be the best, do you think?"

"Ah, now you have me there – as I said, I had no dealings with him outside these walls. He must have had some relatives, surely?"

"That's what we will be finding out, of course. Could you give me your view of the new Clerk, Mr Goswell?"

"Oh yes, nice man – reasonable, quite good at keeping order in meetings without being offensive. We've been fortunate to get him."

The questions went on in the same pattern as Helford had used on most of the other Councillors. Dennis Massington leaned back in his chair, relaxed and elegant. He asked some questions of his own, which Helford deflected. He was too experienced an officer to give away information to anyone, no matter how innocent they appeared to be.

Finally Hugh Pickford was brought in. He was a lively man, a bundle of energy. It became clear that he was anxious to get away to a client, a large company in Frayminster. He was a computer expert, and often missed Council meetings because a job overran. He knew less than the other Councillors about everything, it seemed. However, when Helford asked about Chewter's popularity, he grimaced. "We were the only ones who ever invited him anywhere," he replied.

"You invited him? Socially?"

"Didn't have much choice – we're the only relatives he's got – he had, I mean. My wife is his second cousin. I suppose that means we'll have to arrange the funeral."

"Did he come to you often?"

"I'm ashamed to say we only really invited him to Christmas dinner or some other things where we could have quite a few other people at the same time. He came to my wedding and behaved horribly to my sister – she was a bridesmaid, and he tried....well, you know."

"Your wife is his second cousin, you say. Any other relatives you know of?"

"Just my wife's mother. She was the first cousin of Gerry's mother. They were Monkfords, and the last of the family name. I mean, once those two girls married and lost the name, that was it. Gerry used to go on about it, he was really into the family history. We couldn't be bothered, what's the point? It's all gone now."

"What's all gone?" Helford asked, leaning forward. He had the feeling that the answer would remind him of what he had forgotten the previous evening.

"The land the family had. They owned a huge farm once, over on The Edge. But it got sold off, bit by bit. The last of it was sold to the Clandecy family in the 'forties. My wife's family had a bit of money, but it was nothing compared to the way things were before the First World War. Gerry was always going on about the glory days of the Monkfords."

The Inspector sighed, and leaned back. He had it now. On his notebook he wrote 'Land on the Edge – families. Clandecy, Monkford, and .....? Ask shopkeeper.'

He took a long look at the energetic man in front of him. Did he realise that he had a clear motive to do away with Chewter? Aloud he asked: "Your wife's mother – she would be the nearest relative to Gerald Chewter. Presumably she would inherit his house." He watched the reaction.

Pickford's eyes slowly widened. "Wow!" he breathed. "You're right! She'll be tickled pink. We've been wondering how to get her a place near us, and this will be the answer! She lives in Croydon, you see, and she's not coping with the noise and rush. It's getting quite dangerous there, you know."

Helford nodded. He knew the problems his colleagues were facing in the outer London areas. He felt that Pickford was telling the truth, and was glad that at least some good would come of the demise of Gerald Chewter. He let Pickford go, but at the last minute he stopped him with the words: "Just one other thing....."

Dean hid a smile. It was a private joke between them that this classic Colombo strategy should only be used on one suspect per investigation.

"None of your fellow Councillors have mentioned that you are related to Mr Chewter. Why do you suppose that is?"

Pickford grinned. "I don't suppose they know. Gerry was ashamed that his relative married a boy from a comprehensive school, and I certainly wasn't about to admit that I was related to him!"

The two officers compared notes after the door closed behind Hugh Pickford. They agreed that he seemed innocent, and Helford asked Dean what he thought after meeting Dennis Massington.

"Big city type – quite impressive, I was wondering who was interviewing who at one point!"

"Yes, he's probably hired and fired a few people in his time. Did you like him?"

"Like him? I guess so. I suppose he's a favourite with the ladies, what my mum calls a 'silver fox'. It was kind of him to bring the coffee tray for us."

"Yes. Impeccable manners, Dean. You could learn a lot," Helford teased. "Right, I suppose you want to know what was in the messages?"

Dean nodded. His boss handed him the sheaf of papers and sat back with his eyes closed while Dean read. The first was a report on the initial findings from behind the breeze-block wall. The two dead man were around thirty to forty years of age, and wore inexpensive clothes. One had a distinctive dolphin tattoo on his arm. The other had a gold filling, and his toenails were manicured. There were a few other details, but nothing to make an identification. Both had been shot, in a similar way to Chewter, although from the front.

The next note was from the officer leading the search at Chewter's house. A computer had been found, and two memory sticks. A few keys had turned up in the house, but nothing that fitted the front door. The paper shop man had said nothing new or useful. The barmaid at the Gull Inn was 'pretty certain' that Chewter had been in the pub until nearly closing time two evenings ago.

The final note was from Beavon, the capable desk officer who had been left with a lengthy 'to do' list that morning. He had got a phone list from the telephone company, and was checking the last calls made and received by the dead man. He had linked up two calls made to local residents. The numbers called were registered to the names Wentley and Massington.

"That's interesting – why would Chewter ring Wentley and Massington? I thought there was no contact outside the Council?"

Helford opened his eyes. "Precisely. Wentley wasn't going to help us out anyway, but I was hoping Massington would divulge the reason for that call."

"Why didn't you ask him?"

"Ah, that would have been alerting him to what we know. I wanted to see if he would mention it himself."

"It might have been something innocent – like asking for a phone number of a friend, or getting a recommendation for a plumber!"

"True. We'll leave it for now, but it's worth asking soon if neither of them come forward. Now, I'd better get myself to the Tourist office, otherwise my kids will miss out on this Sports thing." He heaved himself up wearily, and set off. "Oh, nearly forgot – can you make sure the area around the back entrance is thoroughly searched – I mean _really_ searched, fine toothcomb job, OK? You take the lead, and I'll come by after I've dealt with this."

Chapter 13 – Behind the Box Hedge

Dean went to find some colleagues to help him search the back entrance and slip road. Two uniformed officers were now spare, as the fingerprinting was done. They had only just started searching when a bloodstain was found at the edge of the road surface, and Dean sent for forensics to come and take a look. The weed-infested grass verge showed evidence of a large heavy object falling onto it, and further bloodstains were soon found. The weather had been dry, so it was easy to track the path the object had taken as it was dragged along the verge. Dean was sure it was Chewter's body that had made the trail. A dark patch showed where the body had initially fallen. The road surface showed no blood, apart from the tiny mark on the edge. Obviously the body had not been dragged bleeding over the tarmac to the door of the building.

Dean asked the officers to conduct a fingertip search of the grass around the worst bloodstains. Nothing came to light, so he widened he area, trying to imagine the direction the bullet would have taken. Sure enough, a spent cartridge was found at some distance, in the undergrowth of the belt of trees that separated Southcliff Hall grounds from the field beyond. Dean carefully marked where it was found, then bagged and tagged it.

Helford joined him and they watched as the forensics team took samples from the stains. "It has to be where Chewter was shot," Dean insisted.

"Yes, I agree – I suppose he was brought here – or lured here – and he had the keys to open the door and turn off the alarm," Helford agreed. "But – several problems – how did they re-set the alarm? I can understand that they would use his keys to lock up again, that's probably why we can't find them. But why draw attention to the breeze-block wall by sticking him in front of it? Why not cart him off in whatever vehicle they came in? And why smash his face in if we could tell more or less straight away who it was?"

"Perhaps they couldn't take him away for some reason. Look, sir – there's an oil patch on the road. It looks quite recent. Maybe they had car trouble. If they were the same ones who killed the men behind the wall, they knew their way around and put him down there until they could take him away. After all, it was pure chance that someone went down there yesterday."

"Hmmmm – plausible. Go and ask the lovely Miss Stanley to give us details on who came to deliver anything legitimately in the last fortnight or so – we can check if any of their vans had an oil leak."

Dean trotted off eagerly. Helford continued to stare at the oil patch and wonder. Then the senior forensics officer came up to tell him that fibres had been found in a drag pattern along the roadway near to the building, which were different to the clothing fibres associated with the bloodstains. "Looks like a dustsheet of some kind – the new disposable sort you can buy in the DIY stores now. Not very strong, so we've got quite big lumps torn out on the rough surface of the road."

"My initial guess is that the body was wrapped in this dustsheet, then dragged along towards the door," the officer continued. "The bloodstains stop abruptly here on the grass," he pointed to an area, and Helford tried to see what he was supposed to see. "Then there's a gap – I expect the grass was kinder to the dust sheet. You can see the grass is still a bit flattened, so the weight was going along there. Then the other fibres start on the tarmac. Ripping it to pieces, I expect. They would have quickly realised they had to pick up the body."

"So what you're saying is, we need to look for some lazy sods who bought a commonplace dust sheet. Great, that narrows it down a bit. Any chance of tyre marks, or a particular kind of oil on that leak there?" Helford pointed at the oil stain Dean had noticed.

The forensics man looked pityingly at him. "Not much chance there, I'm afraid – oil is oil, if you know what I mean. Just a few commonly used brands, and as for tyre marks – this is a hard tarmac surface, not a muddy field, or the racetrack at Silverstone. No-one would leave a mark just stopping slowly here."

"Sorry, just hoping," Helford apologised.

"We'll dust for prints on the door, just in case. Don't get your hopes up, we seem to be dealing with professionals. It was well thought out, killing him here – they'd have used a silencer, of course. No-one to hear, no one to see – if the body hadn't been found as soon as it was, these bloodstains would have been washed away by rain quite soon. There's a thunderstorm due tonight."

"We came round to have a look earlier – never saw a thing," admitted Helford. "Just goes to show, unless you're looking you just don't see. A dark patch on the grass, so what? There was a delivery driver here earlier – he didn't see either. Any hope in that bullet casing?"

"That's the most helpful thing, but unless we find a gun to match....look, don't take this the wrong way, but apart from leaving the body here, which I find odd, this lot haven't made any mistakes."

"We have a theory about that, but we'll know more when your boys have finished all the work on the two other bodies."

"Boys?" grinned the officer. "Look again, Detective Inspector."

Helford scrutinised the crouching figures in their protective clothing. Two were female. "I'm behind the times, as usual," he groaned, and left the workers to do their job.

Dean had brought a chair to sit beside Imogen behind the Reception desk, and was writing down telephone numbers of delivery companies. He jumped up guiltily when his boss appeared, and followed him back up to the office upstairs.

"Did you get any sports fixed up for your lads?" he asked. Helford looked rueful. "They only had the rockwall left, and the zip-wire. They've done that already on holiday, they're going to kill me. Anyway, never mind that, you check for leaking vans and I'll see some more people about......things." With that he left Dean alone.

Chapter 14 – More Questions Than Answers

Dean knew his boss was frustrated, so he quietly got on with the job in hand. It was easy to find out who had delivered what and when, but checking if they had been driving leaking vans was more difficult. "He's on the road, I'll have to call you back tomorrow," was the refrain.

Messages were left, and Dean suddenly realised he was very hungry. He found Helford in the staff rest room, eating a Danish pastry. "Come and eat," said his boss. "They've had all this food brought in for us from Lacey's. Nice, eh?"

On the main table was a tray of sandwiches and cakes, so Dean gratefully sat down and tucked in. "Shall I send some down to the others?" he asked. Helford replied, "Already done – this is for us."

"You're kidding! How much did this lot cost?"

Helford shrugged. "On the Council budget, I suppose. A perfectly reasonable way of spending your council tax, wouldn't you say? Don't complain, we'll probably need it. I can't see us leaving here too early. I'm finished, so I'll go and sit in our luxurious command centre in case any calls come in. You have a break. Well done, by the way, for finding the bullet casing – it's all we have at the moment to tie the killers to the victim."

"Killers....we've both been assuming more than one. Because he was a heavy man, I suppose. Do you think one person could have shifted him?"

"Unlikely. Certainly not a woman. Not alone, anyway." Helford realised he had temporarily abandoned his line of enquiry on Anya Dortmann.

Back in the Clerk's office Helford shut the door, and started a series of phone calls. The first was useful in a negative way – Anya Dortmann's flatmate confirmed that she had left the country a week ago, to start her new job in Portugal. "She'll be staying back here in a fortnight, though, she's got a family wedding so she asked if she could just come back to England for a couple of days." Helford told the girl sternly that Anya was to contact the local police as soon as she arrived. He took some details and ended the call. He would have to check with the airline, but it looked as if Anya was out of the country when Chewter died.

He flipped back through his notebook, and found the notes on James Goswell. He picked up the phone and dialled the number of company listed the earliest in James' CV. "Human Resources, please," he told the charming voice that answered. He got through, but when he gave his name and job title, he was told that the department manager was at lunch. "That's all right, I'm sure you can help me," he said sweetly. He had been hoping to get a junior. "If you can just check the dates when a certain employee started and finished, that's all. You have that information?"

"Well..." the voice hesitated. "I can check, but I'm not sure...you know, Data Protection and all that."

"Quite right – I tell you what, I'll read out to you what I have, and you can tell me if it agrees with what you have. OK?"

He ploughed on, and read the information to the nervous junior. The voice sounded female, but it could have been a squeaky young man. There was a scribbling sound, then lots of clicking, and finally the ambiguous voice spoke again. "I can't find a James Goswell, are you sure you've got the name right?"

After making suitable excuses Helford rang off, and tried the second most recent job from the CV. This time a sleek female voice answered the phone in Human Resources, and when she was told that the police were making the enquiry, she promised full co-operation. However, she too could find no trace of a James Goswell. Her curiosity was aroused, and she wanted to know what job he had done, and who he had worked for, but Helford had no intention of giving her any details. Her curiosity went unsatisfied, and her silky voice bid him a regretful and apologetic farewell.

Finally he rang the most recent job listed. The steel company was a huge concern, but as James was supposed to have been a 'senior executive', whatever that might mean, he should be known to the people at the head office. He got through to a call menu, which invited him to select all sorts of options, none of which was 'to track down dodgy employees, press 8'. He waited, which meant that a human being had to answer his call.

"Hi, can you put me through to James Goswell? He does still work there, doesn't he?" he cheerily asked in what he hoped sounded like a golfing buddy voice.

"Pardon? James who did you say?" the young man replied.

"Goswell! James, you know, one of your senior execs., we're supposed to be having a round of golf but I'm running late, thought I'd better let him know. He is still with you lot, isn't he?"

The poor youngster on the end of the phone was mystified. "I'm sorry, I don't have anyone of that name listed in the directory."

"Oh, you must know him, tall, good-looking chap, he was there a few months back – have you only just started there?"

"No, I've been here a year, and I honestly don't know who that is. Sorry."

Helford rang off. How could the Council have checked a reference if Goswell had never worked there? He redialled the same number, and in a different, more sombre voice asked for Human Resources. A lady answered, and when he asked for details on James Goswell, she said: "James Goswell? Oh! yes, um, could you hold on a moment please?"

There was a pause, then a man's voice came on the line. "Hello, I'm Richard Prewett, head of HR. Can I help you?"

Helford said "I'm calling from Pebbleton Parish Council offices, where Mr James Goswell is currently working as Parish Clerk. Could you please confirm that he was until recently in the employment of your company?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"As a senior executive in your Head Office, from 2004 until six months ago?"

"Yes, that is correct," Mr Prewett repeated, without hesitation.

"My name is Detective Inspector Keith Helford, and I am investigating a suspicious death in the Council building. I would appreciate it if you could explain to me why your Head Office employees in general have never heard of James Goswell."

There was dead silence at the end of the line. Finally, Mr Prewett sighed, and said "You had better take that up with Mr Goswell himself. I'm sorry, I cannot help you further. I – er – we are aware of Mr Goswell, and he – look, I can't say any more without speaking with my superiors, so if you have any further questions after speaking to Mr Goswell, you had better address them to the Board of Directors."

The line went dead. Helford stared at the phone, and slowly replaced it on the cradle. He sat staring at his notes, deep in thought, until Dean opened the door and made him jump.

"Good news, sir, they've found a button on the roadway at the back!"

"A button. Heaven be praised. The crime is practically solved."

Dean was used to his boss's sarcasm, so he ignored this and continued: "It can't have been there long, sir, it looks as if it's freshly torn off, and it's unusual. Forensics say you can sometimes get manufacturers details and narrow it down to just a few garments that had that type of button sewn on in the last few years."

Helford rubbed his forehead. "OK, Dean, I'm sorry. It could be useful, you're right. Look, can you find James Goswell for me? I'll want you here too, I think I should interview him under caution."

Dean looked astounded. "What have you found out, sir?"

"I thought there was something odd about his CV, so I checked three of the companies. He's not been in any of them, and the last one lied at first until I told them I was CID. I mean _really_ lied, supported his story, then backed down. Said I should ask him."

"Blimey! Why would they support his story? That's weird. I'll get him in, sir."

Two minutes later James Goswell entered the room and sat facing D.I.Helford on the wrong side of his own desk. Dean sat with his pencil poised, started the tape, and Helford cautioned the Clerk. The formal wording of the caution made most people go white, but James seemed impassive, as though he had been expecting this moment to come. He said nothing in response, and declined the offer of legal representation. The interview began.

Chapter 15 – Saturday

"Sue! I've been trying and trying to get hold of you – have you just got back from the airport?" It was eight o'clock Saturday morning, and Imogen had dragged her boyfriend up two hours earlier to keep her company in her vigil. He was not amused, and had gone out for a run. He came in with the weekend paper just as Sue finally answered.

"Hi Imogen, how are you? What's up? I've literally just got in the door. Hang on, let me put the kettle on, and dump my case in the bedroom."

Noises off, while Imogen impatiently bounced about on the sofa in her flat. Her boyfriend, relaxing in the armchair opposite, watched her in fond amusement, then turned back to the sports pages. He was happier now the endorphins from his running had kicked in. Sue came back on the line. "Whew, what a journey – we were delayed at the airport, our flight was an hour and a half late taking off, and I lost my new sunglasses before we even got to the hotel. I tell you, that is absolutely the last time I agree to help my brother take those out-of-control kids of his on holiday. Heaven knows what they are allowed to get up to with their mother, but...."

Imogen interrupted her. "Sue, listen – you can tell me all that later. You'll never believe what's been happening here – Gerald Chewter was found dead in the basement and James Goswell has been arrested!"

"WHAT!"

Imogen could not have asked for a more dramatic reaction to her news. She told a startled Sue everything that had been happening at the Council offices, and even remembered that she should tell Sue to report to the police station to have her fingerprints taken.

" _My_ fingerprints? Whatever for?"

"To be eliminated. I'm not sure, but I think there was something missing down in the archive room, not the one with the tunnel but the other one. They dusted for fingerprints and we're still not allowed down there. They've been turning the place upside down."

"You say he was found in the tunnel? Who found him?"

"Harry and Ben. Ben got a frightful telling off, because he put it all on Twitter and the news got hold of it that night. Clifftop FM, I mean. I think the police wanted to keep it quiet a bit longer." Imogen omitted to mention that she too had passed the news around on Facebook after she had received it.

"I can't believe James would kill anyone. When did they arrest him?"

"Thursday, after work. I didn't know, I left at five and they were still talking to him, but they took him down to the station after that. He wasn't in work Friday, so we reckoned he must have been arrested. I know, I can't believe it either. No-one can. And on Friday something was going on to do with Kim – the inspector talked to her for ages, and afterwards she finished early. She'd been crying."

"Probably upset all over again – you know, dragging up the way Chewter behaved after her husband left."

The conversation went on in the same vein for some time, examining everyone's reactions, and with a little light relief as Imogen described the beginning of the week. The photographer from the Frayminster Guardian had arrived to take the publicity photos for the Extreme Sports Weekend – Eve Thornton had dressed up as a water-skier, in a vivid lime green wetsuit. Melissa had been made to wear a skateboarder's outfit, complete with pink helmet and matching elbow and knee protection. Fiona had told them they looked ridiculous, which made them both turn mutinous exactly when the shots were taken. Eve asked for a second chance, but when the photos had appeared in the paper on Thursday, although by then no-one cared, the expression on Melissa's face belied the caption – "Extreme Fun this weekend for Pebbleton Youths!"

Finally Imogen rang off, as Sue was 'desperate for a wee'. After an hour Sue was organised enough to ring the police station and ask if they really needed her prints, or could it wait until Monday? She was asked to come in as soon as possible, and to bring her passport. "Blast," she muttered, and put her shoes back on. The phone rang again. It was Imogen.

"Sue, I just thought – another funny thing. Cuffy had disappeared."

"What do you mean, disappeared?"

"Well, he didn't come in all week before you went away, but I didn't notice. I guess I thought he might have come in while I was at lunch. But he hasn't been in at all, I've asked everyone who's covered my lunches. I wondered if you could check, you know all sorts of people."

"OK," Sue sighed. "I'm off to the police station now, but I'll ask around on Monday. That's if the fuzz don't nab me once they match up my dabs to Light-Fingered Lulu, the Most Wanted Pick-Pocket of Pebbleton."

Imogen laughed. It was good to have Sue back.

At Frayminster police station Sue was escorted into a room and her fingerprints were taken, though it was explained to her that as she had been out of the country she was not a suspect. She showed her passport, and then she was taken to a seat in a corridor to wait. A cup of tea was brought to her, and she tried to occupy herself reading the posters on the walls. After fifteen minutes and a more intimate knowledge of just how long a stretch you could get for possession of Class A drugs, she was bored enough to ask a passing constable who she was waiting for. "Detective Inspector Helford," she was told.

Finally the Inspector appeared, and apologised for the delay. "I have a few questions for you, then I can let you get back home. I'm sure you must need the weekend to get organised ready for work on Monday. My wife always says she needs a full weekend."

Sue was impressed. She followed the inspector into an interview room, and was expecting a second officer to join them. None appeared, so she asked if he was supposed to interview her alone.

"You are not being interviewed under caution, Miss Cheam," the Inspector smiled. "All I want is your point of view, and you are under no obligation to answer if you don't want to. In fact you can go at any time."

"Sorry," Sue replied, relaxing. "I'm letting my imagination run away with me. This is all so strange – I had the most awful shock when Imogen rang to tell me what had happened."

"Tell me – were you very shocked that Mr Chewter should be killed?"

"Well, of course – I mean I'd be shocked that anyone would be killed that I knew. It's the sort of thing that happens on the news, but not to people you know. But to be honest, I was mostly shocked that you'd arrested James Goswell – I just _cannot_ picture him killing anyone."

"Mr Goswell has not been arrested, Miss Cheam, merely questioned. Tell me your impressions of him." Helford sat back and waited.

"He's – well, he's too nice to kill anyone. He strikes me as someone who would shrink from violence. I mean, I couldn't even imagine him being nasty to someone on the phone." Sue stopped, thinking of the curious incident of the message left at Paula's school.

"Go on, please." Helford felt there was much this lady could tell him.

"He puts up with Fiona like a saint – honestly, she tries his patience, I can tell, but he doesn't like confrontation. So he says something to her that doesn't hurt her feelings, but it gets him out of her bad books. Very diplomatic, if you know what I mean."

"Does Fiona like him?"

Sue grinned. "You bet. When they had a Council social do in the spring, she dolled herself up and tried to sit next to him. It was dead funny, Paula told us. That's Councillor Rivers, she's a friend of mine. And she, Fiona I mean, likes to know where he is all the time. She pretends it's for work, but she gets upset if he goes missing lunch time and doesn't say where he's going."

"Tell me about your friend Paula Rivers."

"Oh. Well, she's like me; single, lives alone with a cat, you know. But she's really nice. She teaches at Frayminster College. And she hasn't really got a cat."

"And she likes James Goswell."

"How did you know?" Sue was astonished, and feared she had given away her friend's feelings without realising it.

"I didn't know for sure, but thanks for the confirmation," Helford grinned. "To tell you the truth, we thought she was a bit rattled when we asked her about him, so it was either love or hate. My guess was love. He is a good looking fellow, so I can understand you young ladies falling in droves for him."

"Don't include me, I go for the nerdy type. Spectacles and huge brains, you know. And _please_ don't say it was me who let on, she'll kill me," Sue pleaded. "She's not so keen on him these days, anyway."

"Why?"

Sue looked at him thoughtfully for a while. "If I tell you something, you can find out from phone records, right?"

"Depends what you tell me. This is a murder investigation, and if you know something that troubles you, it would be wise to tell us now."

"Well, on the day the Council were going to vote about the Development, Paula had a phone call. I mean there was a phone call to her school, but it was while she was teaching, so a message was left. A man said he was James, ringing to pressurise her about voting in favour of the Development. She had only just seen him at lunchtime, though not many people would have known that. He was nice as pie then, and never said anything about how she should vote. I don't believe he rang at all, I think someone used his name and tried to influence her. She was dreadfully upset, because as you rightly deduce, she likes - liked him a lot."

Sue paused for thought, then continued, "He's a tricky one to catch, but Paula was getting somewhere with him. When he came, loads of the women in the area tried to get his attention – you should have seen them, any excuse under the sun. It was hilarious." She was warming to her theme now, and the Inspector let her talk.

"He was invited to every social event they could conjure up – he sat round the camp fire with Brown Owl and her Brownies, he got free tickets to the Am-Dram production, he even got asked to be on the board of governors of the infant's school, though he's single and childless! Every female who came into the Council wanted to see him personally. Fluttering their eyelashes and wearing short skirts, honestly, it was farcical. But Paula, well, she met him legitimately, through her work as a Councillor. She just did what she does, worked hard for the Parish, and didn't throw herself at him. I reckon he was getting fond of her, but when this flaming phone call thing happened, she got upset and wouldn't talk to him. Is there any chance you could check it out and find who really rang the school? Then you might have a clue who is really up to no good around here."

"And forward the course of true love, to boot." Helford pulled his notebook towards him and wrote down 'Frayminster College'. "When did you say this was?" he asked.

Sue gave him the date of the Council meeting, and the times Paula worked. He promised to do what he could to check.

"Miss Rivers said nothing of this when we interviewed her."

"No, well, she wouldn't, would she? For one thing, she wouldn't dream you'd suspect James of killing Chewter – I mean it _is_ ridiculous – but also she wouldn't want to make him look bad. She's still in love, I think."

"Tell me about Mr Chewter."

"Yuk. None of us liked him, he gave you the creeps. We called him Perilous Gerald. We were under Fiona, of course, so we didn't work directly for him, but he made life unpleasant for Kim. Imogen told me you'd talked to her on Friday, and upset her. Please don't imagine she would do anything to Chewter either, she's a lovely person, and she's had a hard time since Steve went. She's my other best friend, and I know her very well. You can take my word for it, she had nothing to do with this."

"Right, Miss Cheam, as you wish. But you could tell me who I _should_ suspect, seeing as you have definite ideas as to who I should _not_ be looking at?"

"What, you mean, who do I think killed Chewter? Lord knows, probably his tailor. He wore clothes so badly it was a crime against fashion. No, seriously, I don't know enough about his private life to have a clue. He was sleazy enough at work, so he probably did something unspeakable that got him killed. That's my guess. Look into his private life, because I honestly don't see anyone in the Council doing a thing like that."

"And yet, Miss Cheam, it is there I have to look. Someone in the Council offices, or connected in some way, placed the body where it was found. And that means keys, and access codes for the alarms. If anything comes to mind, please tell us as soon as possible."

"Hmmmm. I will. But you're wrong about James. Find out who rang the school, and that will be a start."

Helford was amused that this pert lady was telling him how to do his job, but she was clear-thinking, so he valued her opinion. After she had gone he sat for a while, considering the strange story of the phone call. It didn't sit right with his understanding of the way the Council worked. The Clerk was supposed to remain impartial to the proceedings.

He wondered also how long it would take before Sue Cheam found out what had been discussed on Friday with her 'other best friend'. The police had been taking details from Kim which led to the identification of one of the bodies behind the wall. Helford had looked at the file on Steve Coulthard's disappearance, and had spotted that the time of his departure from home was twenty hours before the call to the police regarding strange noises at, or under, Southcliff Hall. According to the file Steve had a tattoo on his right arm. The design and placement matched, but to be completely sure Kim was called in to the mortuary later on Friday to make a final identification. It had been gruesome and dreadful, as she couldn't be shown any more than the arm. Despite the careful way the sheets had been placed over the body, the experience was so traumatic for Kim that she had collapsed, and was now in hospital, under sedation.

Joey Fisher's mother had not been able to confirm that her son had a gold tooth, or painted toenails, but they were working on tracking down his dentist. Helford was sure in his own mind that the other body was Joey. He did not intend to release any information about the two extra bodies until they were both identified, so they could get a true reaction when the news was broken.

He got up and went down to the room where James Goswell was being held. He and Dean had been questioning him on and off since letting him go home Thursday evening, then had brought him in again Friday. An unmarked car had watched the block of flats to make sure that he did not take off. He was asked to come in again Saturday, and duly turned up at the police station at nine, just as if he was arriving for work. It made no difference, he still remained all but silent. "No comment," was alternating with "No, I did not." Helford was frustrated that he couldn't get any further with the question of the faked CV. James insisted he had nothing to do with Chewter's murder, and Helford was inclined to believe him. Yet every time he asked James: "Have you ever owned a gun?" he got: "No comment."

Dean was having a day at home now, so Helford got Sergeant Judy Smith to accompany him to the interview room where James was sitting waiting behind a table. They both sat down and faced James. He looked tired, but determined.

"I have been given some new information, Mr Goswell," he began. "On the day of the Council meeting when the Development was discussed, voted on and passed, can you tell me your movements?"

James looked amazed, confused, and then suspicious. "The day of the meeting....I don't understand."

Helford repeated the details, giving the date, and asked James' movements again.

James frowned, then slowly began his account. "I had an ordinary sort of day at work, then after the staff had gone home I had something to eat in the staff room, and waited for the Councillors to arrive. Then we had the meeting – the Minutes are available if you want them – then afterwards some of us went for a drink in the Gull Inn. That's it, really – nothing remarkable."

"Can you give me more details on the earlier part of the day? Say from the late morning onwards?" Helford requested.

"Er, I can't remember much about the morning – let's see, Fiona always keeps me busy, so she could tell you better than me. She keeps a diary, why don't you ask her?"

"Mr Goswell, you must be able to remember such an important day. Your future hung on it, in a sense – most folk around here feel that the village would have little future as a separate entity if the Development had not gone through."

"Well, yes, that's true – most of the Councillors felt that, certainly."

"Not all? Did some object, oppose the Development?"

"Yes, there were one or two who voted against or abstained."

"Did that upset you?"

"Upset _me_? No, of course not. They have to vote according to their understanding of the situation, and their own vision of the future. Some feared the Development would ruin the village."

"So feelings ran high that day. Did you, for example, have lunch with any of the Councillors, to discuss the Development?"

"No, I didn't feel I should – oh, wait, I sort of did, actually. Only it wasn't like that. I went for a walk after lunch with Councillor Rivers. We talked about the Development, but – well, it was more of a social thing. Not really business. We are – were – friends."

"You _were_ friends? Not now?"

"I can't explain, but she hasn't been the same since that meeting. She got shirty with me afterwards, seemed to think I wanted the Development to go through just so I could keep my job. I don't know where she got that idea. She's been funny with me ever since."

Helford sat looking at James for a minute. This was the first topic that had got him talking – was he telling the truth or cleverly pretending to be innocent? "You have no idea why she got upset with you?"

"No. Honestly – I'm levelling with you – it has been on my mind. I thought about asking her, but – well, I chickened out."

Helford sat looking at this puzzle of a man. He owned up to being a chicken in his relationship with a woman, but wouldn't budge when he was facing a charge of murder. In fact, after two days of questioning, he had co-operated as far as coming in to the police station, then remained obstinate in his refusal to answer questions. What game was he playing?

"We'll look at Miss Carvell's diary, just to know what you were doing in the afternoon. Perhaps you do remember, perhaps it was that day you phoned Miss Rivers at her work?"

"Phoned her at work? I've never phoned her at work!" James blurted out.

"Never? Sure? Not even to leave a message?"

"No! She works at a school, she's a teacher. If I've ever had to ring her I call her home number, she gets in about four thirty usually. Anyway, I saw her that day at lunchtime. Why would I need to ring her? I was going to see her at the meeting that evening!"

"I see. So if I told you that someone called her school, purporting to be you, and left a message to pressure her to vote a certain way that evening, how would you explain that?"

James sat staring, his mouth slightly open. Helford thought that he must be innocent of this charge. If not, he was a real Oscar-winner.

James collected his thoughts. "I can't explain it. It wasn't me, and I have no idea who would do such a thing. But it does make sense of why she was so upset." His head turned, and he looked at the wall, thinking. "So all this time, she's thought......well, no wonder she's been so odd."

"Look, Mr Goswell, I don't want to keep questioning you, but unless you give me a good reason to stop suspecting you, I can't take my eye off you. For all I know, you may be a homicidal maniac. You gave the Council a faked CV, so you wanted to get a job here for some reason – perhaps to have access to kill, or to recover some evidence of previous crimes. We don't even know if James Goswell is your real name."

"It is. And you obviously have no real evidence against me, or you would arrest me."

"Not yet. But your behaviour is absurd if you are innocent. Look at your CV - I can't tell which parts are true and which are false. Certainly you never worked for the steel company, or the other two – let me see, Corbis Enterprises, and Netwell Systems, wasn't it? If you were going to make up a CV, you would have done better to invent companies that don't actually exist. They do, and they'd never heard of you."

"I didn't make up my CV."

"Clearly you did, Mr Goswell, and...." At this point the door opened and a constable beckoned, making signs that the Inspector was wanted on the phone. The interview was suspended.

Helford and Judy Smith left James to think under the eye of the constable, and Helford went to pick up the extension in his office. The call was put through. He stood listening, made notes as instructed by the person on the line, and put the phone down. Then he sat down slowly, and looked at the notes. "Unbelievable," he muttered. He picked up the phone again and dialled the number given. As expected, the call was answered by a government employee, who put him through to the extension he requested. "I'm glad you called back," the quiet voice told him.

Helford could do nothing then but listen respectfully. He made one or two notes, but it was pointless. The quiet voice talked on, and Helford thanked him for the information. "You're welcome. Give Simo....er, James my regards," was the reply.

After a minute or two, he got up wearily, and made his way to the room where James sat waiting. Sergeant Judy Smith hurried along the corridor to join him, but he stopped her. "It's all right. We don't need to question Mr Goswell any further. I'm sorry, I can't explain more than that. But I've just been told that we have made a mistake. I'm letting him go."

Judy frowned, but left him to speak to James alone. Helford dismissed the constable, closed the door behind him and sat down. "I've just had a call from your handler. He was told that I'd rung one of your 'previous employers', and they had faltered in their story."

James relaxed visibly, letting out a long breath through his teeth. "Took him long enough," was his only comment.

"Yes, he apologised – he was away and they couldn't get hold of him immediately. He sends his regards. Why couldn't you have told me?"

"Would you have believed me? Anyway, you must know I couldn't. For one thing you began to question me in pairs, and it was always possible that I'd been set up – by you, for all I knew."

"You didn't know who you could trust, is that what you mean?"

"Exactly. You get paranoid in that game – you can't allow yourself to trust anyone. I'm supposed to be out of it – I resigned years ago – but you're never completely out. Something like this happens, and you wonder if it's part of some revenge on you for an earlier situation."

"I'm not sure I understand."

James sighed, leaning back in the chair and gazing at the ceiling. Reluctantly he began his story. "I was involved in missions that put me in contact with some very evil people, Inspector. They, in turn, were part of organised crime, networked all over the world. I've had problems before – I lived in a remote part of Scotland, using a different name, and yet somehow I was recognised. Before long I received threats, and the people I was staying with had their garage torched. I moved on for their sakes, and I've kept moving ever since."

"Until – well, last year the Department made a serious effort to help me get my life restarted, and find a job. _They_ faked my CV, and got Corbis and Netwell to give me a reference. They are both contractors supplying the MOD. They also threw in a government department that does little else but create new identities for people. I looked up Pebbleton on Google Earth before I went for this job, and liked the remoteness of it. I mean, it's a quiet backwater, no important people live here, I thought there was a chance I could re-invent myself. James Goswell _is_ my real, original, name, but not the name I used in my former career. I applied for this job, and the referees pretended I'd been employed there, and gave me a reference. I suppose they didn't think they had to do anything after that."

Helford nodded. "They fell down on the job, but as you say, they probably didn't think you needed more backup. Look, I don't need to keep you here now that this is explained – but I would like to talk to you again as the investigation proceeds."

"Certainly, I'll do all I can to help. I don't know what I can tell you though, I never really knew Chewter. Unless you're thinking that some old enemy of mine _has_ done this to flush me out?"

"No – this all began a long time before you arrived in Pebbleton," the Inspector murmured.

"Really? You have some line on the motive then?"

"Er, no," Helford replied. "There has been a development. You'll hear about it soon enough. But look, I want to get to this Extreme Sports Day, my sons are doing some of the events. I'll probably see you there, shall I?"

James rose from the table. "Yes, I suppose I can go along – my staff will be quite amazed to see me, I'm sure they believe you've clapped me in irons. Mind you, I'll be trying to avoid the photographers."

"Very wise," Helford agreed. "You might want to thank a certain member of your staff, a Miss Cheam. She put me on to the problem of the phone call to Frayminster College, you know, for Paula Rivers." He watched James' face carefully, and sure enough, a tiny blush crept up the cheeks of the other man.

"Sue Cheam? I wonder how she knew about it? Oh, she is good friends with Paula now I come to think of it. And I suppose women tell each other everything, don't they? That's why very few of them were ever taken on in my former profession!"

Helford smiled. "And to think I kept asking if you'd ever owned a gun."

"Too many guns, Inspector," James replied grimly. The men shook hands, and Helford opened the door. He stood back, allowing the man who at one time had held a relatively higher rank to pass through first. As they passed the desk Helford called out to Judy Smith, "I'm leaving now, off to Pebbleton to the Extreme Sports. Call me if you need me." Judy nodded, and watched with interest as the tall, handsome man beside her boss walked swiftly to the exit. He moved well, striding like an athlete, so that Helford had to trot to keep up with him. The body language between the two men indicated a new-found mutual respect. She was puzzled, but rather pleased. She too had been falling under the spell of those brown eyes during the hours she had sat beside Helford watching him question James.

James decided to change into some more casual clothes before appearing at the Event. He needed to blend into the crowd. Photographers would be everywhere, especially as the murder had put Pebbleton on the map. He had worn a sombre suit to the Frayminster police station, hoping that no press cameras lay in wait. He felt much better now - somehow the decency of the Inspector had given him hope that he could maybe stay in his job, in the little place he was growing to appreciate. Putting down roots, that would be nice. For the first time in his life, all sorts of pleasant possibilities seemed ahead of him. At the earliest opportunity, he told himself, he must find Paula and get this odd business of the phone call cleared up. He felt like skipping down the street – life was good!

Chapter 16 - Extremes

The Extreme Sports Event was taking place on the Edge, on land Egron had purchased. The main residential area was under construction a quarter of a mile inland, but the huge rough meadow that ran in a gentle slope to the cliff edge was as yet untouched. The developers had agreed that at least until the swimming dome was built, the Council could use the land for an arena, and made the generous offer of one of their cranes for the bungee jumping.

The crane was now positioned at the edge of the cliff, facing the sea, overhanging the rough shingle a hundred feet below. It was secured by tethers to sturdy metal poles implanted in the ground yards behind, and had finally met the approval of the Health and Safety inspector. The original idea had been to have the jumpers bounce over the edge of the cliff, missing the beach by a safe margin, but the risk of swinging against the sheer cliff face was considered too great. The rope was now shorter and the jump began higher, so that the jumpers did not descend low enough to reach the grass level, let alone see any of the cliff face as they swooped down.

Eve Thornton was having a wonderful time, running around the uneven grass of the makeshift arena with a clipboard and a stopwatch. A large assault course had been set up in the centre by the local army cadets, and numerous out-of-condition dads were queuing up to prove their manliness by hurling themselves around in the heat of the day. Their wives waited on the sidelines, tutting and trying to make them change their minds. One portly lady was telling her equally chubby husband: "Don't blame me if you 'ave an 'art attack." Their sulky teenage daughter saved the father's blushes by saying, "Shut up, mum. Leave 'im alone." Then she added, "If he 'as an 'art attack, it's 'cos _you_ fed 'im too many pies."

Eve rushed around checking the Zip-wire, the rock climbing wall and the attractions for the little ones, a Big Slide and the obligatory Bouncy Castle. Everyone was happy, and the weather was perfect. Eve was delighted, as until twenty-four hours ago the weather had been dreadful, a week of storms and torrential rain. It was still a bit soggy underfoot, but no-one seemed to mind. She left the Bouncy Castle and headed for the huge crane at the cliff edge which supported the Bungee rope, and darting between the crowd she almost cannoned into James Goswell.

"Mr Goswell! Excellent, so glad you could make it!" she exclaimed.

"James, please - you can call me James," he replied, all smiles. "And what do you mean, 'so glad you could make it?' Don't I always come to your events? I was there for the Annual Slipper Fair, and the Giant Ludo; I wiggled my bum at the Dance Marathon, I even showed up for the Pets Parade!"

"Oh, yes, but we thought you'd been arrested for the murder," Eve retorted briskly, without a trace of embarrassment.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," James grinned. "I may have been helping the police with their enquiries, but that's the kind of guy I am – helpful."

"Helpful? Well, I'm glad you're here – I could do with someone to keep an eye on the bungee jumping. You up for that?"

James was taken aback by Eve's audacity – he had plans, which included enjoying the day and finding Paula. He didn't want to be stuck monitoring an event, but nevertheless he heard his own voice meekly replying, "OK, what do I have to do?"

Ben Withers was glad to be relieved of his duties, which consisted of checking eager teenagers through a paperwork procedure before they were allowed to do a bungee jump. James took over and soon had the hang of it. He had time in between 'clients' to look around him, and noticed a few familiar faces. He also had a good view of the other cliff top, where the upper roof of Southcliff Hall was just visible at treetop level. He could see a section of the sunlit beach between the two cliffs, where families were having a wonderful time, eating picnics and building sandcastles. Their laughter and shrieks floated up to the cliff top. James gazed wistfully at the mums and dads enjoying the day out with their children. He was lost in thought, far away in childhood memories – sad, lonely memories.

As James returned his attention to the job in hand, he saw Councillor Massington not far away. His tall, powerful figure and wavy grey hair were easy to spot in the crowd, though he didn't notice James on duty. He was heading towards the other side of the crane, which bore the logo of Egron Development.

James processed another youngster, and looked up again to see where Dennis Massington had gone. He caught sight of him talking to a well-groomed young man wearing an Egron badge. The conversation seemed to be going badly – the sleek young man was gesturing, spreading his hands wide, and shaking his head. Massington frowned, and leaned towards the other man, talking firmly and taking a grip on the younger man's upper arm. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and walked away, ignoring the other man's protests and gestures.

James stared at the Councillor's back, which rapidly disappeared in the crowd. James became aware that a petulant lad stood in front of him, holding out his ticket. "Oh, sorry," James muttered.

By three in the afternoon, the line of keen jumpers was almost finished. Two candidates remained in the queue. James badly wanted to leave his post, and his hopes were raised when he saw Sue Cheam heading in the direction of the crane. He was bored and wanted to see the other events before it was too late. Sue had a companion with her, who wore a sunhat and kept her head down as she trod carefully over the grass in her dainty summer sandals. As they drew closer she looked up coyly from under the hat – his heart leaped as he recognised Paula.

"Hello, ladies," he called out. It would never do for them to pass by and not see him. They waved and came towards him.

"Wow, we're glad to see you. Eve said you were here, but we had to see for ourselves," Sue gushed. "Everyone's been really worried about you, haven't they, Paula?"

Paula looked embarrassed. James wondered if she _had_ been worrying about him. It was a nice thought, so he let her off the hook by saying, "I gather you all thought I'd been chained up in the dungeons of Frayminster police station, having my fingernails pulled out until I confessed."

"Well, you _were_ away from work on Friday," Paula replied, a tiny smile playing about her mouth.

"Oh, yes, and how do _you_ know that, Councillor Rivers? Someone keeping you informed of my movements?" James looked intently at Paula, and smirked in triumph.

Sue spoke up. "Not me, I wasn't back from holiday until this morning. Someone else must have been telling tales out of school."

"No," said Paula, "you're both wrong – I went to the hospital with Kim. She asked for me when they brought her round."

Both James and Sue stared at her. Sue was the first to ask, "Hospital? Kim? What do you mean, brought her round?"

"She collapsed outside the mortuary – oh, of course, you don't know. She would have asked for you, Sue, but you were still away. I got a call at around five, and got there as they were putting her in the ambulance. It was shock, of course. She kept passing out, so they want her to stay on the ward until they are sure she is OK."

"The mortuary? You mean they got her to identify Chewter's body? That's awful!" James exclaimed. Sue frowned, and started to say, "You don't suppose......" then stopped.

They were interrupted by the next bungee jumper, who wanted his ticket checked. James did the necessary, and turned back to the ladies. "What were you saying, Sue?" he asked.

Sue had been whispering to Paula, and now she chewed her lip and said, "Nothing – it doesn't matter. We were just deciding to go and visit Kim after we leave here."

"I'd like to come too – she's a valuable member of staff, and I think I should, don't you?" James asked.

"Er, well, I see what you mean," Paula answered, "but the hospital only allows two visitors at a time, usually. Maybe you could go tomorrow?"

'Blast,' thought James. He wanted to see how Kim was doing, but he also wanted a chance to talk to Paula. It would have to wait until she was not with Sue. At least she was talking to him normally – perhaps he had Sue to thank for that?

Sue had indeed been lecturing Paula on the subject, and had told her about the Inspector's promise to look into the source of the phone call. Paula had already come to the conclusion that James was not likely to have committed murder, and had been very concerned for him. She was an easy target for Sue's persuasion, and had offered no protest when a trip to the bungee jumping crane was suggested.

The last candidate was holding out his ticket for James' attention, and was duly sent to his dose of excitement. Anxious to keep the ladies there, James asked Sue about her holiday, and she began an anecdote about a saucy waiter. He urged her to finish her tale, and put in a comment here and there to spin it out until the last bungee jumper was safely down.

Finally he was free to go. An Egron representative, the young man James had seen talking earlier to Dennis Massington, appeared on the scene, and instructed a couple of Egron employees to remove the metal poles in the ground behind the crane. The crane was backed up a little from the cliff edge, and the bungee operators had removed the tethers and dropped them on the ground. They were now preparing to take their rig off the crane, watching it being carefully lowered. James and the two women looked on, fascinated. A drill was brought over to help get the poles out of the ground.

"Heaven knows how they got them in there," James commented.

"I saw them set it up earlier," Paula said. "They had to reposition it all because the Health and Safety man wasn't happy. He made them put the poles in and tie it back, in case it tipped."

The drill began loosening the earth around the first pole, and the deafening noise drove them away. They had walked halfway back to the assault course when they heard shouts, and felt a rumbling under their feet. The rumbling grew louder, and the ground shook. Paula screamed, and they all began to run instinctively away from the cliff edge. James looked back over his shoulder in time to see the crane topple over, in slow motion. It was moving forwards towards the sea, and the weight of the remaining bungee rig was just enough to cause it to overbalance. The tip of the crane stooped forwards and disappeared over the edge, pulling the rest down after it.

The noise of the ground rumbling was added to by yells and screams from the men who had been near the crane. The Egron employees were fleeing away from their drill, and the bungee operators were running wildly from the place where the crane had been moments before. All was chaos for some minutes, until the noise stopped. Then a dead silence fell, as a huge cloud of dust drifted from the cliff edge inland to the crowd of shocked spectators.

"Are you all right?" James asked, taking Paula by the elbow. She was shaking, but unhurt. He turned to Sue, and she nodded. "We're OK, but what the hell just happened?" she demanded.

"I can't understand it, that crane just couldn't have gone over the cliff – yet it has. Please God, let there have been nobody below."

"There shouldn't have been," Paula said. "There's only a tiny strip of shingle when the tide is out, and I'm sure the tide had come in."

"I'm going to look, stay here," James commanded.

"Please be careful, James," Paula pleaded.

He walked back over the rough grass and noticed that there was now a deep furrow in the surface of the field. It led straight towards the place where the poles had been implanted, and widened as it progressed towards the cliff edge. One of the poles was still where he remembered seeing it, but the other had slid to the cliff edge, and was sticking up at a low angle to the ground. James realised what had happened – a landslip. He shouted to the frightened workmen, asking if they were all accounted for.

The Egron men were all present, but he could only see one of the bungee operatives, standing trembling a little way away. He pointed, and James followed the line of his shaking arm. A yell came from the cliff edge. James crept forward, testing the ground carefully. More earth could slip, and he had no idea how serious this could get.

He gave the furrow a wide berth, and went to the right of it, to the part of the field where the beach could be seen. People on the sand were standing pointing up at the cliff and shouting. James could now see the hands of the second bungee operative, who was dangling over the cliff edge, clinging to clumps of grass. He was struggling to gain a foothold, but his feet just dislodged more earth as he kicked and thrashed about. One of the tethers lay on the ground, and James gingerly edged forward to grab it. He lay on his stomach and wriggled forward until he could grasp it. He pulled it towards him and tied one end round his waist, then flung the other end over to the desperate man. "Grab it!" he yelled.

The man was too afraid to let go of the grass, but James kept shouting at him until he lunged for the tether with one hand. He got hold of it on the second try, and with an agonised glance at James, shouted back "Can you hold my weight?"

"Yes, I can." By this time one of the Egron men had crept along the grass beside James, and he too got hold of the tether. It was enough to instil confidence in the terrified victim, and he let go of the grass clump and grabbed the tether. James immediately began to pull, and they hauled him over the edge. "Don't stand up!" James ordered him, and they continued to pull him until he was well clear of the unstable ground. He scrambled along the ground and launched himself at them, landing flat on his stomach between them. The three of them inched away from danger.

Several bystanders had called the emergency services, and an ambulance arrived to take the victim to hospital. He was badly shaken but seemed to have survived the ordeal. He kept thanking James, as they both gasped and rubbed their shoulders and arms.

Hours later, after a hot bath to soak his aching muscles, James rang Paula. She had just got in from visiting Kim in the hospital. She and Sue had told Kim the appalling events of the day, and agreed that the village had had a narrow escape from disaster. There had been no serious injuries, and even the man who nearly went over the cliff would recover in a short time. "I think his arms felt like they were coming out of their sockets – I know mine did!" said James.

"That was incredibly brave of you, James," Paula said softly. "No-one else went forward to help him – you could have gone over yourself. You could have been killed. It's a long drop, and the sea is shallow. I was so scared...."

"I was OK, I knew I mustn't go too close. It was a landslip, I've seen one before in....um, abroad. I think the drill must have set it off."

"But – surely you don't get a load of cliff just falling into the sea because someone drills into the soil. It looked as if a lot of ground went over."

"Yes, it did. That's why it looked so weird when the crane went over – it was carried by the slippage as much as toppling under its own weight. I couldn't believe what I was seeing."

"I didn't see it go – I was too busy running away. That's the last time I wear heels to an event like that. Do you think Egron will have to think twice about building the swimming dome on that piece of land?"

"I think it will be worse than that. The whole area will have to be looked at. I don't know enough about what causes landslips to say how bad it could be. But I don't think they'll be happy bunnies tonight. Anyway, how was Kim?"

Paula hesitated. "We didn't stay long. She's in a bad way, absolutely devastated."

"Devastated? Over Chewter?"

"The thing is, James, it looks like she identified the body as – her husband."

"You're joking."

"She said to us, "It was Steve". Then she started sobbing again. We didn't know what to say, it was awful."

James grunted. "Did you ever meet Steve?" he asked.

"Yes, sometimes at office functions. Why?"

"What did he look like?"

"Sort of medium height, average build, not bad looking – why?"

"I saw the body, Paula. The man was stocky, and I swear he was middle aged at least. How old was Steve?"

"He must have been about thirty-five when he left. Oh!"

"What?"

"Well, don't you see – he didn't leave – he was killed! So she was right all along – she never believed he had left her."

"I see. Poor Kim, what a horrible way to be proved right. But I still don't get it, I'm sure I didn't see a thirty-five year-old man in that tunnel. I'll have to ask the Inspector on Monday."

"Are you on that good terms with him then?"

"Yes, I am, as it happens," James replied with a smug grin. He paused, wondering if now would be a good time to press his advantage. "He told me there had been a bizarre incident involving you, and a mystery phone call from some loser pretending to be me."

Paula held her breath. "Are you still there?" James asked.

"Yes. It's true," Paula whispered humbly. "Someone called the school and left a message. The caller claimed to be you."

"And I gather whoever it was tried to make you change your vote on the Development issue?"

"Yes. But I didn't. And I gave you a very hard time, because I thought it was you. I'm sorry, James."

"It's already forgotten. But I hope you will know me better in the future, and never believe such a thing of me again." ('What _am_ I _saying?'_ he thought.)

"I promise I will ask you first before I believe anything rotten, is that good enough?" Paula answered, a happy smile in her voice.

"Well, it will have to do, I suppose," he teased.

If only they could have seen each other, they would have realised they were both now sitting on their carpets, cuddling their phones against their faces. They chatted a little more, reluctant to break the spell, and ended the call with a promise to go and see Kim together the next day. For a day of disaster and destruction, it ended better than either had expected.

Chapter 17 - A Quiet Sunday

The next day the early news on Clifftop FM was full of the story of the rockfall. Eyewitnesses were interviewed who gave increasingly spectacular accounts of the event, and described in gory detail the agony of the unfortunate man hanging 'by his fingernails' from the edge. His distress was apparently nothing compared to their own trauma at having to see such a terrifying spectacle. One woman claimed that she had 'nearly died of fright'.

The village was invaded by local and regional news reporters, who were followed by an outside broadcast unit from 'the telly'. Excitement was at fever pitch, and the police were obliged to stop sightseers from going to the beach to photograph the fallen rock, which lay piled up below the cliff. Safety experts appeared, summoned by the Health and Safety officer who had been roaming around the arena the day before. The land slip was carefully measured, the furrow in the meadow inspected, and the fallen earth checked. Nobody had been crushed by it, as the tide had been in far enough to deter visitors from walking on the narrow strip of shingle which appeared below the cliff at low tide. No boats had been anywhere near the area of the landslip, nor had any swimmers ventured round under the bungee jump location. By a miracle, it seemed, disaster had been averted.

Kim lay in her hospital bed and listened to local radio on headphones. She could hardly take in the news, it seemed impossible. She kept thinking that Steve would have rushed to the scene, eager to discover the cause of the landslip with his geological expertise. But Steve was dead. Steve, her husband, was not missing, not a runaway living a mysterious life with a boyfriend, not a lying, deceiving, cheating rat. She had seen a body lying under a sheet, on a slab in a mortuary. That body was Steve, because the segment of his arm they had left revealed for her to inspect, a horrible, shrivelled length of skin and bone, had nevertheless revealed the familiar 'winking dolphin' tattoo. He had loved dolphins, but she had hated tattoos, so he kept his trophy of university days a secret for a while after they met. One day during their courtship he had taken her to Brighton Aquarium and made her fall in love with dolphins before showing her his tattooed arm. She was in love with him by then, so she accepted him, winking dolphin and all.

Her mind was in torment, unable to begin the process of grieving for her dead love. She had spent so long fighting her instinctive disbelief, unable to accept the cruel story that he had left her deliberately. Now that her instincts were proved right, she was bewildered all over again. He was a murder victim, found in the basement of her own place of work. She had walked around her office, month after month, just yards above the rotting body of her slain husband. It was appalling, horrific; true but unbelievable.

The nurses quietly carried out their duties, leaving her in peace apart from bringing a cup of tea and some toast. She drank the tea, but the toast was impossible to swallow. After one mouthful she pushed the plate away, and put on the hospital headphones. They, at least, cut her off from having to make polite conversation with the ladies on either side of her. "What are _you_ in for, dear?" was not a question she felt like answering.

Her eyes were shut when her visitors arrived, and they stood wondering for a moment. Paula gently touched her arm. Kim opened her eyes, saw her friend, and smiled. Sue was there too, and a third figure – James. She felt a little confused.

"You'll have to forgive me, they gave me a sedative and I don't think it's worn off yet."

"Don't worry, darling," Sue comforted her. "We only wanted to check if you need anything. I can go to the hospital shop, and let these two talk to you, if you like."

Through the blur of the sedatives she could recall the evening before, when Sue and Paula had visited her and told her all about the astonishing end to the Extreme Sports day, and James' heroism. Now he was here, at Paula's side, and Sue was offering to make herself scarce. Kim put two and two together. "I wouldn't mind a couple of canned drinks, if you can find any – the tea is pretty dire," she replied, reaching into the little cupboard beside the bed for her handbag.

"My treat," said Sue, scurrying away. James invited Paula to sit down on the visitor's chair, and went off to find another. When he came back, Paula was tentatively exploring the subject of identification, and roped in James to confirm his version of what he saw in the tunnel. He was embarrassed, and would have preferred to have avoided such a sensitive subject, but Kim asked him to repeat what he had told Paula the day before.

"Erm, well, it was just that I thought I saw a middle-aged man, rather, well – portly, and Paula says your husband was not, er, that is, he was, had, I mean......" He stopped, confused and embarrassed.

"What he means," Paula carried on, "is that he didn't see a slim man of medium height, 'Steve' in other words. So I began to wonder if somehow the identification had gone wrong – you did say the police only let you see a little bit of an arm." She spoke gently and kept her voice low, as the woman in the next bed was straining to listen.

"And I thought they'd got a positive identification of Mr Chewter," James added, trying to regain his composure.

Kim stared at them. "Of course the _first_ one they found was Mr Chewter," she whispered.

It was their turn to stare. "The _first_ one?!" they chorused, forgetting to keep their voices down.

"You mean you don't know about the other bodies?" Kim whispered.

James and Paula looked at each other, aghast. Paula turned to Kim and leaned over near her ear. "What are you trying to tell us? There were _more_ bodies down there?" she hissed, her eyes wide with horror.

By the time Sue came back the facts had been sorted out. Kim had been told by the police that two more bodies had been found, and had been in no doubt about her positive identification of Steve. It was not difficult for her to talk about, it still seemed like a plotline for a film, not real at all. If she was ever to accept that Steve was gone from her life, she knew she had to get her head around the reality. It was oddly comforting to know that Steve could not have wanted to desert her, and would have come home to her loving arms, given the choice.

Sue was equally appalled at the news. "You mean Steve and someone else – down there – all the time – ye gods! Oh, Kim, you poor darling – no wonder you ended up here!"

No-one knew what to say. They stood there while Paula patted Kim's hand and Sue stroked her hair. James, feeling like a fool, offered to get a hot drink for everyone. No-one wanted one, so he reassured Kim that she would not be expected back at work until she was feeling up to it. The little group fell silent again, until eventually a nurse came to their rescue by saying that more than two visitors was against the rules, and anyway visiting time was nearly over. They promised to come again the next evening, but Kim said she would probably be discharged. "Call us and let us know," they told her.

As they were about to leave Frayminster Hospital Sue remembered Imogen's anxiety over Cuffy, so she asked at Reception if a Mr Cuthbert Acres was a patient. The receptionist recognised Sue, and co-operated with a thorough trawl through the computer records. There was no sign of him as a current or recent patient, so Sue asked if Angela Wallace, a social worker friend of hers, was around. "You're in luck, Sue," the receptionist replied. "I saw her come in just half-an-hour ago to sort out an admission. Try A&E, she's probably still with the patient."

Sue dragged the other two down the long corridors to the A&E department. "I'll explain later," she promised the other two. "As long as you explain over lunch in the Gull," James grinned. Paula looked at him, and a little smile passed between them.

The A&E department was quiet, which was normal for a Sunday lunchtime. A typical Saturday night in Frayminster town centre produced the usual messy consequences, added to the victim from Pebbleton cliffs. These had been cleared through the system hours ago, so only a few small groups of people were sitting in the rows of red plastic chairs. A large family tried to console one of their crying children, and a little way from them a bored wife sat reading a magazine, while her husband beside her threw back his head and clamped a wad of tissues to his nose. "Do you reckon she punched him?" James whispered to Paula, and she giggled.

Sue headed straight to the third group, an elderly couple who were being helped to fill in forms. The lady assisting them was Angela, and Sue stood in her line of sight until she was noticed. Angela looked up, and Sue mouthed the words "One quick question?"

Angela pointed out to the old couple the places on the forms where their signatures were required, and stood up. Sue murmured her question, and Angela nodded immediately. A very brief conversation was enough to secure the information needed. Angela sat down again with her clients, and Sue returned to her friends.

"He's in a home, one of those extra secure ones for dementia patients. I think I'll go there this afternoon, and maybe I'll ask Imogen if she'd like to come too. Of course, Angela wasn't really supposed to tell me, Data Protection and all that, but it ain't what you know it's who you know!"

"Who are we talking about?" James asked.

"Oh, sorry – you haven't been here long enough to know Cuffy. He is quite a fixture in Pebbleton. Elderly, but very upright and smart. In winter he wears a trilby, and in summer a straw boater, and everyone recognises him in the village. He's completely harmless, but definitely eccentric. His folks used to own land around here, so he thinks any decisions round the village need his input. He often comes into Reception and talks to Imogen – he's got a real soft spot for her. But he talks in such old fashioned language that it makes us giggle."

Paula agreed with this analysis. "I've seen him many times, but not recently, come to think of it. Is that why Imogen was worried about him?"

"Yes, she sees him so regularly that she missed him. I think she has a soft spot for him too, if the truth be told. He spoils her rotten, I have to make her share the chocolate he brings her, or she'd be as fat as a house and have no teeth. It's a sacrifice, but someone's got to do it."

They laughed, knowing Sue's generous curves were mostly due to her obsession with chocolate. They reached the Gull Inn, but the car park was packed full. "Sundays are always too busy," Sue remarked. "What about the Three Squires?"

"Never heard of it, is it any good for food?" James asked. "Not bad," Paula put in, feeling quite peckish herself. "It's on the way out of the village, you go up Edge Lane and turn right at a little junction after you run out of houses. Blink and you'd miss it."

They got back into James' car and directed him as he drove away from the sea and into the countryside behind Pebbleton. Sure enough, along a winding lane they came to a rather run-down inn, with an almost deserted car park. "This doesn't bode well," said James. "Are you sure the food's any good? Not many people seem to agree!"

"Come on, I'm starving," Paula replied, "Let's try it just this once. It was all right last time I came, although I admit that was years ago. If we go on somewhere else we'll never get lunch until tea-time!"

They left the car under the shade of a tree, and pushed the big oak door to enter the gloomy interior of the pub. Coming in from the sunlight they could barely see, but they could hear a low murmur of conversation from a few drinkers at tables around the room. A surly barman leaned his elbows on the counter, while a scruffily-dressed local mirrored the pose from the public side of the bar. Everyone slowly turned to stare at the newcomers, and the room fell silent.

James advanced to the bar. "A pint of bitter, please, and – ladies, what will you have?"

The two women gave him their modest order, and they looked around for a free table. There was one near a rather dirty window, but it was farthest from the rest of the clientele, so all three by mutual consensus headed for it. James pulled out chairs for the ladies, which produced a muffled snicker of laughter from someone, and then he went back to collect the drinks. "That'll be ten quid," the barman grunted.

James was about to hand over a ten-pound note, expecting a decent amount of change. "I beg your pardon?" he asked in astonishment.

"Ten quid."

"I don't think so. Trading Standards would be very interested in your pricing system. These drinks are worth six pounds at the most, and if you want us to order food, I shall expect a properly priced menu first."

The room erupted with jeers, and someone shouted, "Who d'yer reckon y'are, wiv yer la-di-da ways?"

"I'm the Parish Clerk of Pebbleton," James replied calmly, turning in the direction of the unseen speaker. "And I don't like to see the villagers overcharged for their drinks. You have a choice, gentlemen – you won't be charged this much in any other village pub." More catcalls and laughter greeted this remark. These regulars benefited from the landlord's normal prices.

"You're the Parish Clerk?" called out a new, more respectful voice. "Blimey, ain't you the one wot's been nicked for doin' in that other bloke?"

A fresh babble of conversation broke out. Paula and Sue looked at each other. Paula fished in her purse, got up and handed James exactly six pounds. He looked the barman squarely in the eye, pocketed the ten-pound note and proffered the six pounds.

After a moment's hesitation, the barman snatched the money and crashed open the till with venom. "Only got sandwiches, if you want 'em. Three quid each."

"Are they freshly made?" Paula chipped in.

"Yeah. Ham or cheese." The barman was sullen, but wanted their money. His turnover was getting lower every year.

"That sounds fair enough, Sue and I will have ham," she whispered to James. He ordered three ham sandwiches, picked up the tray of drinks, and carried it to the table. Sue had been cleaning the wooden surface with a tissue from her bag. They felt the eyes of all the locals on them, but they had so much to discuss that they were able to ignore the rude stares.

"I just couldn't believe it when Kim told us about the other bodies," Paula whispered. "How horrible for her, having to identify Steve."

"I know," said Sue. "She must be thinking that he was down there all the time, while she was at work above."

"While we were _all_ at work above," James added, shuddering. "That must have been what the Inspector meant – he told me before I left the station yesterday, that this whole business began before I even came to Pebbleton." Paula nodded, adding "I suppose Steve must have been killed all that time ago. You see, James, she thought he'd run off with a male friend."

"Never did any such thing, of course," Sue retorted. "In a way, I'm so glad for her that she can forget that version of events. He must have genuinely set off for a job interview, and never even got to the airport. That's what the police found out originally, and it all makes sense now."

"I remember she told us the job interview never existed," Paula agreed. "No-one had heard of him at the university in Ireland, no-one was expecting him, and there was no job available. It was all made up, but it must have been convincing, as he seemed anxious to go for it. Kim was unhappy about moving from Pebbleton, but, well, you know how it is – women will always make sacrifices for a good man."

"Oooh, a good man, where can I get one of those?" Sue laughed, but James was looking intently at Paula.

"Steve was a good man, then?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," Paula replied definitely. "Kim loved him, and now she's been vindicated in believing that he loved her too. He wanted something good for them both, and I suppose that's why they got to him by making up a job offer."

"They?" James and Sue chorused.

"Well, you know – whoever did this. It seems to me that more than one person must have been involved. For a start, there was another body found with Steve's. Whoever can that be? Do you know of anyone missing?"

"No," replied Sue, "but that reminds me." She found her mobile phone and called Imogen. The others could hear Imogen's squeak of outrage at the news that Cuffy was in a home for dementia patients. The visit was settled for later that afternoon.

"Why are you so worried about this Cuffy?" James wanted to know.

"I just think he shouldn't be in that kind of home. Have you ever been in one? They are so sad, full of lost souls wandering about, because their relatives can't cope any longer. They have to be reminded and helped to wash, eat, everything. I know there has to be somewhere for those poor people, but Cuffy was immaculate. He ate well, and walked all over the place, fit as a fiddle. OK, he was living in the past, but not entirely. Imogen said he was aware of the Development, and the swimming dome. He just thought it was being built for the Olympics!"

"I wish," James groaned. "Talk about a disaster for Tourism. We'd be lucky to get the old folks' outing here now, with half the cliff falling into the sea."

"Half! You do exaggerate. But I know what you mean. I suppose there will have to be a major enquiry," mused Paula.

"I heard the Health and Safety man on the phone, after the landslip," said Sue. "He was asking for a geologist to be sent. Funny, when you think about it – Steve was a geologist, and he could have done the job."

"A geologist? Really?" said James, thoughtfully.

"What? You think there's a connection?" Paula asked.

James did not answer as the barman suddenly appeared at his elbow and plonked down a large plate of ham sandwiches. He slapped a handful of serviettes on the table, and held out his hand. "Nine quid."

There was a large pile of sandwiches. To their surprise, they looked very appetising, made with generous hand-cut slices of bloomer loaf and stuffed with plenty of real ham off the bone. The plate appeared to be clean, too. James quickly handed the man the ten pound note from earlier, and smiling up at him, said, "Keep the change."

The man took the money and gave a barely concealed snort of contempt. After he departed they fell on the food, unconcerned that they had to share a plate. The sandwiches were indeed delicious. "Amazing what a threat can do," James whispered. "The words 'Trading Standards' or 'Environmental Health' - either seems to have a marvellous effect on service standards," he grinned.

They munched happily, oblivious of the hostile stares of the rest of the bar's occupants. As they finished, a little man with a rat-like face sidled over to their table, and introduced himself as the president of the Working Men's Association. "I'd want to ask you a question," he demanded.

James explained that he was not a spokesman for the Council, but a public servant and Council employee. "Don't matter," the little man replied, and they realised it was his nasal voice they had heard earlier, identifying James as having 'done in the other bloke'. Clearly this had not deterred him from confronting the supposed murderer.

"Oh well, I'll do my best to answer – though if it is about the death of the previous Clerk, I can make no comment, except to say that the police are quite satisfied that I had nothing to do with it."

"Nuffink to do wiv that. I jist want to know why you let them take our livelihoods – all that land sold, now we got no jobs. All our lives we bin working on the land, man and boy. We can't get jobs wiv some buildin' company, or learn a new trade at our time o' life. What made yer do it?" he whined. "Money, I'd say. An' you," he pointed accusingly at Paula, "You're one of 'em. I recognise you from paper, you're Councillor Somebody. You were in on it."

To the surprise of the women, James pulled out the fourth chair at the table an invited the man to sit down. Taken aback, he obediently sat. James spoke gently: "I do feel for you. It is never easy to change your way of earning money – I've been there myself. Miss Cheam and I are merely employees and have no say in these decisions. And I must correct you on behalf of Councillor Rivers here. It is a matter of public record that she voted against the Development."

"Did yer?" the little man asked, softening. Paula nodded.

"Well good on yer, girl," he smiled, showing teeth brown from years of tobacco. "Maybe yer not _all_ like them Squires."

"Like what Squires?" Sue interrupted. The man cocked his head to one side, thought for a moment, then made a decision. "Come outside, an' I'll show yer," he invited.

They were ready to leave the dingy bar, so they followed him outside. "See that?" he pointed up to the pub sign. Beneath the title 'The Three Squires' hung a cracked and fading painting on a wooden board. They could see three men in colourful tricorn hats and matching coats, with spades over their shoulders. Behind them a brown hill partly obscured the view, which consisted of a river winding through a green valley.

Their guide explained. "Him in red, that's Squire Monkford, him in yellow, tall bloke, is Squire Acres, and the fat one in blue is Squire Clandecy. They was all about as powerful as each other years ago, and they did something to take the water from us. Forced our families to work for 'em, on their land, 'cos our folk couldn't grow much after the river went."

"The river went?"

"Look! Look at the picture. They dug some kind of mudbank, and made the river go to _their_ fields, turnin' it away from its proper course. Used to go down to beach, in gap between them cliffs. Weren't no good our families protestin', they was a law unto themselves. See 'em up there – arrogant bastards, all of 'em. We worked for 'em, no choice. But we hated 'em. Folks from the Edge hate rich folks, like you jist saw in there. They took against yer because they saw yer as rich folks."

"We ain't – aren't – rich!" protested Sue, hoping he wouldn't notice her holiday tan.

"And all this must have happened centuries ago," Paula reminded him.

"Edge folks got long memories," was the answer.

"Why do you call it 'the Edge'?" James enquired.

"That was the river – blimey, yer don't know _nuffink_ about this place, do yer? The river Edge – why d'yer fink it's called Pebbleton-on-Edge?"

There was a moment of silence while this sunk in. James was the first to speak. "I suppose I thought it meant the cliff edge, although now I come to think of it the White Cliffs of Dover doesn't make it 'Dover-on-Edge'. Good grief, so there was a river flowing between the cliffs down to the beach, and now it's – well, where is it?"

"Some trickled back in the old river bed in the valley, but mostly it's gorn underground," the little ratty-faced man replied with grim satisfaction. "Didn't do 'em much good, playin' wiv nature. Them Squires got no benefit after a while, 'cos the river wouldn't run where they wanted it. Water takes its own way, an' it disappeared. That's why they couldn't make their big profits after a while, an' they started sellin' up. First Monkfords went, then most of Acres. All at each other's throats, they were, mind you. Only Clandecy hung on – he got Monkfords best land, and I reckon 'e did some jiggery-pokery 'imself wiv water, 'cos 'e did all right until war came along. Only a few of us left now, workin' on the land, until yer stupid Development."

He seemed to remember that none of his audience could be held responsible for the Development, and grinned suddenly at James. "Well done fer standin' up to fat Des," he congratulated him. "He's a tightwad, an' no mistake. Would'a done yer for ten quid an' far more, if yer'd let 'im. 'Tradin' Standards' – nice," he chuckled. "Yer should'a seen 'is wife makin' them sandwiches out back – he stood over 'er like an 'awk, tellin' 'er ter put in more 'am. She couldn't believe 'er ears!" He rubbed his hands in glee, wheezing and sniggering.

They took their leave of their new friend, who now considered himself their personal guide. He directed them back to the main road with great care, and they waved goodbye to him. "Let's hope he tells his mates in the Working Men's Association that we are the good guys," James laughed.

Sue was looking at her watch. "I'll have to hurry, I'm meeting Imogen in fifteen minutes. Hey, you know what I was thinking? Cuffy must be the last of the Acres family. He's tall, like the Squire Acres on the pub sign. No wonder he thinks he has to help run the village."

James dropped Sue at her house and she jumped in her car. The little old Mini zoomed away almost immediately. "She drives like the Stig on Red Bull," Paula laughed.

"Unlike you – I've noticed you are a very careful driver," James remarked. "That's not a criticism – it's a compliment."

"Thank you. You're not bad yourself."

They sat quietly in his car, unwilling for the encounter to end. "It wasn't a good idea to push our luck asking for coffee at the pub, but can I buy you one now?" James asked.

"I've let you buy enough today, James," Paula replied softly. He flinched inside – here it came, the brush-off. She wanted to get away from him. But she continued, "How about I make us a coffee at my place – we can sit in the garden, it's a pity to waste a lovely afternoon in a café."

He felt his heart lift. "Sounds lovely," he replied.

He never quite understood how it happened that afternoon, but he found himself sitting on a rug on the grass under a willow tree, behind the block of flats where she lived. They drank coffee from a flask, ate blueberry muffins, and he ended up telling her his life story. His _real_ life story. He told her years later that it was the blueberry muffins that did it. But he guessed it was just that she was a really good listener, and the time was finally right.

Chapter 18 - James

"I was brought up in a children's home," James explained. "It was fine really, at least it was all I knew – I can remember looking at other children with their parents, and wondering what it was like to only have one or two brothers or sisters, instead of dozens as I had. Children are amazingly adaptable. I particularly liked one of the ladies who ran the home, she let me call her 'Auntie Viv'. And I liked the chap who came in to take us on nature walks. In my head they became my pretend parents. I wished I could have had a bit more of their attention sometimes. But you got used to sharing the grown-ups around you, not being too demanding. Maybe that came in useful later, who knows."

"I never found out who my parents were, and I suppose now I never will. Apparently I was left in a community hall entrance just before the WI had a meeting, and I was taken into care – at least whoever left me had the sense to plan I would be found. I was about six weeks old, and cute as a button, according to Auntie Viv," James smiled.

Paula smiled too, and softly urged, "Go on."

"Well, I got bigger and less cute, but I did fine at primary school, so I was put in for a scholarship to a rather remarkable school. They took one poor child for every rich student. It sounds horribly patronising but it worked – the rich kids were being trained to understand that not everyone lived as they did, and the poor kids got a glimpse of another world to aspire to. I was a natural mimic, so I quickly picked up a posh accent from some of the real aristocrats."

"I liked to be mysterious about my parentage, as if perhaps I was the son of exiled royalty. The airs and graces I gave myself, honestly, you would have hated me. What a revolting teenager I must have been. I ended up at university, usually being taken for a toff, and I joined every club I could to turn myself into the ultimate man-about-town. Believe me, I can tango, play polo, fence and ski with the best of them."

"Really?" Paula asked, impressed. "Tango, play polo, fence and ski? Not all at the same time, I hope," she teased. "But seriously, what did you read at Uni?"

"Politics, would you believe. I had some daft idea that if I became prime minister, my real parents would come forward and claim me. But I never finished the course." He paused.

"What happened?" Paula prompted.

James took a deep breath. "Look, you can't talk about this to anyone. If I tell you, please promise me that it will remain a secret between you and me. Promise?"

Paula nodded, wondering what on earth was coming.

"I was approached by some people who I later realised were from the Secret Service, and I was invited to train to serve Queen and Country – in intelligence."

Paula's eyebrows rose. "You mean you were a spy?!"

"They don't call it that. I was trained as an operative, eventually working for MI6. Look, you _really_ can't repeat this. It's all in the past anyway, but it _is_ the reason that the police got the wrong idea about me at first. They cottoned on that my CV was faked, put two and two together, and made five."

"Wait a minute – your CV was faked? So you have no experience of doing any local government work?" Paula exclaimed.

"Actually I am probably over-qualified," James grinned. "I was not far off my degree, and I did learn a lot about the way the world runs in the course of my career as an agent. This village may be small, but the same forces act on it, the same problems affect it, as you get in any area. A county, or a country. The villains may be more deadly, and the budgets and plans may be bigger, but the good guys are still fighting the same losing battles. I was naïve enough to think that I could make a difference, find out things, and prevent bad situations from developing."

"Naïve?" Paula queried gently. "Do you think I'm naïve for trying to do good in this community?"

"No, Paula. You are a decent person who wants things to be nice for everyone. But let's face it, you haven't been able to prevent the awful things that have happened here. There are some horrible people in this world, and nothing _we_ can do will stop them. Let me explain – when you've heard my story, you might understand why I think we can only keep things as steady as possible in our own little lives, not prevent the terrible things that will continue to rock our world."

"Yes, please go on, I didn't mean to interrupt."

James smiled, and almost without realising what he was doing, caressed her hand in reassurance. She kept very still, her eyes on his face. She was aware that he was confiding in her, as perhaps he had not done with many people before. Instinctively she knew that her trustworthiness now would make so much difference – not only in their personal relationship, but in his future ability to trust others.

"I was sent on quite a few missions," James continued. "All went well for a time, the assignments were not too demanding, almost boring sometimes. And I was part of a team, so there were others who did more risky tasks than I did. But one day I was called into the office and told that I had the skills needed for a particular mission. I was flattered, I have to admit. At last it seemed I was the one chosen to 'save the situation'. You'll never guess which of my skills they needed."

"Skiing?" Paula ventured, thinking of James Bond.

"No, there were plenty of agents who could ski. No, I was chosen because I am pretty good at ballroom dancing."

Paula almost burst out laughing. " _Ballroom dancing_?!"

"Yes, remember I said I could tango? I had learned at an evening class while I was at Uni, and I loved it. In my spare time I went to classes near wherever I was based, and I got to the level of being able to teach. I thought I'd kept it quiet – didn't want the rest of the guys to laugh – but the bosses knew everything you did, every sneeze. Anyway, there was a person who needed to be put under surveillance, and they knew he wanted to learn ballroom dancing. I thought it was a joke at first, until they told me who it was I had to get close to."

Paula nodded, encouraging him to keep talking. He looked sideways at the grass they were sitting on, lost in the memory of that office, and those men in command of him who had given him the assignment. He continued, choosing his words carefully.

"I won't tell you his name, but he was a powerful politician in a country that was – is – dangerous. Those who run the country don't care at all about the people – as long as they can live the high life, they carry on grabbing everything. Soon the economy will implode, that's for sure. Anyway, they showed me pictures of this man, and gave me all the intelligence they had gathered on his activities. He was suspected of illegal arms trading, and had betrayed his own country in his determination to be rich." James paused, wondering if this must sound too fantastic to Paula's ears. She waited patiently for him to continue, so he did.

"I was to get close to him by becoming his dance teacher, with assistance from a female agent who could also dance. We were sent to – well, the country in question, and we managed to present ourselves as well-known and successful dance teachers. You'd be amazed at the cover stories and documents the Department can come up with. You'd have honestly believed that we had won every medal going, and trained half the famous dancers in the world."

"And he believed it?" Paula asked, intrigued.

"Oh, he believed it all right. There's nothing like a well spoken Englishman for impressing the rest of the world. We pretended that we were too busy looking for premises for our dance academy to fit in teaching him – reverse psychology, you understand - so naturally he insisted that we postpone those plans and concentrate on teaching him and his wives to dance. He offered us an obscene amount of money."

"Wives? Plural?"

"Yes – well, I suppose that gives you a clue what part of the world we are talking about."

"No, I can think of more than one possibility!"

"Good. Well, we 'reluctantly' agreed to his offer, and set about teaching him and his family. I had been taught enough of the language to converse and get him dancing, but part of the plan was that the female agent couldn't speak a word. When I had taught him a new dance, he had to practice with her, and become so proficient at the steps that he could talk at the same time. I would leave the room and let them get on with it. We told him that in social settings, he had to be able to dance and hold a conversation simultaneously."

"I don't understand – how did that help you get any information out of him?" Paula asked, puzzled.

"I know it sounds potty, and I was convinced that we would just be there a few weeks and then be recalled, because it wouldn't work. Honestly, I was just as sceptical as you. At first he struggled to dance and talk at the same time, and only said a few things – like 'how are you today' and 'I like your dress'.

"Of course she couldn't understand a word he said – she just danced with him, never reacted at all. She smiled but she had no idea what he was saying. Gradually he became confident that he could say anything at all, and she would never be able to repeat it. The urge to talk must have overcome him, because he started to brag about what he was doing. Think about it – he was living a lie to his own government colleagues, keeping secrets from his family and just about everyone else. Secrets eat away at you inside, you long to be able to tell someone, even if, like him, it's just to boast about how clever you are. Some people tell all their secrets to their pets!"

"You mean he started talking about his arms deals?"

"Exactly. Her clothing was bugged, so everything was recorded. We had a couple of team members staying in an apartment in the city, and we took the results to them to be translated. I couldn't understand most of it, but that was just as well. I had to pretend I liked the man, and she especially had to behave as though dancing with him was the best treat of her day. Poor girl, she hated it really, he trod on her feet and had bad breath."

"Yuk!" Paula winced.

"I know. He made a pass at her once, but she was so well-rehearsed in acting dumb that she pretended he'd made a wrong move in the dance, and gestured 'No, no, no.' Then she went and started the music again, and pushed him in the right direction at the appropriate place. Fortunately he didn't try it again. She made him respect her passion for dancing – and he was a bit scared of her, I think."

"Brave girl," said Paula, wondering how attractive this unnamed female had been.

"Oh, she was brave, she knew how to handle herself, but I found her rather frightening really. She was utterly dedicated to her work, clever, but no sense of humour. Beautiful, if you like them cold and unapproachable," James replied, answering her unspoken question. Paula was satisfied.

"So you got all the information?" she coaxed him.

"Nearly. We just had to find out who his contact was, as it was thought to be a British arms dealer. There were several candidates hanging around in the capital city at the time. I started to accept invitations to his home, hoping there would be a meeting with his contact while I was there. His wives were making a fuss of me, loving the dancing lessons, so it was easy to get invited."

Paula was thinking, 'I bet they made a fuss of you, I'd kill to get a chance to dance around in your arms.' All she said was, "So you went to his house. Was it huge?"

"It was huge, yes, and you drove into a compound with barbed-wire fencing and guards. This guy had enemies, and he knew it. But once you were inside, it was all opulence and luxury. Disgusting – there were starving children just a few yards away from his property, and he was completely oblivious. I felt such a hypocrite eating at his table, but I couldn't blow my cover by letting on how I felt."

"Oh, how awful. It was a really poor country then?"

"Don't try to guess, Paula. The less you know, the less you can give away. But yes, I saw abject poverty there, and human suffering on a scale I never want to witness again. But that was not the worst of it."

"I'm sorry, I interrupted again," Paula apologised.

"He took me to his place about eight times, and I got to know his wives, his children – he had ten of them – and even his servants. I began to feel part of his family, which was ridiculous when you think what I was there to do. But I couldn't help it, they made me feel welcome, and took me to their hearts." James was no longer looking at Paula, but gazing into the middle distance, enveloped in memories of another country.

"They would offer me special local dishes, and the children would bring me pictures they had drawn, usually of me dancing with their mummies. They did their own dances too, to entertain me. I felt like a privileged uncle. I knew what _he_ was like, but the womenfolk and the children, and the servants – they were just living with him, under his control. None of it was their fault." James was looking at Paula again, an angry frown on his brow. Slowly his face became clouded with sadness, and he fell silent.

"What happened, James?" Paula whispered.

He pressed his lips together, and bending his head down, he lifted one hand to his face, holding it over his eyes. "Give me a minute," he mumbled. Paula waited patiently, watching him struggle. After a long pause, he spoke.

"The final time he took me to his house, we found the compound gate wide open, and the guards lying dead all over the place. He went berserk, wild with fury. He screamed at them, at their bodies – as if they could answer him. Then he raced inside, and I followed him. We found them – all of them – dead. Wives, children, servants – no-one left alive. Even their pet dog.........it was the most terrible sight I've ever seen. I can't forget it - I still have dreams about it. I was physically sick. And I felt so ashamed." He put his head down and stopped talking.

Paula's hands had involuntarily covered her own mouth as he told her the horrible account. She was stunned. She had no idea that James wrestled with such awful memories. They sat there on the grass under the tree, silent, lost for words. The sun poured down on the scene, the cars moved up and down the road the other side of the block of flats, and a bird sang in a nearby hedge. The minutes ticked by.

"I'm sorry," James said suddenly. "I shouldn't have burdened you with that. But I wanted you to understand why I have to be cynical about our chances of stopping the evil in this world."

"James," Paula chided gently, looking into his eyes, "I'm not a child, to be sheltered from bad things. I'm glad you told me. I know I can't share your painful memories, or lessen them, but I can _comfort_ you. He was a wicked man who made enemies, and those enemies did that awful thing. You don't need to be ashamed – you had nothing to do with what happened."

He closed his eyes, and shook his head. "You don't understand. I don't know exactly how, but it was because of us his government found out that he was betraying them, and sent troops to massacre his family in revenge. The families living nearby, the poor and starving people who he had deprived, saw the troops arrive. They told him who had killed his family, and they pretended to be shocked. They were still scared of him, you see. But really they were glad, they felt he deserved it. You could see the old people sitting in the back of the huts in the shade, they had such looks of hate on their faces."

"But I still don't see why you were in any way to blame," Paula protested, shaking her head. "How could it be 'because of you'?"

"We were foreigners, and we got close to him. I spoke to him in his own language, and used terms they thought were code words. It made them suspicious, and they started watching him. Somehow they found out what he was doing, selling his own country's arms to line his own pockets. They also thought that I was his contact, or the dealer. The massacre was timed so that I would be there with him to find the carnage."

"The other agents and I had to be got out of the country as fast as possible, and I was kept in hiding for some time. Not only were officers from his government interested in finding me, but also the _real_ contacts – they didn't know if I'd managed to identify them or not. It turned out that what was going on in that country was a small part of a vast international criminal operation, and I'd nearly blown it. My handlers wouldn't tell me the details, but I now suspect that some governments we think of as our allies were involved. I was in the middle of something I knew nothing about, and I'd been used myself."

James paused, and sighed deeply. "I know that all those deaths _could_ have happened anyway, even if we'd never arrived, but I've always felt responsible. Those innocent women and children - and the servants, who were just trying to make a living. He was a tyrant, keeping them all under his thumb, but his enemies treated them as pawns in a game. They were killed to warn him, to punish him. It was a horrible feud, and whoever got in the way was just heartlessly cut down."

"Yes, and that's why I don't think you can blame yourself," Paula insisted. "You _could_ have been a genuine dance teacher, just making a living. In fact you could have been killed yourself. He was responsible, you said it yourself - he was a tyrant. He did the dirty deals, he made enemies, he cared nothing for his neighbours who were starving. It was a terrible thing to happen, but you were in no way to blame, and you shouldn't feel ashamed."

"I felt ashamed partly because I couldn't stop myself being sick in the house. Not exactly a brilliant secret agent, eh? I resigned after that, and after some furious arguments with my bosses I managed to get myself out of my contract on medical grounds. Stress, that was the official version. They thought I'd gone nutty, due to the trauma of that day. They were most unhelpful for a few years, when I was trying to get my life back on track, until I found I was being followed by some very nasty people. I was living in Scotland under an assumed name, as a lodger with some old friends from university days. Then I must have been recognised and followed back to their house, because their garage was torched. The name of the compound where the massacre happened was scrawled on the gatepost, just to drive the point home. It was a warning. I couldn't risk putting anyone else's life in danger, so I moved again and again, to lose the tail. Finally the Department made arrangements for me to apply for the job here, with various changes to my identity, and – well – the rest you know."

"But is James your real name?" Paula asked. She felt it was a silly question, the least important concern after all he had just told her, but it was all she could think of asking.

"Yes, James Goswell is the name I was given in the home. There was a patron with the surname Goswell, who had died the year before with no-one to carry on his name. I suppose someone thought it was a nice idea. 'James' was the name of Auntie Viv's father. But don't worry – I never used the name while I was working as an agent. I had several names, but I've not been known as 'James Goswell' since University."

"And – changes to your identity? You mean – your face....?"

James managed a weak smile. "I was getting grey hair anyway, so that was emphasised. And a little work on my nose. It wasn't always straight. But nature – or old age I should say – had already changed my looks a good deal."

"Old age, indeed," Paula retorted. She sat considering him for a while, until he became uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Finally she spoke again. "There are no scars on the outside, James, only on the inside. But something can be done about that."

She laid her hand on his, and held it there, looking up into his eyes with warmth and love. He looked back at her in amazement.

"I'm a dangerous person to get close to, Paula," he warned. "I've put my friends at risk in the past, and I'm not sure I'm out of the woods yet........" He sighed glumly and looked down at her hand on his. "I thought when they found the first body in the basement that it was something my past had brought on all of you.......I can't tell you how relieved I was when the inspector told me it had begun long before I came here..........anyway, that aside, I'm a messed-up person, I'm not sure I even know how to show affection like ordinary people do....."

She sat perfectly still, looking deliberately into his eyes, maintaining her air of serenity. Inner thoughts softened the lines of her mouth, communicating her happy determination to be at his side come what may. He blinked, lifted his head again, and was astonished at the love he saw in her eyes. Gradually his lack of self-belief began to melt, and he returned her loving gaze. Slowly he leaned nearer to her, until she could feel his warm breath on her face. She closed her eyes, and he kissed her, softly and tenderly. As he pulled away a little, her eyes opened, and he said, "Paula – don't go away from me again.....please......"

"I won't. I understand now." She smiled at him, and closed her eyes again in anticipation of the next kiss.

Chapter 19 - Another Monday

"Do we get to meet the elusive Councillor Clandecy today, I wonder?" remarked Detective Inspector Helford. So far all attempts to interview him had failed. He and Dean were at the police station in Frayminster, picking up the threads of the case before returning to Southcliff Hall in Pebbleton. Dean picked up the phone on Helford's desk and dialled the now familiar number. Mrs Clandecy answered, and to Dean's surprise immediately passed the phone to her husband when told that a police officer was once again on the line. Clearly she was tired of making excuses for him.

"Yes?" Clandecy barked.

"We would like to speak to you today, sir, and would appreciate it if you could come either to the station in Frayminster or to Southcliff Hall, whichever is more convenient for you."

"Neither is _convenient_ , I am a very busy man," Clandecy replied pompously. "I will come to Southcliff Hall this afternoon, I have to see the Clerk anyway. I understand he is no longer the focus of your suspicions?"

"We have no need to interview him again at present, sir. He is not a suspect." Dean wondered if Helford would tick him off for saying too much, but his boss's head was bent over a file and he did not react.

"Then who is the chief suspect?" Clandecy demanded.

"I'm sure the inspector will talk to you about that himself later, sir. We'll see you this afternoon, thank you." Dean rang off before any more questions could be fired at him.

Helford looked up. "Motive, Dean – that's going to be the answer to this case. Steven Coulthard was a perfectly decent person, and unless you can believe that someone killed him _and_ another man, just to make his wife available, we seem to have no sensible motive at all."

"I was right, then, about the plant by his front door?" Dean pointed out.

"The what? Oh, yes, that climbing plant - yes, Dean, you were quite right. He never intended to leave his wife, his home, or his garden. Highly unlikely he was gay, either. Somewhere in this file must be the answer, but I just can't get anywhere yet. We'll have to speak to his wife again."

They left the long-suffering Beavon with another long list of questions to be answered that day, and headed for the car. "Do you think the other body is this Joey?" Dean asked.

"I wouldn't be surprised, but then I've already fallen into my own trap in this investigation, haven't I?" Helford replied.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"I told you not to get too sidetracked by any line of enquiry, but I did just that with James Goswell. Wasted a load of time, and now I've got to start looking elsewhere for a chief suspect."

"I meant to ask you about that – why did you suddenly let him go?"

"You'll just have to trust me on that one, Dean. Certain information came to light which I'm not at liberty to disclose, but he's not our killer. Let's run through any other odd behaviour. Who can you think of?"

"Er, let's see," Dean mused. "I fancy Councillor Clandecy myself, given the vicar's comments. And he has tried to dodge being interviewed. I bet he wasn't really unavailable all that time."

"OK," Helford said slowly. "Anyone else?"

"Fiona Carvell? She mucked around with the employee files," Dean suggested.

"What do you think of Kim Coulthard?" Helford asked.

"Seems like a really nice person. Surely you can't be thinking of her as a suspect?" Dean frowned.

"Wouldn't be the first time a seemingly innocent wife has killed her husband – for a reason we may not know yet. But on the whole I agree with you – she was trying to get us to re-investigate her husband's disappearance, so that ought to mean she's innocent."

"You think it could have been a bluff? Knowing we'd find him?"

"Well, she is the one person connected to both sets of deaths. Chewter was trying to get fresh with her, and for all we know her husband could actually have been having a homosexual affair with Joey Fisher. Councillor Massington told her that, remember. Suppose she killed them both in a fit of furious jealously, and later she killed Chewter because he pestered her?"

"I hadn't thought of that. But how could she have dragged bodies into the basement, and built the breeze-block wall? There would have had to have been an accomplice."

"What about her buddies, that Sue Cheam girl, and the lady Councillor – whatshername?"

"You mean Councillor Rivers? Oh, come on, sir, I can't believe you really suspect them – or Kim Coulthard, for that matter."

Helford smiled. "Let's just say it could be a useful theory, if we need to keep someone off the scent."

Dean nodded. "Tell you what, we nearly had someone else in the frame the other day – DC Parliss was looking round outside Southcliff Hall and he thought they'd found cannabis growing in the flowerbed at the side. He was so excited, he was convinced he'd broken the case. I had a feeling it was a plant I'd seen before, so I got Harry Tanner to look at it. I remembered he'd been a bit cagey early on, and told that young lad off for saying too much. Well, he nearly died laughing. Apparently it's something called cleome, the Council use it quite a lot in the gardens. The leaves do look the same shape as cannabis at first sight, but smaller. It's started to flower now, so you can see for yourself."

"Well, at least young Parliss was on the ball," Helford nodded. I would have been just as suspicious, assuming I'd even noticed it!"

They parked in a bay in Southcliff Hall car park, and met James Goswell as they approached the entrance. He was walking out of the building, but on seeing them he turned around and spoke to D.I.Helford.

"Can I have a word, Inspector?"

They trooped upstairs and went into the Clerk's office. It was still at their disposal, and James sat on a visitor's chair. The Inspector went round the desk and took the black leather chair. James began.

"Something occurred to me yesterday, when we went to visit Kim in hospital," he said, looking pointedly at Helford.

"Ah, I take it you know that she identified her husband, then," Helford nodded.

"As one of the two extra bodies you found, yes," James agreed.

"We are releasing that information today. Go on," Helford said.

"I was with Sue Cheam and Paula Rivers, and we discussed the whole thing. Sue said that Steve Coulthard was a geologist, and it occurred to me that there could be a connection with the Development. I mean, we now have geologists crawling all over the place, and the Development has got to have something to do with all this. Someone set me up with that fake phone call just before the big meeting to do with the Development. I'm not explaining this very well, but do you see what I'm getting at?"

"Yes," the Inspector replied, and wrote busily in his notebook.

"One other thing - one of the locals reckoned that there was a river that once ran between the cliffs, and out onto the beach. He said that three prominent local landowners diverted it and it now runs underground. I'm no geologist, but I wondered if that had any bearing on what happened on Saturday. If it's true, and not just local legend. I'll leave it to you, then. I expect Fiona has a pile of work for me." James got up and made for the door.

"If you get any other ideas," Helford called out after him, "please let me know!" After the door closed Helford asked Dean to get an interview set up with the most senior geologist present in Pebbleton, and then they got busy reading all the reports that had come in over the weekend. There was little to go on, but it was obvious from the autopsies on all three bodies that they had been killed by the same gun and in the same manner. Taken by surprise, the men had met their end in a quick, albeit brutal fashion. "At least they didn't suffer long, and probably had no time to feel fear," Dean commented.

"Hmph, some consolation, I don't think – anyway, one of the first two must have been killed before the other, so the second one had time to be terrified," Helford reminded him. He could only imagine the panic experienced by the second victim, seeing his companion fall dead and waiting even a few seconds for the gun to be turned on him.

"Yep, I see what you mean," Dean replied, chastened. He stopped for a moment, imagining the terror – no escape, no time left to say goodbye to your loved ones – murder was unfair on a scale beyond every other crime.

They made short work of the reports, and Fiona Carvell was sent for. The inspector wanted to 'rattle her cage' as he put it. Dean left his boss to it, and went to talk to Sue Cheam. Miss Carvell sat in the visitor's chair, her back very straight and a look of restrained irritation on her sharp features. She gave brief unhelpful replies to his questions, and made no attempt to think when asked if she had noticed an odd behaviour on the part of her colleagues. Even when told that Kim Coulthard's husband had been found dead, she registered no shock or sympathy. "There is a third body, a male – who do you think that might be, Miss Carvell?" the Inspector challenged her.

She lifted her nose up and looked at him with distaste. "I have absolutely no idea, and it is none of my business, therefore I cannot comment. Presumably it is his lover, if gossip is to be believed," she concluded, blithely contradicting her own principles.

The long arm of the law felt a sudden urge to slap her for such heartlessness, but refrained. "Thank you for your help, you may now get back to your job." The only satisfaction Helford had derived from the interview was that it had annoyed her and interrupted her day.

Dean came back upstairs with a white-haired lady in tow. "This is Mrs Loxwood, sir," he explained, "the mother of Councillor Clandecy. She would like a word with you."

"Please sit down," said the inspector respectfully.

Mrs Loxwood perched herself daintily on the chair. She looked meekly at the officer behind the desk. "I'm afraid I've done a very silly thing," she began.

"Tell me," was the encouraging reply.

"My son phoned me earlier to tell me off, because he seems to be in some kind of trouble with the Council. Apparently I let slip to the vicar that some land of ours was sold recently, and now they are wondering if he should have made it known during Council meetings that he had a possible interest. In the Development, I mean – once the plan went forward, my land became worth a lot more. I must make it clear that it was my land, not my son's – does that make a difference?"

"Probably not, as I understand it. But perhaps you should be talking to the Parish Clerk, not me, Mrs Loxwood. These affairs are not really my realm of jurisdiction."

"I realise that, but he also said that you wanted to interview him about the dead body you found. My son is, I'm afraid, a fool, and married to a very materialistic woman, but I will defend him this far – he would never kill anyone. Anyway, he had no way of knowing if I would leave my money to him, so surely that means he has no motive?"

D.I.Helford gazed at the fragile figure before him. 'What mothers will do to protect their young,' he thought.

"I have yet to interview your son, Mrs Loxwood, and this is a very complicated business. You have made your point, and I thank you for your honesty. Is there anything else you would like to tell me?"

She shook her head, and began to rise unsteadily from the chair. Dean rushed forward to help her. "You must forgive me," she sighed. "I have a difficult day today – I have to see the vicar now, and say my piece to him. I only hope I can maintain a Christian disposition, for I must say I am not feeling very charitable towards him at the moment."

As she was leaving the room on Dean's kindly arm, she turned back and fired one more question. "By the way, they tell me Kim Coulthard is in hospital – is it true? I was hoping to see her, and ask if she would like to accompany me on a holiday. Poor girl, she had had a dreadful time of it – she could do with getting completely away from things."

Helford looked up in surprise. "You know her?"

"Oh dear me, yes – we met at watercolour classes years ago, and we've kept in touch ever since. Wonderful girl, even though we have so many years between us we get on so well. Will she be in hospital long, do you know?"

"I'm afraid I have no idea – but taking her on a holiday is probably a very good idea, she certainly could do with getting away from everything," the Inspector agreed.

After Mrs Loxwood had gone, Dean grinned. "Maybe you're right, sir – that little old lady is planning the getaway for Mrs Coulthard!"

"Sure, they're in it together – one fires the gun and the other bricks them up in the basement. But seriously, what did you make of that little interview?"

"I thought she was trying to get her son out of trouble. As any mother would, I suppose. And he would automatically assume he'd inherit, no question about it."

"Hmmmm. I got the impression that her son had tried to make her feel responsible if he gets into trouble. I won't be surprised if he's an overgrown child, not willing to take the blame for his own actions, that sort of thing," Helford mused.

"Sir, I spoke to Imogen and her friend Sue downstairs – they had something interesting to tell. They went to visit an old gentleman who often comes in here, because they hadn't seen him for a while. They found him in a dementia care home, put there by his relatives, though he isn't in need of that kind of care, according to them. And they recognised one of his relatives leaving as they were arriving. It was Mrs Wentley, the wife of Councillor Alfred Wentley. He told them that she is his sister, though he doesn't like her very much."

"This is all very interesting, but I fail to see what bearing it has....." Helford complained.

"Well, sir, they have this crazy theory – at least it may not be crazy -" Dean began, then stopped in confusion. Fortunately his boss had remembered the impression Sue Cheam made at the police station, and wanted to know any theory she had conceived. "Bring Sue Cheam up here, I want to hear this myself," he commanded.

Sue duly arrived, glad to get away from a particularly tedious pile of filing. She plunged into her story. "We think Cuffy – sorry, Mr Cuthbert Acres - is one of the last of a family who once owned land round here. We also think he's been put in this home to keep him quiet while his property is sold, or something like that. There were originally three rich families round here – there's a pub called The Three Squires because of them – and he looks just like one of them. His surname is Acres, you see."

The inspector scratched his head. "Three squires, you say? Would that be the same three landowners Mr Goswell was talking about?" He turned to his second-in-command and asked, "What were the three names that shopkeeper gave us, Dean? You know, on Edge Lane?"

Dean scrabbled through his notebook, and finally announced, "Clandecy, Monkford, Acres, sir."

"That's it!" Sue crowed. "That's them – and Cuffy thinks he has to help run the village, you see. You should have seen him in that home, it was awful. Surrounded by people drooling and snoring – and yet he was smartly dressed, upright, and eating properly. He walks round the place all the time to keep fit. He was under the impression that he was in some kind of army hospital, for his own protection. He said his relatives had told him that his home was under siege by terrorists, and he had to sign papers to allow them to defend his property. I've no idea what he really signed, but I'll bet it was a Power of Attorney. He told us his address, and we went past it on the way home. It's up for sale!" Sue finished triumphantly.

The Inspector sat looking at her for a while. Finally he spoke. "All right, Miss Cheam – you've been a big help, and we will look into this business, I promise you." When she had left the room, he mused aloud, "Clandecy, we have one of those coming in later. Monkford – apparently Mr Chewter was the last of that line. Now Acres – the last of them in a home, with his property up for sale. Land, money – so it all ties up."

Sue had wanted to ask so many questions, but she was obliged to trudge unwillingly back to her filing. The two policemen left the room after making a few phone calls, and set off in the car for Frayminster Hospital. They were permitted by the stern ward sister to spend a little while with Mrs Coulthard, who was slowly improving, though still mildly sedated.

Kim saw the two men approaching, and recognised them. She reluctantly sat up and rubbed her eyes. As far as she was concerned, the worst news had already been given her, so anything else would be less painful, surely? The nurse insisted she get into a wheelchair to be taken to a quiet side ward for the interview.

"Mrs Coulthard, I'm sorry to have to disturb you again, and I hope you are doing a little better," Helford began kindly.

"Do you have news for me?" Kim mumbled.

"We had a call earlier confirming that the dental work of the second body, found with your husband's, does match Mr Fisher. We have also found out from Mr Fisher's landlord that he left his flat in a state which implied that he intended to return later that day. So we have to assume that they met up and were killed together, for the same reason, at the same time and in the same place. What do you think the motive could be?"

Kim stared woefully at the Inspector. "I just don't know, honestly – I couldn't say about Joey anyway, I didn't know him well enough. I can only speak for Steve, but I promise you he was the kind of man that everyone liked."

"Can you tell me a little more about the theory that Councillor Massington put forward – when exactly did he tell you he had heard from your husband?"

"It was the police who told me, about a week after Steve disappeared. They said they'd had information – but it took me a couple of days to ask the police where the information came from. Councillor Massington apologised for saying nothing earlier, and he was very kind.........I've thought about it over and over since you found Steve's body, and all I can think is that he must have misunderstood what Steve was talking about on the phone."

"Did he say how many times Steve phoned him, or when the phone calls were?"

"N....No," Kim replied slowly, "I think he was embarrassed for me, and didn't say much except to offer help and support. I asked him if Steve had said he was going to run away with Joey, and he just looked really sorry for me and said 'I know it's hard to accept now, but time will heal, and you will be able to move on,' or something like that. I took that to mean 'Yes'."

"I see," replied the Inspector. "I expect it will be in the original file. Has anything else occurred to you, anything that doesn't add up?"

Kim screwed up her fists and pushed them against her temples. "None of it adds up, don't you see? I could never really accept that Steve was gay, or that he'd leave me without a word. The fact that he was killed explains that part, but not why he was with Joey. He was a good husband – I remember one day, not long before he – left - I came home and found him with our wedding photo in his hands. He put it back on the wall, and when I asked why he said it was just a little lop-sided in the frame. He said it was the most perfect day of his life and he wanted the picture to be perfect too. I hadn't noticed it was lop-sided....." Her voice tailed off as her eyes misted over with tears.

"The only link between him and Joey was their jobs, I understand," Helford pressed gently. "You told us that Joey Fisher was working on the practical side as a geologist, while your husband was teaching the subject, is that right?"

Kim nodded. "They got their Geology degrees at the same university, but I don't see......they worked in totally different sectors. Joey was trying to go freelance, I think, or he'd just been sacked from a job – I'm not too clear on that. Steve was in the education sector."

"No idea who sacked Joey?" Helford leaned forward, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

Kim shook her head. "I remember Steve seemed unsure whether Joey had been the 'author of his own misfortune', as he put it. He did say Joey had been rash, so maybe he meant Joey left a good job to go freelance.....but I thought he mentioned Joey getting sacked....I was probably half-listening, you know, concentrating on the dinner, or something. I wish I'd paid attention, asked him all about it, but it didn't seem important at the time."

Helford made a note to have a list of every item from Joey's flat sent to him, if such a thing existed. He would have to talk to Mrs Fisher again, a task that filled him with dread. She was not a woman who could deal with reality, and obstinately refused to help with any suggestion or background information. From the first, she seemed to take the news that her son had been gay as an accusation, a reflection on her as a parent. She disclaimed all knowledge of his life, his friends, his work – in fact, she had washed her hands of him since he struck out on his own and left the parental home. Helford wondered if her demanding and humourless personality, or the stifling atmosphere of the home she offered him, had contributed to making Joey the person he had become.

"May we come and talk to you again, Mrs Coulthard? I feel that somewhere in what we have discussed there is a clue – and more may come back to you. Please let me know if anything does?"

Kim nodded. She too felt that she must _know_ , must have seen or heard _something_ , that would make sense of this nightmare. She was getting fed up in the hospital, and wanted to go home and look around at everything with new eyes. Perhaps the answer was there, staring her in the face....

The policemen left her in peace and went to meet the geologist Dean had contacted earlier. They had been told that this was a Mr Theo Fitzwilliam, from the British Geological Survey. The eminent gentleman was a tall, gangly man with thinning hair and a bushy beard turning from ginger to grey. He met them at the cliff top where the landslip had occurred, and where his team were now taking samples and measurements. He turned towards them, with a hand extended to be shaken. Under his arm was a thin file.

"Fitzwilliam, BGS – call me Theo. You'll be wanting this, I suppose," was his opening remark, as he pushed the file into the hands of Inspector Helford. "Wish we'd pursued it now, but hindsight is an exact science, as they say."

The Inspector was mystified. He turned the file over and saw 'Pebbleton enquiry' scribbled in pencil on the front. "You've lost me – what is this?" he asked.

"Got an enquiry at the BGS about a year ago – had no resources to follow it up. We get so many reports – and that's without our own data coming in. Nearly three hundred tremors alone last year, you know, and that's without actual earthquakes and landslides. Dickens of a lot of work to chase them all up. Chap seemed qualified anyway, don't know why he didn't trust his own findings."

"Earthquakes? In Britain?" Dean couldn't help asking.

"Good heavens, yes – about every eight years we get a big one – mag five or over," was the throw away reply.

"Mag – magnitude five?" Dean breathed in astonishment.

Fitzwilliam snorted with laughter. "Don't worry, old chap – most of them are in the north-west. Different story there – Eurasian plate shifting in the Atlantic, of course. No, no – you don't get that this side. More of this sort of thing -" He indicated the offending cliff edge with a dramatic wave of his arm.

Helford, meanwhile, had opened the file with a growing sense of excitement. The first page justified this with the information that the enquiry had been made by a Mr Joseph Fisher, and requested data from any previous surveys of the Pebbleton area. The date of the enquiry was two months before Joey and Steve disappeared. A note on the enquiry form stated that a reply had been sent, inviting Mr Fisher to come to the British Geological Survey offices and do some research for himself.

The file contained little else, except a note that Mr Fisher had come to the offices and taken some copies of previous survey findings. "Did you meet Mr Fisher yourself?" Helford asked.

The bearded boffin, lost in thought as he viewed the fascinating groove in the grassy surface, jumped like a startled sheep. "Not me, was up Everest last year, base camp, lower slopes you understand – last chance to see the snowfields. Global warming, old boy – took a sabbatical, wanted to see a few things before they disappear for good."

"I see. How did this file come to light now, may I ask?"

"Got the call to come and look at your landslip – fantastic example, by the way – and checked our database for other enquiries. Also, the locals here are all talking about your spot of bother at the Council building – murder, wasn't it? When your underling called I had one of my lads copy it for you – thought you might be asking about it."

Helford wondered what Beavon would make of being called an 'underling'. "Thank you. Have you found anything unexpected here?"

"Too soon to make an official statement, I'm afraid. But off the cuff, I'd say only a lunatic would build anything here."

Helford's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"Good grief, man – the place is a disaster waiting to happen! Strictly off the record, you understand. You had rotten weather here last week, didn't you – lots of rain? Well, that helped to set things in motion. All that water gets stuck - non-porous clay partway down, it can't sink through that – some can seep out of the cliff face, but a whole lot at once will make the cliff top so heavy it overcomes the normal friction keeping it in place, and off it goes – see? Oh, and do what you can to keep the dratted fossil-hunters away from the undercliff – idiots will get themselves killed!" With that, the hirsute expert turned on his heel and marched over towards his subordinates. "I'll send a copy of the report," he yelled over his shoulder as an afterthought.

"Interview over, I suppose," grinned Dean. "But we didn't tell him about the river...." One look from his boss sent him running after the geologist, and Helford watched as there was a pantomime of pointing and gestures to indicate the theory that James Goswell had passed on.

"What did he say?" Helford asked when Dean returned.

"He said 'of course there was once a river after the last Ice Age, how did I think the gap had got there between the cliffs'. But I think he was interested in the idea that someone diverted the river over to the land on that side. It would mean that even more water was trying to get out of the cliff than just the normal rainfall effect. At least I think that's what he was saying!"

"Interesting," Helford muttered. "We'll have to wait for the official report, but it sounds like someone didn't do their homework properly before the Development was allowed to happen."

They returned to the car and sat poring over the file. Joey had given his contact details as 'Merringe & Sons Land and Chartered Engineering Surveyors' with a London phone number. Helford rang and enquired if they could help him with information on their employee. He was told that Joey had been employed for only a three-month contract, and had failed to complete this. He had vanished just two days before the end of his contract. They had tried in vain to make contact with him, and his mobile phone had been switched off ever since. "Do you have any idea who he was working for before yourselves?" was the next question. The helpful person at the other end promised to find out and call back.

"I have a feeling we are finally getting somewhere," Helford said quietly, with a determined smile.

Chapter 20 - Councillor Clandecy

Back at Southcliff Hall, life was returning to a semblance of normality. James had taken the precaution of having a recorded message play every time anyone phoned the Council, which advised them that the Council had no information about the landslip. A notice on the entrance door told a similar tale. Reporters were banned from pestering the Reception staff, and a blanket of silence about the murders was maintained. The basement was out of bounds, still taped off with the blue and white streamers that reminded everyone of the awful scene beyond, and one uniformed officer attended every day in case he was needed, but the rest of the building had been handed back to the Parish Council for the daily business of life in Pebbleton.

Imogen sat behind the Reception desk, calmly taking notes of the latest complaint from Mrs Bathgate. It seemed her allotment had been ransacked by thieves, and her precious crop of blackberries was all gone. "Ow-my s'pposed ter make me apple and blackberry jam now?" she wailed. "Yer got enuf pleecemen 'ere, get one of 'em on ter summink useful!" Imogen restrained herself from remarking that the famous crop of blackberries only existed because the allotment was overrun with brambles, and was the cause of many complaints from the adjacent plotholders.

The Inspector and Sergeant Dean, returning to interview Councillor Clandecy, made a strategic detour to avoid getting involved with this contretemps, and to escape the malodorous lady herself. They arrived upstairs and were accosted instead by Fiona Carvell, who flew out of her office and used her elbow technique on Helford, pinning him between the wall and a metal stand bearing a 'Meeting in Progress' sign.

"There has been a call for you – I made a note of the name, number and time," she announced. Her tone was peevish, as if the Inspector had become yet one more irresponsible member of staff for her to chase. Life, her attitude implied, was being made a misery by the thoughtless individuals who had the impudence to get themselves murdered in the Council building. She thrust a sheet of paper at the Inspector. "Councillor Clandecy has arrived, but he is with the Clerk and they are not to be disturbed," she announced pompously. She disappeared back into her office as suddenly as she had emerged. Clearly she was playing the martyr, and wanted revenge on Helford for numerous unspecified grievances.

Helford detached his sleeve from the sharp metal edge of the sign, and scanned the paper. "Coffee, Dean, please," was the only remark he could utter after such an assault. As they headed for the Clerk's office to offload their cases and papers, the sound of two male voices alternating in conversation came from a room along the corridor. One voice was raised in anger, the next mollifying, loud then quiet, shouting then appeasing, like a strange duet between a trumpet and a soft piano.

When Dean brought the tray of coffee and biscuits in to his boss he found him just ending a phone call to Beavon. A list of items removed from Joey's flat had actually been made, because after giving up hope that the tenant would return, the landlord had been wise enough to make such an inventory before clearing the flat out for a new occupant. The list had been lodged with the local police, and they had also been left with a letter from the landlord stating that the deposit was now forfeited in lieu of rent owed. "Poor confused Joey – look at this." Helford pointed to one item on the list he had hastily scribbled: 'Nail polish'. "A few personal items that were sent to his mother's address – we can probably get DNA from them. Let's hope she kept the lot."

"Where is all the stuff the landlord moved out?" Dean wanted to know. Helford sighed, "The local force advised him that he was within his rights to dump it – so he did, at his own expense. Can't really blame him, he thought Joey had done a moonlight."

"What else did Beavon have to say?" Dean was aware that his colleague was extremely efficient, and had worked himself out of the chance to accompany Helford by being too brilliant at the desk work. After a whole morning of Beavon's work, there would be greater results than this.

"He checked with the estate agents selling the old gent's house – you know – Mr...."

"Mr Acres?"

"Yes, him, and they confirmed that it was Mrs Wentley who put it on the market, using a Power of Attorney signed by her brother."

"I should think it would be difficult to prove that anything dodgy was happening. I didn't want to upset Imogen, but it sounds like the old guy _is_ bonkers," Dean admitted.

"Yes, you could be right. All the same, if he was quite capable of taking care of himself....and didn't want his house sold.....anyway, for the time being, the agents are putting a note on the file to consult us before going anywhere with a possible sale."

"Sounds fair enough. That all?"

"No, the phone call to Frayminster School was traced. The one made on the day of the Council meeting, supposedly from James Goswell to Paula Rivers. It did come from here, but it could have been any phone in the building. The time was two-twenty."

"You mean it could have been James Goswell?"

"I mean it could have been anyone in the building at the time, Dean. Can you ask the inimitable Miss Carvell, she's bound to have some kind of record. Or even your favourite on Reception – don't people have to sign in and out for Fire Regulations? And I think we should have Councillor Wentley in again – just to see if we can rattle _his_ cage a bit."

Dean was about to leave the room when Helford's mobile phone rang. He hung around, hoping it was a break in the story of Joey Fisher. Sure enough, it was the helpful personnel lady from Merringe and Sons, and the news made Helford's eyebrows go up and stay up. As the caller rang off, his lips formed a whistle.

"Sir?"

"That, Dean, was the most interesting piece of news yet. It appears Mr Joseph Fisher was taken on by Merringe on a three-month contract to try him out – they were impressed by his qualifications and knowledge, but he was given a bad reference by his previous employers – Egron Developments."

"Joey Fisher worked for Egron? Then he could have been sent here to do surveys for the Development!"

"Precisely my thoughts. Another job for you - find out who was his boss at Egron and which projects he worked on. And why they were unhappy with him."

"Right." Dean raced off to set things in motion with Fiona Carvell, Imogen Stanley and Councillor Wentley. He asked Imogen to find Egron's number for him, which she achieved with a few mouse clicks. A lady wandered vaguely into Reception, and stood waiting for Sergeant Dean to finish his enquiry. As he left, he stopped a few feet from the desk, with that familiar feeling of some part of his mission left undone. He heard the lady ask, "I wanted to know if we can have some of those W.I. machines in the Over-50's Club."

Dean smiled to himself. A vision of Women's Institute robots swum before him, mechanically serving cakes and jam, and singing 'Jerusalem' in tinny voices to an audience of retired gentlefolk.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean," Imogen replied. The vague lady waved her arms gently in the air, and attempted an explanation. "You know, the things you stand on and you have this white thing in your hand, with a strap round your wrist, and you wave it like this to hit the ball - only there isn't a real ball, it's on the screen....."

"Oh! You mean a Wii machine!" Imogen cried, relieved to have made sense of this. Dean, still within earshot, was convulsed with laughter. He fled upstairs before making a sound like a snort. Miss Carvell, just emerging from her room, gave him a look of disgust. "Here," she snapped, "the list you wanted."

"Thank you," Dean squeaked, trying to control himself. "Stupid boy," Fiona muttered under her breath. He regained the Clerk's room where Helford was writing in a notebook. There was a pregnant pause, which Dean did not dare interrupt. He knew the signs of his boss arriving at a significant deduction.

Finally Helford spoke. "A.D. – remember the note in Chewter's diary, the person he was going to meet the night he was killed? What if it wasn't someone's initials? What if it was the name of a place – like.....Angie's Den? Or......maybe two people? Sometimes my wife writes 'Pick up J C M' in her diary, and it means Jenny, Christine and Marie, her buddies from the tennis club. See what I mean?"

"Yes, I see what you mean. A lady downstairs just asked for a W.I. machine, and she meant a Wii machine. Initials instead of a word. Could it have been 'Ad' as in 'Advert'? I'll get the Egron phone call out of the way, then I'll look up any places round here that start with AD. Oh, and Councillor Wentley had agreed to come in at half past three this afternoon. I figured you'd have dealt with the other one by then."

"Mmmmmm...." the Inspector replied, still deep in thought. Dean sat down and dialled the central London number Imogen had given him, and was directed through a lengthy call centre menu before speaking to a female in Human Resources. After explaining that he was part of the police investigation at Pebbleton, he got a frosty response. "I think you'd better speak to the Manager," he was told. After five minutes of 'on-hold' music, he gave up and rang off.

"I think I was given the bum's rush, sir," he told Helford. "Could we get the Met to send someone in there to get the information?"

His boss gazed at him, still lost in thought. Finally he spoke. "The bum's rush? You think they were refusing to assist the police in the course of their enquiries?"

"Maybe not refusing, but not helping."

The Inspector held out his hand for the phone, and the piece of paper with the number on it. He was obliged to wend his way through the menu but eventually spoke to the Human Resources department. After using the phrase 'obstructing the police' in his opening remarks, he curtly demanded to speak to Joey Fisher's former line manager, and was soon put through to a Mr Lewis Montgomery. A languid voice on the line said one word, "Montgomery?"

"Mr Montgomery, this is Inspector Keith Helford of Frayminster CID. I am making enquiries about a former employee of yours at Egron, a Mr Joseph Fisher. I have a number of questions......"

The phone interview lasted ten minutes, with the bored-sounding Montgomery becoming more agitated as the questions became more probing. "What projects did he work on?; What were your reasons for sacking him?" and so on, ended with the assurance that Helford expected Mr Fisher's personnel file to be available for collection from Egron's offices by a Metropolitan police officer within the hour. Montgomery had denied any detailed knowledge of Joey's work.

Dean was on the edge of his seat. "This is it, sir, isn't it! The motive – Joey Fisher found out that the Egron site was dangerous, and they suppressed his findings, and had him killed!"

"Whoa, there – we don't even know if he was actually working on the Pebbleton project yet. But I agree there's some motive there for getting rid of him from the company. But killing him? I wonder. We'd have trouble proving they knew about the problem. Perhaps they knew, but thought the cliff wouldn't collapse for years, and there was enough time to build, make a lot of money, and get away with the loot before anyone realised they had known all along. But would they have been stupid – or greedy – enough to risk it...."

He tailed off into silence. Then he grimly picked up the phone again and arranged with his London colleagues for the personnel file to be collected from Egron's smart address and sent to the Frayminster police station for his attention.

Dean quietly reviewed his notes, and looked at his watch. It was almost time for the elusive Councillor Clandecy to be interviewed. The Councillor was still closeted with the Parish Clerk, being grilled on his failure to declare his family's interest in the Development land sale. Dean read the list Fiona had given him, showing the Clerk's appointments for the afternoon of the suspicious phone call made in Goswell's name to Frayminster School. The first appointment was for two-thirty, with Councillor Dennis Massington. Nothing appeared to have been happening around two-twenty. Dean now remembered the other part of his mission to Imogen. He got up and went down the stairs to her desk.

Imogen was on a break, but Sue Cheam was there, on the phone. Her chubby face was creased in a frown as she struggled to understand another of the Pebbleton residents. It seemed that the oddest people had all waited until this one afternoon to lay their troubles before the Parish reception desk. "Yes....yes....I see....I'll tell Imogen. Thank you for letting us know....yes.....yes, I understand....I will....goodbye."

She put the phone down, and shook her head in wonderment. Seeing the friendly Sergeant in front of her, she smiled. "At least you are normal," she commented. Dean felt this was an inadequate compliment, but forgave her. "Having trouble with the natives?" he asked.

"That was a lady who hires the Community Hall. She says she can't get the key back to us yet because her husband was taken ill, rushed into hospital, and had emergency surgery. That part I understand, but then she starts going on about how he's very strange now, gone all religious, and she daren't leave his side in case he needs her. According to her he had an 'out-of-bed' experience – to do with the anaesthetic."

"An out-of-bed experience? I have one of those every morning, but I manage to cope!" Dean laughed.

Sue covered her face with her hands, leaned back, and groaned. "I knew she meant 'out-of-body experience', and I was trying so hard not to laugh, but she kept saying it. What have we done to deserve this mad lot, ringing up all day talking nonsense?"

"You poor thing," Dean commiserated. "I'm afraid I've come to ask a favour too, I need to see the signing-in register for the day of the big meeting, when the Development was discussed. Do you know the day I mean?"

Sue reached up to the counter and swivelled a huge book towards her. She turned the pages back until she found the correct place, and turned the book back to face Dean. "You can photocopy the page if you like, but I'll need the book back as soon as possible. We're expecting Councillor Wentley in a little later, and anyone might come in who wants to go upstairs. Only people who go upstairs sign, but I expect you know that."

"That's because of Fire Regulations, I guess?"

"Yes. If I knew what you were looking for, I could help...." Sue looked up at him with an appealing smile, hoping to be allowed to play amateur detective.

Dean smiled back, and picked up the book. "I'll bring it back immediately," he promised.

Upstairs he peeped round the door of Fiona Carvell's office and asked if he could use the photocopier. She arose in skinny outrage from her chair and snatched to book impatiently from his hands. "Don't lose the page," he warned. She turned a withering look on him, and made copies of both open leaves with an expert flourish. He picked up the A4 copies as they fell into the tray, and held out his hand for the register. She clapped it shut and smacked it into his outstretched hand.

'How I'd like to charge her with obstructing the police,' thought Dean as he returned downstairs to the Reception desk. Sue was still there, and he was tempted to have a moan to her about Fiona, or just have a chat to her. She was great fun to talk to, but training had taught him to be very careful. For all he knew Sue was a suspect, everyone was a potential suspect – how he longed for this crazy mess to be sorted out. He was getting to like some of the staff here, and couldn't bear the thought that they were all living with the knowledge that one of their number, or someone very close to that circle, was a killer. Dean replaced the book, opened it to the right page for the current day, and thanked Sue.

"All the best with Mr Grumpy," Sue grinned. She meant Councillor Clandecy, that much was obvious.

Upstairs the painful interview between James Goswell and Councillor Piers Clandecy had finished. Piers had been left in no doubt that he was expected to resign as Councillor, and was in a foul mood. If Inspector Helford had not appeared at the right instant in the corridor outside the Clerk's office, Piers Clandecy might have walked out of the building. But Helford had been waiting for the door along the corridor to open, and planted his sturdy frame in position at the psychological moment.

Clandecy was ushered in to the Clerk's room and took a seat. The Inspector sat down in the Clerk's chair, and explained that he would wait until his Sergeant returned before beginning the interview. Clandecy raised his eyes to heaven, and settled in his chair with a huffy expression on his face. They remained in uncomfortable silence until Dean returned, which was mercifully only a couple of minutes.

Helford opened the interview by cautioning Clandecy, which surprised Dean. The soon-to-be resigning Councillor merely regarded the Inspector with a sour face, and made no comment. A flood of questions followed, and the answers were much as expected – he had never met either Steve Coulthard or Joey Fisher, he knew nothing about their deaths, and could tell the police nothing helpful. When asked his opinion of Gerald Chewter, he tilted up his chin, and glared at the officer before replying that Chewter was 'a creepy little upstart'.

"An upstart? What do you mean by that?"

"He was an inferior tail-end of a second-rate family, that's what I mean. I have no idea who killed him, but he will not be missed, and the world is a better place for his removal."

Dean almost winced. Chewter's funeral was to take place on the following day, and he had not heard that anyone at the Council offices would attend.

Helford ignored the derogatory remarks and continued: "What can you tell me about his relationships here while he was Parish Clerk?"

Clandecy shrugged. "I have very little to do with the staff here," he sniffed. "As far as I know he did his job adequately, but I understand there was some trouble over women. He went quietly and that was that. Surely you asked these details from the other Councillors? You don't need me here. If you've finished I have a great deal to do."

The Inspector narrowed his eyes. "We are far from finished, Mr Clandecy." The other man was about to jump on the use of 'Mr' instead of 'Councillor', but remembering his days as such were numbered, he restrained himself.

"We will take your fingerprints, and I have several other questions. Did you know the Development was to be built on ground that appears to be unstable? In view of your forebears, who it seems indulged in a little rearrangement of the landscape along with Mr Chewter's forebears......"

It was a shot in the dark but it hit home. Clandecy's face darkened, and he leaned across the desk toward Helford. Through clenched teeth he hissed "You cannot prosecute me for the activities of my ancestors, nor can you prove that the diversion of the river has anything to do with that landslip. I expected the Development to be a success, and my mother's land was sold in good faith. Just try proving otherwise!"

He sat back in his chair, triumphant. Helford was sure that he _had_ known the land was practically worthless, but unless he could prove that Clandecy had been made aware of the geological situation, he could do nothing to tie him to the murder of Steve and Joey. Nor could he think of any way to pin Chewter's murder on him. A change of the line of questioning might prove fruitful.

"Tell me about your fellow Councillors, please," he continued.

Clandecy raised his eyes to heaven again, and reeled off a list of insults aimed at almost all the other Councillors. They were 'fools', 'silly women' or 'deluded in their political views'. He was less rude about Councillor Denby, but even he was dismissed as 'going senile'.

"And Councillor Massington? What do you make of him?"

There was a pause. "He's not a fool, I'll admit. Not from an old, decent family, hardly the genuine article, but at least he attempts to be civilised."

Helford made notes, then looked up again and asked "How about the new Clerk?"

Clandecy shrugged. "I suspect he's got more class than most round here, but he's weak. Doesn't keep the rebels in order at meetings, and lets the public have far too much time for their stupid questions."

Dean was thinking that this man was the worst snob he'd ever come across. He fervently hoped that he was the murderer, and itched to slap the handcuffs on him right away. He was at least going to have the pleasure of getting his fingerprints, which indignity was sure to infuriate the superior and over-privileged gentleman in the chair.

Helford asked a few more questions, which produced nothing of value. Finally Clandecy was allowed to get up and follow the Sergeant to a side desk where the fingerprinting kit was laid out. Clandecy's squirming distaste was everything Dean had hoped for.

When he had gone, the two officers looked at each other. "I wonder if we'll be able to prove anything against anyone, Dean," said Helford gloomily. "I think we've hit on some sort of motive, but these people are too clever to have done any dirty work themselves. If it was the charming Councillor Clandecy, for example, he would have got some hit man to get rid of the two geologists."

"And Chewter?"

"I reckon Chewter was in on it somehow, and allowed them to bury the bodies in the basement. Then he blackmailed the perpetrators, and got bumped off himself. I'm sure of it, it explains the money in his account, but how can we ever tie anyone to the crime?"

Dean sat thinking, but his thoughts got him no further than Helford's. The phone rang. It was Imogen to tell them that Councillor Wentley had arrived and was on his way up. They looked at their watches, and realised it was five past three already. "Coffee, quick, Dean!"

Chapter 21 - Councillor Wentley

Dean grabbed the photocopies from the signed register as he left the room. He could have a quick look at them while he waited for the kettle to boil. Sue was back upstairs and saw him emerge from the room after Clandecy left. She pounced and followed him to the staff room. "Hope you gave him the third degree," she grinned. "I'll do coffee for you – three mugs?"

"You know I can't tell you anything, but if you notice anything with those sharp eyes of yours I want you to tell us immediately, all right?" He realised that this was a genuine concern now, not just the smooth line he had given Imogen at the start of the investigation. They were dealing with someone ruthless, so a smart lady like Sue who could use her eyes and brain could get into danger if she tried to find things out by herself. "No amateur sleuthing, please. I'm not joking..." He looked down at the papers in his hand.

"Don't worry, I'm not stupid," Sue assured him. "What've you found?" She pretended to lean and look over. Dean held the papers to his chest. "Oy!" he exclaimed, but couldn't help smiling.

As it happened, he had been surprised to find that only two names appeared in the register at the appropriate time. Councillor Denby had signed in at one-fifteen, and had failed to sign out. Councillor Massington had signed in at two-fifteen. There was no record of Councillor Clandecy at all that day. He folded the sheets and tucked them into his pocket. "Tell me, could anyone get past Reception without signing in and out?" he asked.

Sue put her head on one side and considered. "Probably, but they'd be seen on CCTV. Imogen and I could have a look if you like?" She picked up the tray and headed for the door.

"I'll have a look later, don't you go getting yourselves involved," he commanded in a voice of authority. He took the tray of drinks from Sue's hands and walked along the corridor to the Clerk's office. "Thanks, and no, you can't come in," he grinned.

Sue pulled a face at him, and went back to the now slender pile of filing. She had been churning all the possibilities over in her mind ever since the phone call from Imogen which cut short her holiday mood so abruptly just a few days ago. She had her own way of looking at things, and in her estimation it all came down to nastiness. Every member of staff and every Councillor had been processed through her internal 'likeability' filter, and she had come up with a list of probables, and one or two possibles. But without a few facts to go on, she had no way of getting any further. Frustrated, she decided to call on Kim at home as soon as the hospital let her go. Steve Coulthard, a decent and most unlikely murder victim, had to be the key.

Councillor Wentley stumped up the stairs and presented himself at the door of the Clerk's office. The Inspector welcomed him in graciously, and thanked him for his co-operation. Any observer would have thought that a friend had been invited for a cosy chat, and that was the impression Helford intended to give. Dean brought in the coffee, and the door was shut.

Helford's opening tactic was to ask for assistance in getting the history of Pebbleton clear. "Why don't you ask the History Club – how should I know anything?" was the unhelpful reply. Dean watched Wentley's face, and noticed the hard lines running down either side of the mouth, which was set in a perpetual expression of discontent.

Helford tried again. "I understand your wife is one of a long line of landowners round these parts, or rather the family once owned land. Is that not correct?"

"My wife doesn't own any land, never did," came the mutinous reply.

"Her family, the Acres, once owned quite a bit of land, though. Of course, I understand it would have been handed down through the male line, so I suppose she missed out......"

"Damn right she missed out, her idiot brother got the lot," snarled Wentley. Then his mouth snapped shut, as if he had not intended to give information, and that last remark had slipped through the net.

"What a shame. You and she could have had such a lovely house. The one your brother-in-law lives in, that is for sale I understand – don't you want to buy it from him, keep it in the family?" Helford's voice was all sympathy and understanding.

Wentley looked at him from under brows of suspicion. He now suspected that Helford was on to him, and knew a great deal more. He said nothing.

"Well, as I understand it, your brother-in-law is quite well now and on his way home, so he may take it off the market."

Wentley started in his chair, and looked at Dean. Fortunately Dean kept his face impassive. Wentley thought for a moment, then glared at the Inspector. "I suppose this is your doing?"

"Mr Acres may have information which is material to this investigation," Helford replied, placid and ambiguous.

"It's nothing to do with me, my wife deals with everything to do with her brother."

"Ah, I see, so you feel that no conflict of interest could attach to you – unlike Councillor Clandecy, who is in serious trouble because he neglected to declare an interest during the Council discussions over the Development. That was necessary for him to do, you see," Helford continued as if educating a child, "because his mother planned to sell some property. That property went up in value as soon as the Development was passed, and was duly put on the market. You, in a similar way, could be said to have had an interest, bearing in mind your brother-in-law's property went on the market after the Development began, and enjoyed a similar rise in value."

Wentley shocked the two officers by lurching up out of his chair, leaning over the desk and shouting in the Inspector's face, "Rise in value? Rise? It's practically worthless now! It's right in the worst possible place, you fool! Don't tell me I should have declared an interest, I wasted all that effort pushing the Development through for nothing – do you hear me – nothing!"

Astonished at this outburst, Helford sat very still, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the face of the furious Councillor. The veins pulsed on Wentley's forehead, and he breathed so hard it sounded as though he would hyperventilate. Suddenly he flung the chair from behind him and yanked the door open. Dean looked at his boss and made as if to stop the escape, but Helford raised a hand and shook his head. The door slammed behind the angry man. Footsteps thumped down the corridor and faded away down the stairs.

"Do you think he's our man?" Dean asked. "He's certainly got the temper for it."

"Well, the murders were planned, not done in the heat of anger. Mind you, he certainly gave himself away in that outburst."

"Gave himself away?" the younger man looked puzzled.

"He said his brother-in-law's property was right in the worst possible place. Obviously he knew there was a problem before the landslip. Think about it – the slippage is only visible on the land leading to the cliff edge, so why would he assume that a property nowhere near there would be in a bad place?"

"Where exactly is the old man's house? And is it really true that he is coming out of that home?"

Helford grinned. "Rattled him good and proper, that, didn't it? I suspect Miss Cheam and her chums will see to it that Mr Acres is re-assessed, if I read that young lady correctly. So although I may have been a little premature, I reckon the result will be the same. Anyway, you're right, we need to know where the house is, and find out from the geologists what the problem is."

They left the Clerk's office and headed for Sue Cheam's desk, where she was enjoying a surreptitious chocolate bar. She smirked at them, wiping her fingers on a tissue, and remarked "Well, I have done all the filing up to date, so I deserve it!"

"Miss Cheam, I would like some information from you, could you make a space in your busy schedule to have a chat soon? And I need to know the address of your elderly friend, Mr Acres."

"Sure, I can take you there if you like. In fifteen minutes I can leave, I've got time off in lieu because of the work I did at the Extreme Sports. Then you can ask me whatever you want!"

Helford realised that Sue wanted more than anything to be in on the investigation, and he was prepared to indulge her just a little. "I can wait fifteen minutes – very well, if you don't mind being seen with two members of the force, you can direct us there and we'll talk on the way."

Turning to Dean, he added, "We can check progress back at the station in the meantime."

Back in the Clerk's office, Dean frowned. "Are you sure it's a good idea to have her with us? She's desperate to play cops and robbers, and she doesn't realise how dangerous it could be. Supposing the murderer thinks she has information and decides to put her out of the way?"

"She does have information, Dean. She's a canny lady, and notices more than she realises. The safest thing is for her to be seen telling us everything – then there's no point silencing her, do you see?"

"Oh. Yes, OK. As long as she's safe."

Helford looked curiously at his colleague, but Dean was lost in thought, frowning at a point in space.

After checking Beavon's progress, and making copious notes on lines to follow up from the Clandecy and Wentley interviews, they collected Sue. On the way through Reception, they asked for the CCTV recording of the day of the Council meeting to be preserved. Imogen's wireless mouse began clicking away diligently, as she peered at the CCTV display to the left of her work screen. "Do you want it saved as a separate file?" she asked. "That will be perfect," Helford replied.

"We'll take a look at that tomorrow," he told Dean as they headed for the car. Sue saw the plain saloon and pouted. "Oh, boring – I thought you had a proper police car," she laughed. "I wanted to be seen being dragged off in style!"

Dean smiled and opened the back door. "Would you like me to handcuff you, just for effect?" he inquired.

Sue gave him a cheeky grin and bounced into the back seat. Helford sat in the front passenger seat and asked her for directions. It was an easy route, as the house lay about a mile inland from the cliff where Saturday's drama had taken place.

"Miss Cheam, I simply want your view on all the staff in Southcliff Hall, and all the Councillors. Start wherever you like, and take your time."

"You must have read my mind," Sue exclaimed, "I've been running them all through my head while I did the filing. I've come up with a list of probables and possibles, would you like me to give you those first?"

"As you wish, but I will ask about everyone, no matter how unlikely."

Sue began. Her favourite suspect was Councillor Wentley, closely followed by Councillor Clandecy. She had worked out for herself that they could both be in trouble for non-declaration of interest, and viewed their deliberate deceit as highly suspicious. "They should have told the other Councillors, you see, as their views were prejudiced," she explained.

"Yes, I understand, but is there anything else about them that makes them suspects?"

"They are both bad-tempered, and they both love money. Wentley hasn't got any, I don't think he ever had, but Clandecy did once. He's got a frightful wife, all botox, salon blonde and fake tan. She's been surgically enhanced to a double 'D' too – oops, sorry, officer, I hope I didn't shock you." This last remark was directed at Dean, who had not been embarrassed at all, but who now began to go red to the tips of his ears.

"Anyway," Sue continued, "she spent all his money and wants more. The local beauty places aren't good enough for her, she wants to go to London, and you should see her clothes – designer labels, but she still looks like a tramp, if you want my opinion."

"I shall feel sorry for her husband, if you carry on," Helford replied mildly. For a second Sue thought he was serious, but then she caught the twinkle in his eye.

"Go on, interview her and see what you think – I bet you decide the same. Anyway, those are my two favourites, and I have a funny feeling that Perilous Gerald was in with them, but somehow he got on the wrong side of them so they bumped him off."

"You think the two Councillors were working together? What makes you think that?" asked the Inspector, who had a very similar theory.

"Wentley is too unstable, he gets carried away in a temper. I often have to take the minutes in Council meetings, and he loses control over the tiniest little thing. On his own he couldn't do it, he'd mess it up. So I thought maybe Clandecy was his partner in crime, because he's a cool customer and he has the sort of background where people got rid of their enemies as an everyday thing."

"Could you explain what you mean?" Helford prompted.

"His family once owned Southcliff Hall, and he's never let us forget it. Swans around the place like he owns it, and we are dirty peasants trespassing on his land. Sometimes I imagine him with a shotgun over his shoulder, striding around taking potshots at anyone who gets on his nerves. You know, the honour of the Clandecys, and all that nonsense."

"I'm afraid it won't stand up in court, Miss Cheam," the Inspector sighed.

"Please, call me Sue. Well, I know, but you asked my opinion. I can't really think of anyone else who is that foul to other people. Everyone here is either polite or else really nice and friendly, so I find it difficult to imagine them committing murder."

They had arrived at the house, and Dean pulled on the handbrake and switched off the engine. A 'For Sale' sign from a local estate agent was hammered into the ground behind the neat white picket fence. The two officers climbed out, and Sue opened the back door of the car. Dean hesitated, but as Helford made no comment he helped Sue out and kept close by her, as if protecting her from some unseen assailant. They pushed open the little white-painted gate, and crunched up the shingle path to the handsome oak door. The Inspector wielded the heavy black door knocker, remarking "Just in case Mr Acres has discharged himself..."

To their surprise the door opened, and a thin upright woman of advanced years gave them all a quick and severe glance over before saying, "Somerley's sent you, I suppose? I wish they would remember to ring and tell me first! You'll have to wait a minute." She shut the door abruptly, and the three visitors stood looking at each other. 'It's Mrs Wentley,' thought Sue. 'If I let on I recognise her, these two will send me back to the car in case _she_ recognises _me_.' Covertly she pulled some of her fringe over her face. Dean remarked "She thinks we're here to view.....it must be Wentley's wife. What a way to treat prospective buyers!"

After a long pause, the woman opened the door again. She stood back to let them in, and as they passed her one by one to stand in the poorly-lit hallway, she surveyed them carefully.

"For you, or your son and his wife?" she asked, addressing the remark to Helford. Sue suppressed the urge to giggle, and instead gazed adoringly up at Dean, who looked slightly afraid.

Helford smiled at her, and replied, "I am the one interested, Mrs – Wentley, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's right." She smiled back at him, but it was a forced effort, and failed to reach her cold, hard eyes.

As she began to show them round the rooms, Helford gently probed to see what he could get from her. "How long have you lived, here, Mrs Wentley," he asked innocently.

"I'm afraid my husband and I are having to sell it for my poor brother, as he's gone into a home," she simpered.

"I'm so sorry to hear that. His health is failing, I suppose?"

"Yes, he couldn't manage on his own any longer," she replied absently, straightening a picture on the wall. It was a sepia photograph of a group of young men in uniform, leaning on what looked like a World War Two tank. Helford suddenly froze, and stared at the picture. Dean realised that his boss was on to something, and distracted Mrs Wentley with a remark about the size of the room.

Within a minute Helford was back with them, and commented on how clean and tidy everything was. "Yes," my brother was always a very precise man, almost annoyingly so," she replied with a false little laugh.

Sue, under her breath, hissed to Dean, "She just said he couldn't manage on his own, for Pete's sake." Mrs Wentley heard the hiss but not the remark, and turned on Sue. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" she snapped.

Sue squinted, and quickly pulled more of her hair over her eyes. "Don't think so, I've just got one of those faces," she mumbled. Mrs Wentley had attended a couple of functions at Southcliff Hall, where Sue would have been on duty with teas and coffees, or running around with certificates to be presented.

"I do like the garden," Dean declared loudly, crossing to the window, "did your brother have a gardener?"

"Oh, are you interested in gardens?" Mrs Wentley replied, moving towards him and leaving Sue to heave a sigh of relief. The conversation turned to gardens, and room aspects, and they trooped upstairs to take a look at the bedrooms.

"Excuse me, may I use your bathroom?" the Inspector asked. She looked rather put out, but could not refuse her potential purchaser. He was given permission and disappeared, leaving Dean and Sue to play their married roles. They noted all the rooms with approval, and Sue couldn't resist having a bit of fun. "It's a shame _we_ can't afford this, darling," she said sweetly, catching hold of Dean's arm. "Your dad will love it here, I'm sure, but I'm quite falling in love with it myself. Oh, well, I suppose on your salary at the greengrocer's and my dinner-lady wages, we haven't a hope...."

Dean winced. He was certain that if Sue drew attention to herself, Mrs Wentley would recognise her properly. He glared at her and grumbled, "Well, you've only got yourself to blame, Petunia, you had a perfectly good job at the cattery and you gave it up."

Mrs Wentley sneered at them and turned away, bored with the foolish young couple and only interested in the buyer who was taking a long time in the bathroom. She lovingly fingered the silky eiderdown on the bed, and dreamed of what she would do with the money. If only, if they could just sell the place before anything was revealed about the reason for the landslip......she must grab this opportunity with both hands, and not let this man go without impressing upon him what a wonderful house it was. And she'd throw into the conversation a few fictitious buyers, nothing like a bit of competition......it must, it must be sold quickly.

Behind Mrs Wentley's back, Sue stuck her tongue out at Dean, and he wagged a finger at her in reproof. "Be quiet," he mimed at her.

Helford returned, and remarked kindly on the beautiful bathroom fittings. "We'll just take a look outside, if that's all right, and then we must be getting on."

This set Mrs Wentley off on a lengthy discourse on the virtues of the house, and a list of the other keen buyers lined up to purchase it as soon as they could sell their own places. They had a job to get away from her in the end, and it was another half hour before they finally escaped. She waved them off with another ghastly smile, and they waved back as if departing from their dearest friend.

"Greengrocer, indeed," Dean complained, as they reached the junction with the main road back to the village. "Cattery," Sue retorted. "Petunia!" Dean countered. Sue burst out laughing, until Helford swivelled in his seat and enquired if the happy couple had suffered their first marital spat. He then suggested going to a quiet place where Sue could continue her recitation of suspects. She invited them both to her flat, and offered them some of her home-made fruit cake. The deal was done.

A little later, happily full of cake and tea, Helford and Dean had a list of opinions Sue could offer them on most of the staff and Councillors. Helford spotted some omissions. "You've told us about every member of staff except Fiona Carvell, what do you think of her as a suspect?"

"No, she just couldn't commit murder, it would be too – improper. She would simply cringe at the thought of messing up any part of Southcliff Hall, for a start – and she'd have forty fits at the idea of going to prison."

"Most murderers never imagine they will go to prison, they always believe they are too clever to be caught," Helford reminded her.

"Really? I'd be sure I'd be caught, just think of all the things that could go wrong!" Sue exclaimed. "Have I missed anyone else?"

"Just one other person – Councillor Massington. You must have seen a great deal of him, what are your views?"

"Hmmmm, you know I've tried to come to a conclusion about him but I don't feel I know him at all. He's always very polite, and gives all us girls a box of chocolates at the end of the municipal year – but he never really has a conversation with you, if you know what I mean. He asks things, and we find out what he needs to know, but....I can't explain it, but he never lets on what he's thinking. Perfect control, I think that's it. He never loses his temper, and I suspect that's how he gets the others to go along with whatever he suggests. Oh!"

"What?"

"Well, I've just realised he _does_ get the others to do what he says....cool! Maybe that's why......well, I once heard Kim remark that Dennis Massington practically _is_ Pebbleton Parish Council. I wondered what she meant, but I think I get it now. He has such a huge influence over the others. They all know he's got so much experience from his city job, and they respect his opinion more than anyone else's."

"But is he a nice person?" asked the Inspector, in a casual tone.

"Yeah, I guess – well, he's not nasty to anyone. He doesn't need to be, they will do what he wants anyway. I suppose....come to think of it, I don't know what he would do if anyone really disagreed with him. It doesn't happen. Pebbleton's such a small place compared to London...I wonder what he's like in his city job? He must have to deal with more ambitious people there, not like the little folk in this village, who all go along with his suggestions. Yes, that's what I would say about him – a big fish in a little pond."

The Inspector sat looking at her for a few moments, then closed his notebook without writing anything else in it. Sue was a little disappointed, as she wanted to have helped in the investigation. 'He probably thinks I talk a load of rubbish,' she decided.

"Thank you for your help, Miss Cheam – Sue – we had better get on now. The tea and cake was much appreciated," he assured her.

Dean rose from the sofa and smiled at Sue. "Yes, it was lovely," he agreed.

She saw them off with a cheerful "See you tomorrow," and closed the front door. As she washed the plates and mugs, she felt strangely deflated. It had been fun going round Cuffy's house, but somehow her rambling opinions had put the Inspector off, and now he and Sergeant Dean would have no desire to hear more from her. She smiled a little as she remembered Dean's "Oy!" as she tried to look at his sheet of paper in the staff room. She sighed. Nice young policemen were out of her league, she'd be better off chasing a real greengrocer's assistant. That particular line of work had sprung to mind because it was the occupation of the last man who had taken an interest in her - a spotty mother's boy of twenty-three, who begged her to go to the cinema with him to see a James Bond film. Pearce Brosnan was still in the lead role, it was that long ago.......

Chapter 22 – Action Stations

Sue decided that action would lift her mood. She would visit Kim, who might even be at home by now. She phoned the hospital, and was told that Mrs Coulthard was still a patient. Sue grabbed her bag and set off.

On the way she dropped a rapidly-composed note in to the home of Angela Wallace, asking for a favour. Could Angela swing it to have Cuffy re-assessed? Sue mentioned the immaculate condition of his home, and how he had maintained his customary smart appearance despite the depressing environment in which he was incarcerated. She knew that she had no clout in this matter, but Angela might be able to pull a few strings.

At the hospital, Kim had two visitors already at her bedside. Paula and James, coyly holding hands beneath the level of the bed and out of Kim's sight, were keeping the patient company. Sue hesitated, but decided that they probably had more exciting things to do and she was doing them a favour in breaking up the party. She advanced on them.

"Hallo, gang," she greeted them. The hands sprung apart, and James got up to offer his seat to the new arrival. There was a ten-minute conversation about the office, the weather, and other dull subjects, then Paula and James made their excuses and said goodbye. Sue now had Kim alone, as she had hoped.

"Kim, the sooner we get this mystery solved the better for everyone. I know this sounds hopelessly insensitive, but I want to ask you to talk to me about Steve – I know you are still in shock, but if you can do it, I'd really like to hear everything you can remember, especially about the days leading up to his disappearance."

"Not you as well," Kim groaned.

"What, you mean James and Paula asked too?"

"No, not them. Dennis Massington came in this afternoon, and asked me the same thing. He was very kind, he brought me these," she indicated a huge bouquet in a vase on the side cabinet, "and I tried to remember what I could. I'm not sure I can go through it all again. I know you all mean well, Sue, but it's no good, I can't remember anything useful at all. The police asked as well, but I couldn't help them either."

"Hmmm. Dennis Massington. We were talking about him earlier. Do you remember you once said 'he _is_ Pebbleton Parish Council'? Can you explain why you felt that?"

Kim frowned. "I said that? I suppose I meant he might as well be the only Councillor, as he is the one who always seems to be on the winning side of every vote. I don't mean that in a bad way, but he seems to represent the mood of the Council."

"Do you reckon he goes along with the popular opinion, or do you think he gets everyone around to _his_ opinion?" Sue mused.

Kim thought about it, and slowly replied, "Now you come to think of it, I do wonder if he makes such an impression on the others that _they_ go along with _him_....I could be wrong, though. And anyway, what's the difference? The decisions are pretty good, on the whole."

"Except for the Development," Sue pointed out. "What did he want to know this afternoon, can you remember exactly what he said?"

"Sue, you are nosey," Kim laughed. "If you must know, he wanted to apologise for having misunderstood Steve about his relationship with Joey. He told me that he was not sure at all now what Steve meant, and possibly the big life-changing decision Steve was talking about was to do with changing jobs, or moving. He said that he had told the police only what he sincerely believed to be the case at the time, and he was sorry if he'd caused me confusion and distress. He did ask if I'd come to any conclusion myself about the reason Steve went missing, and whether I'd found any clues about the house, you know, letters, that sort of thing."

"And have you?"

"Well, I haven't been there since I was taken ill at the mortuary, have I? I do mean to look thoroughly through every book or file Steve had, to see if any papers are hidden. I had a look at his laptop a long time back, to see if there was any evidence of an affair, but there was nothing. I didn't think of paperwork but the police seem to think there is a link because Steve and Joey were both geologists. So maybe I was looking for the wrong things. I could have overlooked the real evidence."

"I'll help you, if you like. Two heads are better than one."

"Sue, I wish I could discharge myself now and go home. I'm fed up in here, the woman next to me," she whispered, "snores all night long, and I just lie here thinking of crazier and crazier ideas to explain everything."

Sue looked over her shoulder, and noticed that the staff were all in the nurses' station having a meeting. "Come on," she grinned, "get dressed, we'll leg it before they realise."

"I am dressed, you twit! Do you think they'd go mad if I did go home? I guess I could leave a note...."

"You're not a prisoner here, you can go any time you like. Just tell them."

Kim sat looking thoughtfully at the figures behind the glass screen of the nurses station. Suddenly she made up her mind, and reached for her purse. "I'm ready. But I think I will tell them I'm going, they've been very good, and I wouldn't want to offend them. Here, can you run and get a decent box of chocolates for me to give them?" She gave Sue a ten-pound note.

The nursing staff were rather concerned, but they let Kim discharge herself with a supply of the tablets the doctor had prescribed. "Not that I shall take them unless I really have to," Kim muttered to Sue, "I have a dread of being hooked on anti-depressants, or sleeping tablets, or anything like that."

Sue drove Kim to her house, and offered to stay with her as long as she liked. Kim replied "I want to manage on my own as soon as possible, but I would appreciate some company this evening. Let's get a pizza and just chill. I will start looking around tomorrow. I know you want to help, Sue, but I may get emotional – no, I will certainly emotional – and I don't want to have anyone around when that happens."

It was early evening, and an overcast August sky promised more rain. They made a detour for pizza, and ten minutes later pulled up outside Kim's house. Everything looked peaceful and normal, the grass had grown long but nothing was different. As she turned her key in the lock and pushed the door open, Kim said to Sue, "Weird to think I left here last Friday, with no idea......" She got no further, because a figure dressed in dark clothes and wearing a ski mask suddenly appeared from the lounge doorway, took two large steps toward the startled Kim, and shoved her violently against the opened door. The figure advanced and cannoned into Sue, who tried to block the escape by standing quickly on the front step. The impact caused Sue to stagger and nearly fall off the step, and she grabbed at the dark sweatshirt to regain balance in a purely reflex action. She felt a sharp pain as she was punched in the shoulder, and the figure fled down the front path.

Kim was winded but she reached for Sue, gasping, "Are you all right?"

"Never mind me, he's getting away!" Sue howled, "Stop! Thief!"

A car had just pulled up behind Sue's Mini, and to the amazement of the two ladies, out jumped the Inspector and Sergeant Dean, who both set off in pursuit of the masked intruder. Dean was faster on his feet, and the chase was lost to view as both he and the criminal rounded the corner. The Inspector followed a few seconds behind. It occurred to Sue that there might be another miscreant in the house, so she pulled Kim out of the house and shut the door. They helped each other back to the pavement, where they clung together, teeth chattering as the shock set in. Sue's shoulder was painful, but she was more concerned about Kim. This new blow could be enough to put her back in hospital.

A police siren wailed in the distance, and drew nearer. "Backup coming, I hope," Sue panted, trying not to wince.

They waited like two waifs on the street, until the Inspector came back from the corner. He was wheezing, and when he reached them he slid his hands down to his knees and bent over, trying to take deep breaths. "Getting too old for this sort of thing," he gasped.

When he straightened up he smiled triumphantly. "Got him, you'll be pleased to know. Uniform will be along in a minute, then we'll go into the house. I'm glad you had the sense to stay out here. Seen anyone else in there?"

"No," Kim whispered. "He hurt Sue – she needs to get her shoulder looked at," she added.

Sue began to protest, desperate to stay and find out what it was all about. The Inspector radioed for an ambulance. "You'd better both be seen, just in case," he said, ignoring Sue's objections.

Sergeant Dean came loping round the corner. He was also out of breath, but looked very pleased with himself. The Inspector revealed the cause. "Nice rugby tackle, Dean," he congratulated the younger man. A police car appeared from round the corner, bearing uniformed officers with the prisoner handcuffed in the back of the vehicle. It slowed down, and the windows were lowered. "Recognise him, Mrs Coulthard?" the Inspector asked.

Kim and Sue both peered at the unmasked face of the offender. He was young, angry, and a complete stranger to both of them. This rather disappointed Helford, who hoped that a quick identification would take the investigation forward by leaps and bounds. A second police car drew up and decanted several officers onto the pavement. Kim handed over her keys, and the uniformed men positioned themselves around the exit points of the house before entering by the front door.

A careful search produced no second intruder. The officers reported evidence that the young man had rummaged around the upstairs rooms, and had got as far as the lounge, turning out the lowest two drawers in the bureau before he was interrupted. The ambulance arrived and the paramedics were allowed to take Kim and Sue into the kitchen to examine everything. Nothing there had been touched, it appeared. Kim was shaken but unhurt, but Sue's shoulder was badly bruised. She was given a sling to take the weight off it. A couple of painkillers were offered, which she gratefully accepted.

Crime support officers arrived to search for fingerprints, but Sue remembered a gloved hand flailing as she had grappled with the assailant. There were plenty of prints but it was likely that they were Kim's and Steve's. "You've got mine already," Kim said wearily.

Dean walked in the kitchen and spotted Sue's sling. "What happened? I didn't know he hurt you!" Sue tried to shrug but that only made her wince. "Only bruised, I'll be fine," she smiled.

"If I'd known he did that, I'd have....." Dean stopped, blushing.

"Ah-ah, naughty officer – you know you wouldn't have thumped him, even for little old me," Sue teased. "Anyway, how come you arrived just as he made a run for it?"

"We went to the hospital, to see Mrs Coulthard, and were told you'd taken her away. Making a run for it yourselves, I presume?"

"She'd had enough, and wanted to come home, didn't you, Kim? Anyway, what's the news? What was he after?"

"If we knew that, we'd be geniuses. Anyway, we wouldn't tell you," he retorted, recovering his dignity. "Mrs Coulthard, do you have any ideas?"

"Can I go in the lounge?" Kim replied uneasily. Dean looked surprised, but led her to the lounge door where the Inspector was watching the support unit officers go about their work. He gained permission, and led Kim into the middle of the room. She stood very still and then slowly revolved on the spot, back and forth, as if trying to reconstruct something in her mind's eye. The Inspector watched her, and as she turned finally to the wedding photograph on the wall, he nodded to himself.

"Want me to take it down for you?" he inquired. Kim looked at him in surprise, and then looked back at the large picture. "Yes – yes, please," she murmured.

Helford spoke to one of the support officers, who checked that the area around the picture had already been examined. Wearing plastic gloves, the officer carefully lifted the picture off its hook and took it into the kitchen. Upside down on the table, the hooks holding the back in place were scrutinised, then removed. The thin ply backing was lifted. Kim, Sue, Dean and Helford crowded round the officer and held their breath. Under the backing was another layer of the same ply, but sandwiched between lay a carefully arranged spread of maps and printed A4 sheets. They had been folded and placed in a thin shape that evenly filled the rectangular space, so no bulges showed to reveal their presence from the front or the back.

The white plastic gloves lifted each item and held it up for examination. "Mrs Coulthard, do you recognise any of this?" Helford asked, guessing the answer.

"No – but those are geological survey maps, I've seen them before – not those, I think, but some just like them when Steve brought the students' work home to mark."

The papers and maps were put in plastic bags and marked as evidence. Helford could hardly wait to read them. But he had to make sure no further dramas disturbed Mrs Coulthard. "I'm leaving a uniformed officer outside the house, so you can rest easy," he explained kindly. "Please look around and check nothing has been taken, and let me know immediately if you notice anything missing."

"Now?" Kim groaned.

"Not right away, I realise you're not up to it, but as soon as you can."

"I'll help her, don't worry," Sue offered.

"Oh, yes, you're going to be a great help like that," Dean laughed. Helford coughed and looked at his watch. "Must be off now, but I'll speak to you tomorrow, if I may." Kim nodded, and followed Helford and Dean to the door. When she came back Sue was trying to fill the kettle at the tap, getting her sling wet in the process. "Here, let me," Kim said, taking the kettle from her. "I've been lazy for days, I need to be doing something. It will make a change for me to look after you!"

The evening passed quietly, the warmed-up pizza was just the right comfort food after the shock they had received, and a silly comedy on TV raised their mood. Once the painkillers took effect, Sue was in better spirits. The TV show finished, and she asked Kim "What made you look in the photo frame?"

"Steve did something odd a little while before he disappeared. I came in and found him with the whole thing in his arms – he said it was askew in the frame, but I hadn't noticed. Normally I would notice, you know what I'm like – forever straightening things in the office." Sue nodded, and Kim continued. "Once I thought about it, I realised Steve was standing by the bureau, up _that_ end of the room." She indicated the far end, where a dining table and chairs occupied most of the space, with a mahogany bureau standing at the far end on one side and a computer desk on the other. "If he'd just wanted to sort out the photo, he would have laid it on the big coffee table here, and undone the back. Why go to the end of the room? He probably used the dining table, and took those papers from the bureau. He must have just finished when he heard me coming, and couldn't get the picture back on the wall in time. I felt he was hiding something, and he made quite a thing of saying the photo had slipped, and that it reminded him of the best day of his life. I did believe that, but something didn't quite feel right."

"What do you think the papers and maps are about? Do you reckon it was what the burglar was after? How do you think he got in?"

"I'm afraid getting in was a bit too easy – the bathroom window was left open. I know, I know," as Sue looked horrified. "I gave the windowsill in there a lick of paint on Friday morning, to cover up where my pot plant had left a mark. I figured it would dry during the day, and I took a chance. It's at the back and I thought nobody would notice."

"I suppose that means he was an opportunist burglar, then," Sue replied gloomily. "He probably has nothing to do with any of the other stuff going on." She yawned. "I could curl up right here and sleep for England," she mumbled.

"Well, why don't you? Or better still, the spare room bed is made up. I'll find a nightie for you. I don't mind admitting that I'll sleep better for knowing someone else is here," Kim replied.

The nightie proved problematic, and Sue had to settle for a large tee-shirt Steve had once worn. "I really must lose weight," she groaned.

"That nice sergeant didn't seem to be bothered about that," Kim grinned. "He struck me as quite satisfied with what he saw."

"Don't even go there – he's a cheeky blighter, and far too young for me," Sue retorted.

"Rubbish – you're probably almost the same age, I reckon," Kim told her. "But it up to you.....he needs encouragement, of course, all men do....." she mused.

Sue shook her head and laughed. "If he saw me now, all the encouragement in the world wouldn't help!"

Kim showed Sue the spare room, and then they saw the mess left by the intruder. Wearily they piled things up in a heap to leave the bed clear, then did the same in the main bedroom for Kim to sleep.

They said goodnight, and parted company. The lights went out. Lying in bed, Kim remembered the bathroom window. She got up again, and made sure it was firmly shut, although the weather was warm and muggy. She returned to her room and peeped through the curtains. Outside, passing under a streetlamp, she could see the comforting presence of the protective policeman. She let the curtain fall back into place. "Steve," she whispered. "I don't know if you can hear me, or if there's a God or an afterlife, but I'm sorry I doubted you. I will find out who killed you and Joey, and make sure they pay for it. I couldn't do anything violent, that would make me as bad as them, but I'll use every legal way to make sure they never hurt anyone again. I love you, darling, please never forget that."

Her whisper died away in the silent room, covered by the ticking of the clock. Sighing, she climbed back into bed. She was asleep before the policeman had made another pass under the lamplight in his slow progress along the front fence.

Chapter 23 – The Plan

Sue woke early, her shoulder aching. In an unfamiliar room, with the light coming from the 'wrong' side of the bed, she quickly remembered why she was there. Wide awake now, she dragged herself upright with one arm, and crept to the bathroom. No sound came from the main bedroom, so she decided to help herself to coffee and biscuits in the kitchen.

Kim joined her half-an-hour later, rubbing sleep from her eyes. "I can't believe how well I slept," she yawned. "Must have been the policeman outside!"

Sue got up and went to the lounge to have a look out of the window. "Was it a skinny young one? This one looks about twelve," she remarked. "No, he must be the morning shift," Kim replied. "The one I saw last night was solid-looking, I reckon he was middle-aged, from the way he walked. By the way, how did you know it was a man who got in?"

"Eh?"

"When he ran away you said 'He's getting away' and 'Stop, Thief' – how did you know it was a man, he had that mask on!"

"You're right – how did I know?" Sue wondered. After a minute's thought she said, "It's just like you said about Steve and the picture – I didn't notice consciously, but it was something about way he ran, and the smell!"

"The _smell_?"

"Yes, when I had a hold on his top, it smelled of male sweat! You know, like he didn't have his mum doing his washing, and had no idea how often he ought to clean his clothes."

"Charming," Kim yawned again. "I'd better make a start on looking for anything missing. What time do you think the Inspector will come round?"

"Time! I'm supposed to be at work soon!" Sue yelped. "Do you think Fiona will accept a bruised shoulder as an excuse for throwing a sickie?"

"You have had a shock, and the police might want to interview you about yesterday," Kim offered helpfully. "Phone James, he'll give you authorisation. You can't exactly drive there, or type, with your arm in a sling."

At half past ten, Inspector Helford and Sergeant Dean rang on the doorbell. It was a clear sunny day after the cloudy night before, and when Kim opened the door she noticed a Water Board van parked just up the road. Two men in overalls were lifting manholes and prodding down the holes with long poles.

Sue, surprisingly freed from work by Fiona after explaining that her arm was in a sling, was helping Kim search. "She didn't even ask how I got injured, typical!" Sue complained. They had been through the house looking for other places documents could be hidden, but they had found nothing. The disorder left behind by the intruder had been easy to tidy away, and Kim was fairly sure nothing had been taken. In concurrence with that, the Inspector told her that nothing had been found on the perpetrator.

"Who is he?" Sue demanded, before Kim could ask. Dean joined in the conversation, replying, "We don't know, he refuses to tell us anything."

"What did you find on the maps and papers?"

"Ah," said the Inspector in a tone of significance. "That's what we came to talk to you about. I need to speak to you alone, Mrs Coulthard."

Kim glanced at Sue, and made a rueful face. Sue left the room and went with Dean to the kitchen. There they made coffee, chatted and laughed, but all the time Sue's mind was in the lounge, worried about Kim and desperate to know what was going on.

The lounge door opened and the Inspector came into the kitchen. "I'm going to ask my Sergeant to drive your car home for you – with you in it, Miss. Nothing personal, you understand, but I need you safely out of the way while we make some inquiries."

Sue sighed. "OK, but please take care of Kim. She's been amazing so far, but one more fright and she'll go over the edge."

Helford nodded. "Please trust me – I have your friend's best interests at heart."

In the passenger seat of her own car, with Dean at the wheel, she asked him, "Do you know what the Inspector is up to?"

"Sue, you know I can't tell you. But I promise as soon as it's done, I'll ask Mrs Coulthard to call you. I'm well aware you are worried about her. We know what we're doing, honestly!"

So Sue had to stew at home, while back at Kim's house a strange plan was unfolding. The Inspector showed her one of the A4 sheets found behind the photo, and she read it with increasing amazement. When she finished, she had many questions, and he answered them as well as he could. "But that's the problem," he told her. "We don't know for certain, we can only guess. We need you to help up get the proof."

After another hour, during which she got over the worst of the horror and fury which followed the initial astonishment, she was ready to help in the plan. A complex new phone had been plugged into the socket by the window, and the settings adjusted to allow each conversation to be relayed into the room via a speakerphone, and also recorded. She picked up the phone and called the number the police gave her. "No reply," she whispered. "Should I leave a message?" The Inspector shook his head, and she replaced the receiver.

As the Inspector contemplated his next move, the phone rang again. He nodded, and she picked it up carefully, as if it was alight. To her relief, it was James calling from Southcliff Hall to see if she was all right. He'd called the hospital, and been told she was home. Helford wrote on a pad 'Talk naturally', and she did, although she found it difficult.

James told her that she must stay home and not come back to work until she was quite sure she could cope. She thanked him. Then he went on to relate an amusing story about the latest nonsense at the Council – the case of a street trader selling hot potatoes in the main shopping street, who became very upset when told he couldn't continue without a licence. The trader had appealed to the Council, claiming that potato selling was an ancient right under mediaeval law. It was to be pointed out to him in a formal reply that potatoes were unknown in England in the Middle Ages, having been introduced into England during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, allegedly by Sir Walter Raleigh.

Kim laughed dutifully, and was about to end the call when James mentioned that the history of the potato had just been handed to him by a certain Councillor. Kim froze, and the Inspector scribbled furiously on the pad 'Ask to speak to him'.

James was happy to oblige, and went away from the phone to call the Councillor back upstairs. His pleasant, concerned voice came on the phone, asking how Kim was progressing. She told him that she was fine, and asked if he could please visit her at home, as she had found something her husband had left hidden. "I need you to explain it to me, please," she said in a strained voice.

The Councillor was silent for a moment, then replied, "I can't imagine what it is – but of course I will help, as soon as I can make a space in my diary. Would tomorrow afternoon be all right?"

Kim looked at the Inspector, and he nodded. "Yes, tomorrow will be fine. Thank you." Her voice sounded icy and unfriendly. Perhaps he would guess, and not show up. She put the phone down carefully.

"Have I blown it?" she asked anxiously.

"No, not at all. You reacted as he would expect – suspicious, but not sure."

"Do you think he'll come? I'm sorry, I should have insisted he come immediately. Now you'll have to come back tomorrow."

"We're not going anywhere, Mrs Coulthard. He was heard by James Goswell to say he would visit you tomorrow. He can't afford to let you show that paper to anyone else, so he'll have to set up something as soon as possible. And he'll need to give himself an alibi, so if he plans to give you problems it will not be tomorrow when he would be a suspect. I expect him – or someone he sends – to come today."

"Do you think he sent the man yesterday, to look for the maps and papers?"

"I'm not sure, but if so, he will know the police could be looking after you for a while. So we'd better be seen to remove ourselves. We'll be there, though – go and look in your back garden!"

In accord with this plan, the Inspector went outside and publicly sent away the officer on duty at the front gate. Kim was reassured when two men appeared outside the back door holding up police identification cards. She let them in, and she recognised the overalls they were wearing. "Oh! The water board men!" Kim exclaimed.

Helford, returning from the front door, grinned. "We had to get someone inside here discreetly." Then he accompanied Kim to the front door, said an obvious farewell to her, waved one last time at the gate and got into his car and drove away. Kim didn't know what to do next, so she put the kettle on for a cup of tea. Sergeant Rice and Constable Chambers were quite happy to be entertained, and they at round the kitchen table until one-thirty, when the doorbell rang again.

Suddenly the two policemen jumped up and hid behind the half open kitchen door. "We'll be listening, so leave the lounge door open, and don't forget to turn on the little blue switch for the microphone," Rice whispered to Kim.

Kim felt her fingers shaking as she turned the knob to open the front door. "Please come in," she told the Councillor.

He followed her towards the lounge, politely enquiring about her health. She decided to take control of the situation by stating, "First I want you to read the letter I found," before they reached the lounge door. She picked up the A4 sheet from the coffee table, and as he began to read it she discreetly flicked the blue switch the police had shown her.

"This is a copy," he commented dryly when he had finished reading and placed it back on the coffee table.

"Yes, of course – I have put the original in a safe place."

"How have you had time to copy it? You said you'd only just found it."

Kim was ready for this. She pointed to a state-of-the-art printer copier in the corner of the dining area, next to the powerful computer set-up her husband had once owned.

"And where is the original?"

"I told you, in a safe place."

He looked at her with hard eyes. She had never seen that look on his face before, and it was incredibly frightening. Gone was the care and concern he had always displayed, and in their place was cold calculation, determination to overpower her will with his own.

"Fetch it," he commanded in a voice of steel.

"I – I don't have it here.....it's not in the house....."

He seemed to know that she was telling the truth. He thought for a moment, then nodded knowingly. "Your little friend Sue.....of course. That's why she let the police take her home. I thought it was odd, a nosey creature like her allowing herself to be removed from the action. So the police know what you've found."

"No, I wanted to ask you about it first. They have been useless in finding out what happened to my Steve, they never wanted to investigate all those months ago. Why should I give them any help now? He's dead, and nothing can bring him back." Her voice rose with apparent passion, although nerves played the major part. "I want to know why he died, and I'm going to find out without their help. Anyway, how do you know Sue went home with the police?"

"You don't realise who you are talking to, my dear. I have plenty of people in this village who will tell me what is going on. This is _my_ village, I have run it for many years now, and I intend to carry on. You and your fellow employees at Southcliff Hall are just working for me, though you don't recognize it." His eyes glittered with delight at his own wickedness. "So little tubby Sue has the original. You have been very stupid, very unwise for a woman of your intelligence. You should have told the police while you had the chance. Sit down."

She obediently sat, as if hypnotised by the force of his character. He took out a mobile phone, and called someone, who he addressed in a sharp tone. "Sue Cheam – yes, you know, works as some sort of secretary at Southcliff Hall. Lives round the back of the Farthing estate, one of the flats. Look for a document." He rang off, and turned his attention back to Kim. With a steely glare, he sat down on the armchair near where she sat on the end of the sofa. For the first time, she noticed that he was wearing driving gloves, an incongruous detail indoors in the warmth of August. He reached for her wrist and held it in a vice-like grip. Suddenly she realised what he was going to do, almost on cue as his free hand extracted from his pocket what appeared to be a pen-knife. With an expert flick the knife sprang open – even in her terror Kim realised it was specially made as a weapon.

"You expect me to believe that you told the police nothing about this?" He waved the knife at the A4 sheet on the coffee table. Kim had been thinking at speed since realising he would not easily accept that statement. She decided to stick as close as possible to the truth.

She gazed at him with a look of fear, hoping he would think he was terrifying her into telling the truth. "I found the letter before the police came this morning, and when I realised it was from Joey to Steve, I wanted to show you and get an explanation. You know what the police are like, they take everything away and I wouldn't be able to do anything myself. So I copied it, and asked Sue to hide the original in her handbag. When the police came, they told me that the man they had arrested last night wouldn't talk, and they asked me to keep looking for whatever he had been after. I promise I gave them nothing at all. I told them I'd left a window open, and he was probably just an opportunist thief. I suppose if you know everything that's going on, you know about him too. Who was he?"

"An idiot," replied the Councillor with contempt. "All along I have been let down by fools, Have you any idea how difficult it is, knowing exactly what needs to be done, but having to depend on brain-dead morons to carry things out? First, that blazing idiot Chewter, making them put the bodies in the basement. What possessed him? Oh, yes, my dear, you may as well know everything. That's what you want, isn't it? You want to know why Steve had to die? He interfered, he and his limp-wristed friend. Between them they worked out that there was a problem with the land over the Edge, but I had decided that the village needed expansion. Without expansion, my lovely village will decline, and be swallowed up by those mediocre minds at Frayminster Council. I had put in many months of hard work to get the Egron deal set up. I've worked with them before, and I knew there was enough greed in the directorship there to keep them moving despite any survey. You understand, we _had_ to bury the survey and bury your dear husband too. He really was a silly man, pestering us with phone calls. The nancy-boy had tried to get Chewter to look at the survey, but I had Chewter on a tight rein. Then he tried to speak to Alfred Wentley, but he rang me right away. They all defer to me, all of those doddering fools. Then your husband got involved, called me one night, so I told him not to worry, I would look at the survey and get the Council to block the Development if there was any danger. He believed me, of course. You all trust me, don't you? I only have the best interests of the village at heart."

Kim stared, appalled, and remained silent. He continued, calmly, as if he was explaining the necessity of having an injured cat put to sleep. His gloved thumb began to stroke the inside of her wrist. She felt sick and dizzy with fear.

"Your husband was intercepted on his way to the airport. The car that took him away was driven by one of my men. He was called up on his mobile and told that a quick meeting had been arranged with us at Southcliff Hall, and he asked the driver to go there first. I had it all under control, all timed to perfection. Joey Fisher was also collected by one of my men, with a similar story. Of course I didn't go myself, and neither did Wentley. All that worked perfectly, but Chewter had this scheme up his sleeve. You must understand, I knew nothing about what happened next. I intended them to be driven round the back of Southcliff Hall, it's so nice and isolated there early on a Saturday morning. They had to be disposed of, and then the bodies dumped miles away. You would have known you were a widow quite soon, and you would have been over it by now. I might even have taken you on....." The deranged eyes looked at Kim with something like pity, but the grip on her wrist never relaxed for a moment. He continued, "When nothing came to light, I assumed the bodies had been too well hidden in the countryside, and would be found eventually. I wanted it to look like a suicide pact between gay lovers, since your husband was stupid enough to tell me Joey Fisher was gay. He was actually worried I'd be prejudiced by the camp behaviour of his creepy friend, and wouldn't take the survey seriously. So, gay lovers - it was a gift of a story, you almost believed it yourself, didn't you?"

"No, never quite...." Kim whispered. She knew she must get him to go on with his vile story. "What – what was Chewter's plan?" she stuttered.

"He actually wanted to blackmail us. The slimy little toad had the idea of hiding the bodies, and making us pay until he decided to reveal where they were. He must have been waiting for the cars when they got to the back of Southcliff Hall, and said there had been a change of plan. It's taken _me_ all this time to find out which of the morons down the food chain actually fell for this rubbish. As if I would change the plan at the last minute! When I plan, there is never a need to change anything. So it seems, my dear, the stupid pair found themselves not only dealing with the removal of your husband and Mr Fisher, but they also had to carry them to the basement and hide them. I assume they had to get the breeze blocks for him as well, and make the wall. If not, Chewter must have built it himself. I hope it nearly killed him, all that work for a fat pig like him. And how insulting – to pretend I would come up with such a ridiculous plan!"

"I don't understand – why did Chewter end up there too?"

"Good heavens, you don't think I would lie down and let myself be blackmailed? That blustering fool Wentley might, but I paid only until I could let the dust settle, and formulate another plan to get rid of him. He managed to get himself removed from his job, and I wondered if he would stop then, but of course he needed money all the more. His demands grew tiresome. So I arranged for my foot soldiers to go into action again. How was I to know the same two idiots would get used? That's the problem that keeps coming up – lesser minds, further down the chain of command. It only takes one weak link......anyway, they had some kind of problem with their vehicle, and just dumped him down in front of his own construction. Poetic irony, I believe you would call it?"

Kim held her breath, realising he actually expected her to laugh, or to sympathise with him for having to deal with incompetence. He had to be completely insane. What more did she need to ask him? Clarity of thought was surprisingly easy, with adrenaline pumping through her veins.

"Alfred Wentley? Why was he easier to blackmail?"

"You may as well know, as it will be satisfying to have the whole picture before you join your husband. It will be as quick and painless as I can manage at short notice, I promise. You do understand, I cannot allow you to live – or your friend Sue. Of course, your death will be easy to explain – so depressed, you cut your own wrists. Sue – ah, little fat Sue – what shall we say about her? If I'd only had more time, I think I'd have set her up as the murderess. Yes, a nice little confession, perhaps saying she killed your husband because he wouldn't run away with her...." He looked at his watch. "She will have been disposed of by now, but I'll think of something."

Kim nearly choked, and her whole body began to tremble. She wanted to speak, but the only sound that came out was "Aaah...". He tightened his grip. "Al? I'll tell you about Al, my dear, then we'll get this unpleasant business over and done with quickly. Alfred Wentley, you see, was after......."

With a crash the two policemen burst into the room, shocking the Councillor into letting go of Kim's wrist. She leapt away from him, flinging herself to the other end of the sofa and rolling off onto the floor. He recovered from his surprise and tried to reach for her and wield the knife, but it was knocked from his grasp by a swift chop on the arm by Sergeant Rice. Constable Chambers grabbed his elbows, and the Sergeant slapped on handcuffs at lightning speed. The Councillor was on his knees, bent forward over the coffee table, his face near to the A4 sheet. Kim scrambled across the carpet and turned round to look at him, held safely in the grip of the two officers. His face was contorted with impotent rage, as he stared at the letter that had brought about his downfall.

Kim gasped out, "Sue! He knows where she lives, he's sent someone to kill her!"

Chapter 24 – Loose Ends

Inspector Helford and Sergeant Dean sat in the centre of a long table set up in the Clandecy room. James Goswell and the Council staff sat around the remaining chairs on that side of the table, with one chair conspicuously vacant. Everyone was avoiding looking at the space where the female staff member should have been. The other side of the table was lined with Council members. Again, some were missing, though no chairs had been set out for the absentees.

"I have called you all together because you deserve to know the details of the events you have endured here. I want to thank you for your patience and co-operation, especially Mrs Coulthard, without whose courage we would not have been able to resolve this investigation."

Kim moved slightly in her chair, and looked embarrassed. Helford moved swiftly on to save her discomfort. "As you know, Councillor Dennis Massington was arrested yesterday for conspiracy to murder. He told Mrs Coulthard that he had given the orders for the deaths, but he was not working alone. You may also know that Councillor Alfred Wentley was arrested at the home of Sue Cheam, in possession of a firearm. He has also admitted some part in the conspiracy, although he couldn't wait to tell us that Massington gave the orders. It was clear to us that Mr Chewter had been blackmailing someone, and we were in the process of getting bank records for some suspects, but the only clue we had was an entry in his diary for the day of his death – 'A.D'. We knew he left the Gull Inn at around closing time, and assumed he met someone who killed him. But the identity of 'A.D' puzzled us. Anya Dortmann, your former colleague, was a possibility, but she was abroad at the relevant time. Then we found out that Chewter had called Wentley and Massington during the week before his death, but we didn't make the connection. We heard them referred to as 'Councillor this and that', never by their first names. Chewter had begun to feel he could be familiar with them, especially once he had a blackmail hold on them. We now know that 'A.D.' probably meant 'Al and Dennis', just a brief way of reminding himself of the assignation. They could have told him to come and collect a payment, we may never know." Helford looked around at his audience, but they were too stunned to comment.

"We have a suspect in custody," he continued, "the intruder at Mrs Coulthard's, who is 'helping us with our enquiries', which is more than could be said yesterday. We found a parked van near Mrs Coulthard's road, which his keys fitted. Inside we found the gun used in the murders. As Dennis Massington told you, Mrs Couthard, he was indeed let down by some quite stupid criminals. Once we told him that we could connect him with the murders, he quickly dropped his guard and sang like a canary. He gave us the name of his accomplice, and his boss. There the trail goes cold, for until we arrest his boss, we cannot find out who was giving him orders. We think from Massington's comments that someone on the board of Egron was involved, so...." he stopped, as James had gasped. "What is it, Mr Goswell?"

"I can't believe I forgot! It must have been the landslip, so much happened that day. But while I was doing the bungee jump thing, you know, taking their tickets, I saw Dennis Massington talking to one of the Egron people – a senior man, young but he looked important, if you know what I mean. Massington was angry with him, and I was pretty surprised because I'd never seen him look so irate before. How did I forget that?!"

"As you said, you did have a busy day!"

"Sorry, Inspector. Fat lot of help I've been in all this," James sighed. Paula looked at him and smiled. Harry Tanner raised his eyes to heaven, and the cleaners nudged each other. There was a coy moment while everyone tried to stop themselves smiling at the lovers, for this was a serious occasion.

A voice from near the end of the table broke the spell. "If Romeo and Juliet are quite finished, can you tell us the rest?"

The Inspector looked at the speaker. "Yes, Miss Cheam, I certainly can. Now, where was I? Oh yes, Egron. We will have to get you to identify which of their executives you saw, Mr Goswell. Anyway, the chain of command ran from Dennis Massington right down to the man we have in custody. It's not unusual for powerful city businessmen to get underlings to do their dirty work for them, while keeping themselves right out of the frame. The motive was not money, at least not in Massington's case. He loved power – I understand he was a hugely influential figure here in Pebbleton, and you Members frequently followed his lead."

There was a murmur of dissent at this. No-one likes to be told that they have blindly gone along with the whims of someone who is now revealed to be a megalomaniac. Councillor Gordon Denby asked "What about Councillor Clandecy? Was he any part of the conspiracy?"

"We think not," the inspector replied. "We wondered at first, but he genuinely had no idea of the danger that the unstable condition of the Edge posed to the Development. He wanted it to go ahead to increase the value of the family's land, as did Councillor Wentley, but he had no idea there was a problem."

"But his family was one that moved the river!" Sue protested.

"Yes, but I don't suppose any of them understood the implications two hundred or so years later. Joey Fisher, working on the geological survey in preparation for the Development, discovered anomalies in the readings, and couldn't make up his mind what was going on. In layman's terms, some parts were strong which should have been weak, and vice versa. He consulted his old university friend, Steve Coulthard, and together they checked the findings. Steve slowly became almost convinced that the Development would lead to disaster, and was torn between his doubts and his anxiety for his wife's safety. He thought the problem could extend both sides of the cliffs, and endanger the part where Southcliff Hall stands. As his wife worked for the Council he told his friend to approach some of the Councillors and the Parish Clerk. He could not have known that the very ones he suggested, first Chewter, then Wentley, who was Ward Councillor for the Development area, and finally Massington, were the worst possible choices. I'm sure that any of you others would have blown the whistle and alerted everyone to the danger."

The Councillors nodded, appalled at what they had voted for. Paula, remembering her misgivings about the Development, wanted to know who had phoned her at work on the day of the Meeting. "We think it was Massington himself, as he was in the building at the time and could have used any phone." She nodded, satisfied.

Councillor Mrs Sheila Cooper piped up. "What will happen now about the Development? Is it a write-off?"

James answered this one. "We now know the geological survey we have on the Development file is useless, it must have been prepared by someone told to overlook every sign of trouble. We are waiting for the final report of the Geological Survey team," he told her. "But I'm not hopeful – the initial findings are pessimistic."

"Does anyone have any more questions?" asked Helford.

Eve Thornton cleared her throat, and shot the one question at the policemen that everyone was wondering but no-one wanted to ask. "Why isn't Fiona here? Is she a suspect too?"

"We understand that Miss Carvell is taking some annual leave on the advice of her doctor. No, she is not a suspect."

"Hmph, darned suspicious if you ask me," Eve replied. "She's been acting odd ever since you found the other bodies, like she had something to hide."

"We have all the information Miss Carvell could give us, and we are not looking for any more."

James added grimly, "Fiona is considering her position."

Another voice broke in. "I want to know why Councillor Wentley was trying to break into Sue's place!" It was Imogen, who until now had been quietly trying to make sense of so much information.

"He was called by Dennis Massington, and told that a vital and incriminating document was in Sue's possession. Actually he was meant to get rid of Sue as well. We made sure Sue was out, but my men were there."

Imogen had another question. "What about Cuffy?"

Everyone except Sue, James and Paula looked puzzled. Then the Inspector remembered.

"You mean the old gentleman, the one in the home? I'm afraid I have no information about him."

"But wasn't he put in the home by Councillor Wentley? Surely he can be got out now!"

Sue leaned forward and caught Imogen's attention. "I've set things in motion, don't worry," she hissed.

The Inspector and Sergeant Dean exchanged knowing looks, and Dean leaned forward himself. "Any chance you could leave things to the professionals this time?" he asked.

Sue tilted her chin up. "The professionals are the ones I contacted. I have friends in various areas, you know," she replied haughtily.

Kim spoke up. "That's what Councillor Massington said – he reckoned he had people all over Pebbleton giving him information."

"Yes, we heard that on the recording. We found a couple living over the road from you who were passing him information. They had a problem some years ago getting planning permission for an extension, and he told them he would 'oil the wheels'. In return they were happy to help him out whenever he wanted. He told them you were a suspect in the murder of your husband, and that's why the police were calling on you. He alerted them after the intruder had gone, of course, and asked them to let him know when we left. They were told to go out after that, so they didn't see him arrive. He took a chance that no-one else would see him, but he had got tired of people fouling up his plans. The couple were so thrilled, helping catch the murderer as they thought, so they came home again quite soon. They were horrified when _he_ was led out in handcuffs."

"I bet he 'oiled the wheels' for loads of people, or pretended he had," remarked James. "There's going to be a lot of disillusioned people in Pebbleton when this gets out."

Bill Perry of the Frayminster Guardian had a field day with the story, and it even made the nationals in a small paragraph here and there.. The big thunder had already been stolen by Clifftop FM, running the story of the arrest of two Pebbleton Councillors as if they were personally responsible for the landslip as well as being murder suspects. It was quickly realised that the Development was involved, and rumours flew around. Once there was someone to blame, all manner of wrongs surfaced and were laid at the door of Wentley and Massington.

On Monday Imogen and Sue both sat in Reception and endured one after another of the villagers ranting on about their grievances. "I always knew neither of those two cared about animals. I hope now they've gone something will get done about feeding the wildlife," one woman grumbled. "You should see the poor squirrels in my garden, they're positively emancipated!"

"Emaciated..." Sue whispered in her Imogen's ear. "I'll make a note of the problem," she assured the woman. "Like hell I will, you batty old freak," she muttered under her breath when the indignant wildlife enthusiast was out of earshot.

Lunchtime finally arrived. Imogen was picked up by her boyfriend, who was planning to persuade her to have a break from Pebbleton in favour of a week in Taunton, his home town. Sue had to manage alone for an hour, so she was glad when Paula Rivers came into Reception for a chat.

"Off to lunch with James?" Sue smiled.

"Sure, but he can wait. How are you, is your shoulder better?"

"It's fine. Any more news? People have been asking if the Parish Council will survive, or if we'll be absorbed into Frayminster Council. What do you reckon? Will I have a job this time next month?"

Paula looked dubious. "I won't lie to you, Sue, that could happen. Once we get the geology report we can make a decision on how much, if any, of the Development can go ahead. What a mess, eh?"

James came down the stairs and took Paula's arm. "Sue wants to know if she'll have a job by next month," Paula murmured to him as they left the building.

"We all wonder that, but you know how the land lies." He stopped. "Sorry, that's the very thing we don't know!"

"What will you do if the Council is dissolved?" asked Paula. She was anxious to know if James wanted to remain near her. Pebbleton was the place in which she would love to stay living, but if James was planning to move on she might, just might, face leaving if he felt they had a future together.

He said nothing for a while. Finally he sighed, "Let's just wait and see, shall we?" Paula bit her lip, but knew she had to do just that.

Back in Reception, Sue had another visitor. Sergeant Dean, off duty and in jeans, wandered in. "I was just passing and I thought I'd see how you were," he claimed.

"Apart from the fact that the whole world's gone mad and I'm probably going to lose my job, fine, thanks!"

"Lose your job? Really?"

She explained the problem of the diminishing justification for a Parish Council for such a small village. "The Development would have kept us in business, but – well – you get the picture."

Dean thought for a moment. "You could always join the police force," he pointed out. "You're pretty observant and you'd have no trouble passing the entrance exam."

She was taken aback. "You really think so? I thought you had to be quite tall and fit. Come on, look at me!"

"You don't have to be tall now. And you could soon get into shape – you're not that far off, surely...." He blushed as she realised he had made an assessment of her contours. She let him off the hook by saying, "Well, I'll bear it in mind. What are you doing today, anything interesting?"

"Not really," he said, "Just mooching around. I did a bit of gardening at my Mum's earlier, but at this time of year there's not much to do. Are you a gardener?"

"I would be if I had a garden. I do grow stuff on my windowsill, but I'm not in your league. You know, I wish you could hang around for a bit, I'm off for lunch soon and I've got loads of questions about the investigation. Any chance you could come back in half an hour, so I can give you the third degree?"

"OK, why not. Actually there's something puzzling the Inspector, you might be able to shed some light on it. I can walk down to the cafe near the beach, you know, the one with the postcards outside, and come back later."

"I know the one – I love the ice-cream there. Why don't I join you, to save you walking up the path again? I can run down in five minutes, it's the walk back up that kills me!"

Dean set off down the winding path to the beach, whistling happily. He was thinking how she'd laugh to hear his news – the young man in custody had implicated his friend 'Dezzer' in the murders. 'Dezzer' had been tracked down to a prison where he was serving a short sentence for assaulting his girlfriend. The RSPCA had prosecuted him for using the girl's own pet snake as an offensive weapon. 'You just couldn't make it up,' thought Dean.

He wandered into the café and ordered a cup of tea. Beside the counter was a display of key rings with boys' and girls' names on. Perhaps he'd buy the 'Sue' version, and give it to her to thank her for her help in the investigation. He must remember to ask her Inspector Helford's question – why did Alfred Wentley risk prison for such a small prize as the value of his brother-in-law's house? Surely an inadequate motive for involving himself in conspiracy to murder?

Paula went to visit Kim after her lunch with James. They sat in the lounge where just a few days before, Kim had nearly had her wrists cut by the psychotic Dennis Massington. "He has gone completely over the edge, so the police tell me," she explained to Paula.

"You poor girl, it's a wonder you're not back in hospital," replied Paula. "You need to get away from here, have a break."

"Mrs Loxwood, you know, Piers Clandecy's mother, has offered to take me on a cruise with her. She knows the owner of the Amnesia, so she's got a last minute booking. We're going to see the fiords."

"Good – but won't it be a bit weird, I mean, she's Piers' mother....he's a pain. Did you hear he's resigned?"

"I didn't hear, no, but I met Mrs Loxwood at watercolour classes a long time ago, and we've been friends ever since. She's nothing like her son, but she told me he was a great disappointment to her, not to mention his awful wife. I think she'll be as glad to get away as I will be."

"Sue told me about a letter you found, that gave the game away. What was in it?" her friend wanted to know.

"It was from Joey to Steve. Here, read it." She went to the bureau and took out the A4 copy she had shown Massington.

' _Steve – Here are the maps and stuff, you'll make a better job of convincing those thickheads at the Council than I would. Something's wrong there, I'm sure. First the Clerk didn't seem interested, then that Wentley bloke just got angry, what's the matter with them? It's their village, for heaven's sake. But worse has happened since you spoke to the other one, the tall one who works in London._

I reckon he said something to Egron, because I got called into the office and told to clear my desk. I just had time to copy this lot before security barged in and strong-armed me out of the building. I was so sure it had something to do with Pebbleton, I was determined they wouldn't get the chance to destroy all the work I've done.

Well, all the best, and if our worst fears turn out to be true, make sure you get that lovely wife of yours out of Pebbleton before the whole lot falls into the sea. I'm off to find another job. Take care mate, don't let the blighters get you down! - Joey'

Paula laid the letter down on the coffee table, and sighed. "Poor devil – he had no idea how right he was. And poor Steve, trying so hard to protect you and the village."

"It all makes sense now," said Kim. "All the things like that phone call, when I heard him say 'what if I'm wrong'.......and why he was so quiet and worried. And why he jumped at the chance of the job in Northern Ireland, though that was all a lie. Massington was terrifying, Paula – I couldn't believe how someone can change and show their true colours. He's absolutely evil, power-crazy."

"I suppose he had the perfect set-up here, just a little village, and everyone so easily influenced by the clever big-city businessman. I can hardly believe it, but I guess we'll get used to the idea. It's different with Wentley, I never liked him. Oh, and Piers resigning means three gone from the Council. Good riddance, I say. That actually leaves us with a really nice set of Members. Gordon Denby's getting on a bit, but he's very experienced. Mrs Cooper is a dear, and Hugh Pickford is a decent man – when he's around! Mind you, four of us isn't enough. Once this geology report comes out we'll have to decide whether to recruit more Members."

Kim looked around at her home. "I wonder if there is a problem this side of the cliffs.......if so, this house will be practically worthless...."

Back at Southcliff Hall, Sue sat at the Reception desk, longing to escape to have lunch with Dean. The elderly ladies and gentlemen of the Pebbleton History Club were slowly filtering in, their conversation full of the geological disaster. Current events seldom aroused their curiosity, but they listened to Clifftop FM and they had heard speculation about the cause of the landslip.

James was also back in the building, and hung around in Reception talking to the historians. He was full of bonhomie after his lunch with Paula. They asked him questions about his heroic rescue on the day of the Extreme Sports, which had also filtered through to their collective consciousness. Suddenly the tortoise-like little Mr Corrigan, nearly bent double with arthritis, looked up at James and remarked, "It'll be the river pushing through the cliff, there can be no doubt about that. Once the three Squires diverted that river, all manner of strange things happened to the land. It seemed to settle down after about fifty years, but water always finds its own way."

James stared at the wizened little man. "You mean you knew about the diverted river? And there were problems with the land – for fifty years after? Why didn't you tell us - I mean......" His voice tailed off in confusion.

Mr Corrigan looked hurt. "We would have told you anything you wanted to know, only nobody asked us. We did wonder when they started to build the Development, but we thought they must know what they were doing, what with all their new-fangled equipment for testing things. Ah, well, that's what happens when you get old, nobody listens to you...." His fellow Club members nodded sadly in agreement.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to imply – yes, we should have asked you. You're the History Club. If only we had."

Mrs Ada Flynn patted him soothingly on the arm. Her watery pale blue eyes in the crinkles of tired flesh gazed kindly at him. "We'll get out our old maps and show you, dear. Maybe it will help those young men who are all over the other side of the cliff."

The Club members tottered off to their meeting and James sank onto a chair in Reception. "I don't believe it," he mumbled, shaking his head.

Sue looked at him doubtfully, and was about to say something when the phone rang. "Pebbleton Parish Council, may I help you?" she trilled in her best telephone voice.

It was the manager of the care home where she and Imogen had visited Cuffy. The assessment had revealed that he was quite capable of taking care of himself at home, contrary to the information his sister had supplied. As his sister and brother-in-law were in custody, helping police with inquiries, Mr Acres was asking if any of his friends at Southcliff Hall could drive him home if he was delivered there.

Sue was thrilled, and frantically beckoned James over. She covered the mouthpiece and begged for Cuffy to be allowed to come. "Very well," agreed James. Today couldn't get any more crazy, even if Mr Acres joined them.

Five minutes later Mr Cuthbert Acres, looking none the worse for his stay at The Magnolia Home for Distressed Gentlefolk, was escorted into Reception by Imogen, who had spotted him emerging from a car as she came back from her lunch.

"My dear friends, you have all been so wonderful," he enthused. "You've been through a terrible ordeal, I hear, and you deserve a holiday."

"That would be nice," mused Imogen. "Wouldn't it be fun if we could all of us book into Centre Parcs for a week?"

"Centre Parcs?" Cuffy interrupted. "No, no, dear girl, you don't want to go there. While I was in the Magnolia Hotel they showed us a film warning us about that place. I remember one scene where a goat was lowered into an enclosure, and these frightful monstrous beasts ate it up in a flash. No, I have a better idea."

"Er, was the film called Jurassic Parc, perhaps?" Sue giggled. Cuffy ignored her and continued with his plan.

"I am going to make sure you all have a treat – a free trip on one of my ships. You choose, the Amnesia, the Dreamcloud or my personal favourite, the Sundrifter. I want you to test your sea-legs, my dear ladies, for I have an ulterior motive. I am thinking of purchasing another ship, and I would love to steal you away from the Council and employ you as staff on it."

Sue and Imogen smiled at him, glad to have the old delusional Cuffy back. Most locals knew that the owner of the Daydream cruise line running these three beautiful vessels lived somewhere in the area, and often saw adverts in the Frayminster Guardian. But the girls knew better than to get their hopes up for a fortnight sunning themselves on deck.

Sue looked at her watch and scooted out of the building to meet Dean. She made it down the steps to the beach on record time and found Dean outside the café.

Dean got straight down to brass tacks by asking her opinion of Wentley's motives. "You know him from the Council, what do you think?"

"What do I think of the man who came to my house to kill me? Oddly enough, I don't think he would have killed me. If he was a killer he'd have done away with Cuffy, to get the house. But he didn't, did he? He let his wife fix up a Power of Attorney, but they found a reasonably comfortable home for Cuffy. Bless him, he was in Reception when I left, wittering on about giving us all jobs on his fleet of cruise ships."

"Who was, Wentley?"

"No, of course not, you nit. You've got Wentley in custody, I hope. No, I mean Cuffy. His latest delusion is that he's the owner of the Daydream line."

"And is he? I heard the owner lives round these parts."

"He can't be!"

"Why not?" retorted Dean, reaching for his mobile phone.

"Because – well, he can't be – I mean....he'd be fabulously rich, and...."

"And," Dean pointed out, "that would explain why the Wentleys were trying to get control of his money." He called the police station and asked Beavon to check the details. They ordered their food and chatted happily until it came. Sue felt quite comfortable eating at her usual speed in front of Dean. 'After all,' she thought, 'this isn't a date or anything. He just wants to ask me more questions to tie up the investigation.'

She wanted to know how a Power of Attorney could have been obtained, and Dean was able to tell her that Massington had supplied Wentley with the names of a 'bent' solicitor and an equally obliging doctor, who had signed away Cuffy's freedom without even examining him. Wentley had been all too eager to blame Massington for everything, though the charge sheets against both of them were long enough.

Dean's phone squeaked as a text message came in. "From Beavon...." he muttered, "let's see, Daydream line....registered owner......Cuthbert Acres."

"You're kidding - here, show me that," Sue yelped, trying to grab the phone from his hand. "Hey – let go, you can see," laughed Dean, turning the phone to face her. She read the tiny print carefully, again and again, squinting in the sunlight. Finally she pushed Dean's wrist back towards him, murmuring, "I don't believe it – I just can't believe it."

"Now if you can't trust a police officer, who can you trust?" replied Dean with a superior air.

"So – he really can give us jobs on his ships!"

"OK, I get it – you don't fancy a job in the police force," sighed Dean, his heart unaccountably heavy.

"Oh, cheer up, I'll get you a job as a ship's security officer. You'll look lovely in the uniform!" Sue was so excited she jumped up and impulsively hugged Dean and kissed him on the cheek. "Come on, we've got to tell the others," she urged him. Dean drained his cup and allowed Sue to pull him up from his chair.

"Yes, mi' lady," he replied with a crafty smile. "Race you up the cliff...."

THE END

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(Want to know what happens to Pebbleton and its inhabitants? Look out for 'Pebbleton at Sea' - coming soon! And don't forget, if you enjoyed this book, send your positive feedback to Smashwords, to encourage the speedy arrival of more Pebbleton books.)

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