

## The Daughter of Patience

### By

## Stephen McDaniel

Copyright Stephen McDaniel 2018

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

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 recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author
Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

About the Author
The Daughter of Patience is a work of fiction. All characters, events and places other than those in the public domain are inventions of the author. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended _._

The organization and functions of Gloucestershire CID as depicted are the creations of the author and are not meant to accurately reflect the operations of that police force.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the permission of the copyright owner.
Do you thirst for Vengeance? Be patient and keep your own counsel and you will produce an angel of retribution.

### Chapter 1

I sat on the edge of the bed glaring at my left hand. I'd given it a direct order, and it refused to obey. The hand clutched a quarter-full bottle of Jack Black and waggled it like a teasing tart in a strip show. I'm accustomed to pig-headed people, but less familiar with rebellious body parts. I scorned the hand, went over its head, and talked to my arm which responded without hesitation, moving the open flask to my mouth. Not where I wanted it. I struggled to relax, and the arm drifted back to my knee.

These are the things you do in the disembodied, half-in-the-bag time between hammered and sobering up.

The bedside lamp pooled light around my lower body and abraded my eyes. My bedroom, the same one my mother used when she was a child, had only one window. Its two large panes reflected only black, a hard, depressing three o'clock-in-the-morning kind of black when unburdened people slept. I swabbed a thick tongue over furry teeth, prospecting for saliva but finding only cardboard. Whiskey is at least wet. When my arm floated up again, I drank, after which my hand agreed to release the empty bottle to the custody of the table.

Bits of the nightmare, reappearing after an absence of eleven days, had ripped a hole in my sleep. The flames and shrieks and slow-motion chaos seemed more vivid than last time, and the frozen-frame moments when my legs, knee-deep in sucking sand, refused to move more agonizing. A final searing flash of the Revolutionary Guard boy-lieutenant's face as a nine-millimeter round destroyed his throat arched me out of bed and onto the floor.

The whiskey spread its balm, and I strained at the remnants of self-control. The thought of starting a wellness routine again, the exercises, the diet, all the dogged attempts to quell the bloody weakness, made my gorge rise. Last evening had been an aberration, one I vowed not to repeat.

My rationalizations are nothing if not well-rehearsed.

The damn mobile phone bounced and buzzed on the table, the racket sawing into my skull. My hand darted for it and missed, instead smacking the empty bottle which caromed off the wall and bounced on the floor. A second grab succeeded, but I needed both hands to get it flipped open and pressed to my ear.

"Quill." My voice sounded like someone plowing gravel.

"Good morning, sir, Sergeant Trammell here."

Shit. "What?"

"Very sorry to disturb you so early, sir, but I'm afraid we have need of your services."

"Why?"

"We've had a report of a body being discovered near the village of Upper Turcote. Do you know it?"

"Where's Whiteside?"

"Inspector Whiteside is occupied with another case and cannot be made available. I conferred with the Superintendent before calling you." Ass fully covered.

"Tellwright?

"Sergeant Tellwright has been notified and is on the way. However, it will take him almost an hour to reach the area."

"Where's Upper Whatever?"

The sergeant mentioned several landmarks I recognized. "A patrol vehicle is on scene, and I have taken the liberty of advising the SOCOs and the doctor. Superintendent Fitzwalter was quite adamant you should attend."

"How the hell did anyone find a body in the middle of the night?"

"The call was anonymous, made to the emergency operator. I have no further information. May I inform the patrol you will arrive by 6:45?"

"What time is it?"

"It is 6:15, sir." The hint of reproach made my teeth grind.

"I'll be there." I dropped the pocket-sized purveyor of pain on the table and rubbed my eyes. That last gurgle of whisky started an altercation with my stomach and commenced to retreat toward my mouth. I made it to the loo in a stumbling rush and ceased to think about mundane matters such as bodies.

There is nothing quite like the trembling, hollowed out feeling of a massive hangover after you've tossed your cookies. Your heart pounds, your head is in a vice, and you not only reckon you'll die, you hope it'll be soon. This misery settles in for hours until your system purges the alcohol. Drinking water helps, but your belly has to be on board with the idea.

I made a half-assed attempt to get myself in order, giving particular attention to the whisky-and-bile breath. Never do to show up half-cut. A cold-water wash, a pint of mouthwash, a comb through sweat-slicked hair, and I hoped I might slip through. No one was expecting a debutante, anyway.

While I fumbled at the basin and stared at the grey face squinting in the mirror, I finally became aware of the old house groaning and squeaking. The wind was up and with it, rain. The house is brick and has weathered every storm for a hundred years, but never without protest. I don't know where all the noise comes from. Maybe the old pile is just bitching about the climate like everyone else.

I dressed in whatever clothes I could dredge up from a heap on the bedroom floor. They probably smelled, but my nose wasn't working any better than my hand. Coffee or orange juice came to mind, but my belly advised against them by rolling like a trawler in the North Atlantic. At the front door, I grabbed a heavy fluorescent coat with the word "Police" stenciled in black letters fore and aft and struggled into it.

And felt a tiny click in my back. I wondered if the biggest shell fragment was moving again, if paralysis would finally kick in when it worked its way into my spinal cord. Gritting my teeth, I dragged the solid oak door inward, and a gallon of wind-driven rain bucketed into my face.

The gale forced me to lean into it, and I wondered for the twentieth time why I'd never bought a rain hat. By the time I got the car door open, another pint of icy liquid had trickled down the back of my neck. Ugly as it was, the cold and wet helped with the hangover. I backed the car into the lane and pointed myself toward Cleeve Hill.

The blacktop was rain-shiny, and the headlights bounced off the surface into oblivion. I knew this section of the route well enough to stay in the road, and there was the merest hint of light in the eastern sky. As I climbed, the rain slackened, and the wind rose.

My curiosity about the discovery of a body at this profane hour began to warm up along with the heater in the car. The caller placed the victim in a field. Either someone was stumbling around in the dark during a nasty storm which seemed implausible, or the anonymous caller knew more than he or she let on. That pointed to homicide.

For some reason, casual passersby seldom discovered murder victims, although they and their dogs were notorious for finding shallow graves. Someone associated with the crime scene or the victim had opened all the cases I could recall. Six weeks ago, a young woman who was worried about her brother flagged a patrol car. When the officers got no response at the man's house, they broke in and found a blood-soaked bed and a corpse in the bathtub beaten into an unrecognizable pulp. We arrested two drug dealers within a week, all as predictable and banal as the change of the seasons. But this call aroused a prickle of interest. It might turn out to be simple, but it was out of the common.

My stomach continued to lurch as I followed the curves into the hills. Upper Turcote, as described by Trammell, resembled a hundred other Cotswold hamlets. Tucked away in an obscure valley with one road leading in and the same one coming out, I imagined stone cottages surrounding a village green, their thatched roofs overlooking the community like beetled brows on old men. There would be a pub on one side and a post office-cum-village store on the other, and somebody would have draped an ornamental chain around the green.

I hoped the patrol car would be visible when I got close.

It was. The flashers sliced through the gray-blackness as I crested a small hill, and I slowed coming down the grade. The car, placed diagonally across the road, blocked both lanes, but there were no other vehicles there yet. I pulled onto the verge.

I shoved the car door into the wind and received another dousing. As I leaned against the car and pulled on my wellies, an officer attired in foul weather gear approached, and recognized me.

"Morning, sir," he said, holding onto his cap. "Bit of a howler, isn't it."

"Just perfect." I tried to raise my voice, but the wind forced its way down my gullet, and I made do with a croak.

He understood and grinned.

I turned my back to the gusts. "What have we got?"

The grin dissolved. "Looks rather bad. Body of a white male. When you first see it, it looks like he's sitting up against a tree. Then, in close, you can make out he's been tied to it."

"How far and where?"

He pointed. "There's a farm track about thirty yards ahead on the right. The body is another thirty yards up that track. My partner is trying to put up some crime scene tape."

I nodded, my throat too raw by now to fight the wind. I jammed my hands into the huge coat pockets and started up the road. Normal procedure required us to stand by until the Scenes of Crime Officers had examined the area for evidence and the divisional surgeon had certified death. But I doubted anyone was going find tiny fibers or blood spatter or bits of hair for DNA analysis, not in this weather. And a body tied to a tree - if he wasn't dead already, he would be by the time the doc got here.

Daylight poked fingers through the clouds, timid as a mouse at a banquet. I could see the field track well before I came to it, a muddy churned up morass of tractor marks in the otherwise weedy green of the roadside. Thick forest bordered the track on one side, and a gurgling drainage ditch and dilapidated corn field limited the other. Crime scene tape tied between a tree and a fence post billowed and snapped.

I scanned the ground for anything that might be evidence, but between the rain and lack of light, I saw nothing useful. I ducked under the tape and started up the forest side, placing each foot on the slippery autumn leaves with as much care as I could manage. The tire tracks led uphill, and the slope was enough to cause me to suck in a lot of wet oxygen. Head down and panting, I caught another flash of tape just before I ran into it.

Trees, close set and tangled in undergrowth on the way up, thinned as I came up to a plowed field. The tractor ruts faded out, and an ancient post-and-rail fence meandered away around the field's perimeter. The farmer hadn't bothered with a gate. On the other side of the fence, a lightning-blasted pine reared up like a spike, the only object not flailing in the wind.

I marked the surroundings but didn't really see them. What I saw was a man, dressed for the weather in what appeared to be a brown Barbour jacket, and sitting slumped in front of the tree. His legs spread wide and his arms hung awkwardly down, the wrists in the mud and the hands palm up as though questioning his fate. The head tilted at an inquisitive angle. Mine canted over at the same angle as I studied the white, wet features.

Someone spoke from my right, and I jumped a foot.

The other patrol officer said, "Very nasty, sir. I've had a look from the rear, though not too close. He's sitting that way because there's a rope around his neck. It goes up through that fork and it's tied off on the other side."

I'd stopped less than twenty feet in front of the man, but I couldn't see anything that helped me figure out how he'd died. I swiveled my head, following the crime tape. The officer had cordoned off a respectable space, but it was apparent no one would collect much evidence from anything but the corpse and the tree. I wanted to get closer to poke and prod, my twisting stomach notwithstanding, but it would be pointless. The scientific jonnies would be here in minutes, and no one would thank me for trampling about.

The officer's radio crackled. He listened, then acknowledged. "SOCOs are on their way up sir, and the doctor is here as well."

"Thank you. Was it full dark when you arrived?"

"It was, sir, blacker than the inside of my cap. Tom and me weren't sure where he was. Only had a vague description. We wandered around with our torches for a good ten minutes before Tom spotted him. We called it in and started our drill."

"Good job. I'm afraid you'll have to stay here to control access. When do you go off shift?"

"Eight o'clock. But Sergeant Trammell will brief our replacements and get them up here by then. He's very good that way."

Too bad he's a jerk as well. "OK. Do you or your partner know this district well?"

"Can't say as we do. We're both Forest of Dean. But I think Johnny Kippler, PC Kippler, is from around here."

"Don't know him. Ask Sergeant Trammell to find this Kippler and send him up. We need some local knowledge as soon as we can get it."

### Chapter 2

Derek Morley, Chief Scene of Crime Officer, made a point of staring at my clothes, raking me from foot to head with intentional disdain. I stared back, hunching my shoulders against his disapproval, daring him to do his worst.

"Damn it Tom, you know better than to contaminate a crime scene. Where's your coveralls and boots?"

"I'll give you five quid if you can find my presence anywhere around the crime scene. Haven't been near the body, haven't walked around, haven't done anything except stand here in the bloody rain. I suggest you see if the victim can contribute something in the way of evidence."

Morley shook his head trying to dislodge water from his glasses and transferred a heavy white case from one hand to the other. The divisional surgeon, Doctor Farnham, had joined us during the exchange. He was a small, brisk birdlike man whose bedside manner was perfect for policemen and dead bodies.

"Let it go, Derek. I want to have a look at this one. Might be interesting." He ducked under the tape and strode forward, glancing neither left nor right, oblivious to any traces he might be obliterating. Morley, defeated, set his case on the ground and surveyed the area with minute care.

Farnham stopped in front of the corpse and bent from the waist. Peering at the face, inspecting the rope, craning around to look at the neck, probing gently with latex-covered fingers, he never once moved his feet. Apparently satisfied, he grabbed the right arm and moved it fore and aft, side to side, then placed a thumb and forefinger on either side of the victim's windpipe.

"You'll be pleased to know he's dead," he called over his shoulder. "Rigor fully developed, but no lividity around the noose. This weather will make it difficult to be precise about time of death. We need to get him to the mortuary as soon as possible and check his temperature. That will be more useful than anything else. As to cause of death, it is not obvious, but there is a hole in the front of his jacket just to the left of his heart."

Morley replied, "Give us fifteen minutes and we should be ready to release." He signaled to his colleagues who had arrived with their own boxes of equipment.

Farnham backtracked to where I was standing, while the photographer set up his equipment and began to pan the field. The 360-degree view, a new technique, allowed the investigative team to see what we saw without mucking up the crime scene.

Farnham lowered his voice into lecture mode. "He looks to be in his fifties. No blood externally that I could see, and I'm guessing he was not moved or not much until after he died. That hole in the jacket looks very like a bullet hole, but I can't really see inside it. I think the rope was put on after death just to hold him up against that tree, although why anyone would go to the trouble is beyond me. He's a big chap, probably well over six foot, and quite solid. I'll ask Dr. Halperin to do the autopsy."

"I thought he was in the States."

"Just returned yesterday morning. He was studying new techniques they've developed in Texas. Isn't that your old stomping ground, as they say in the Westerns?"

I grunted. The English rarely lost an opportunity to take the mickey. I was often asked which half was the American part, top or bottom, left or right. "It would be nice if he could do the PM straight away."

"That's why I'm going to ask for him, he probably doesn't have anything else on. I'll be on my mobile if you have any questions."

I remained stationary, listening to the surgeon squelch back down the track. He said, "Good morning, Sergeant," and I knew Tellwright had arrived. My eyes wandered up to the top of the blighted pine, and I took a deep breath.

The steady slap of feet stopped behind me. "Mornin, Guv. Nice day for it." There was a hint of a chuckle under the rumble.

Simon Tellwright, half a foot taller than me and roughly twice as wide, peered over my shoulder like a curious bear.

"Morning, Sergeant. Where did you get to?" As the Duty Sergeant for CID, Tellwright should have been first on the scene, and I would have been grateful for the extra time to get myself together.

"Down near Stonehouse. Chap coshed his old lady, and the medicos thought she was going to peg out." He paused, and I could hear him swallowing and smell the tea. "Didn't though. What's happened to this poor bugger?"

"Don't know yet. Doc says he was probably in his fifties and a big 'un. He's been tied to that tree by his neck. No idea about time or cause of death although Doc spotted a possible gunshot wound to the chest. Called in anonymously to the emergency dispatcher. "

Tellwright squinted at the body. "Maybe he tied the rope himself, sat down to die, and shot himself." Clearing the books with the least amount of work - that was his style.

"Then buried the gun? There must be simpler ways to top yourself."

The photographer finished his scan and approached the body with mincing steps. He was careful to stay in the doctor's tracks, but he stopped when still a yard away. He first used a handheld video camera to record the body and the immediate area around it, then switched to a 35 millimeter still camera to get close-ups. When he finished, he said to Morley, "Anything else, sir?"

"That should do it. Go around the back of the tree now, then start down the track."

The photographer nodded and began to work his way to the left, pausing with each step to examine the ground. Morley hefted his case and picked his way up to the body. He put the case on one side and opened it, whereupon bits of plastic and paper levitated into the wind and whisked away. Morley said "Shit" and slammed the box shut.

I felt Tellwright start to rumble. "Lovely. Next time he tells me about contamination, I'll remind him of this."

For once I agreed, but I kept a straight face. The rain had finally slackened to an occasional spit. I realized I'd been standing still for so long, my left leg had gone to sleep. I started to shift back and forth to get some circulation. "Apparently there's a PC named Kippler who's from around here. Know him?"

"That I do. A good man."

"I told Trammell to send him up. We need to find out as much as we can before we get the team together. And it would be nice if he could ID this guy."

"Quill!" Morley was waving at me. "Better come up and look at this."

I pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and started toward the SOCO who was now kneeling in front of the body. When I got there, Morley sat back on his haunches. "I think he's been shot. There's a hole in the front of the jacket."

He gestured, and I squatted to peer at the mark, almost invisible in the dark, wet fabric. Morley said, "Put your finger on it and press in."

I looked at him. It was a daft thing to suggest, but the man was nodding, so I put a forefinger to the hole and pushed with the least pressure I could manage. The finger went in about a half inch, then stopped. I frowned, then pushed a little harder.

"Something in there. Wouldn't be the bullet, would it?"

"No, it's a spike. I could just see it with a torch. Got a head on it like a big clout nail."

"A nail? Then what makes you think he's been shot?"

"There's a small amount of what looks like gunpowder residue and scorching on the jacket."

I noticed the transparent tape that had been placed to cover the jacket immediately around the hole. "So, someone shoots him, then drives a spike in? Jesus, they must have really wanted to make sure." An image from nowhere struck me. "Have you looked at the back of the body yet?"

Morley shook his head.

I straightened up, then bent over the corpse bracing my left hand on the tree. The man's back was tight against the trunk, as was his head, which was held in position by the rope. I put my right hand on the shoulder, feeling the rigidity of the muscles even through stiff clothing, then inched my way down his back. It was a tight fit. When I reached a position corresponding roughly to the bullet hole, I felt something and explored around it.

After a moment, I straightened. "He's been nailed to the tree."

Morley's eyes went wide behind his Buddy Holly horn rims. "That's a new one. Maybe the spike and the rope were done to make sure he was found."

"Could be, but it's a bizarre way to go about it. Have you looked for ID?"

"Not yet. Hang on a tick." Morley started to go through what pockets he could reach. The Barbour had two breast pockets which yielded nothing. The left-hand waist pocket was also barren, but the right contained an object. Morley extracted it with thumb and forefinger and held it up.

It was a metal disk about two inches in diameter, enameled in dark green, with a Roman numeral II embossed in silver. I grasped it by its edges and inspected both sides. There were no other markings. "Any idea what it is?"

Morley said, "Not a clue." He held up a plastic bag, and I dropped the disk into it.

"Anything else?"

"Nothing in the immediate vicinity of the body, and I can't get into his trouser pockets until we move him. The rain and wind will have eliminated almost everything useful, unless we find something weather can't hurt. The only other item of interest is the rope. Need to look at it in the lab of course, but it seems to be a very common nylon cord you can find in any DIY store. It looks quite old, so I don't know that we'll get much, but there might be useful DNA unless the killer wore gloves."

"I believe they are now required to use gloves. But hope springs."

"We'll be done in a few minutes if you want to get the mortuary people up. Tell them not to approach until I give the OK."

The lack of blood on the corpse could have been due to the rain, or because the man had been killed elsewhere, bled out, then hauled to this spot. The ground around the pine spike was churned up, but there were no identifiable footprints. But as I turned to my left, I could just make out what might have been drag marks in the wet earth.

I tramped back down to Tellwright, who was finishing another slug of tea. He smacked his lips and tucked the thermos back into a voluminous coat pocket.

"Any chance of a suicide, Guv?"

"Very possibly. If we can just figure out how he tied himself to a tree, shot himself in the heart, then drove a spike through the hole while getting rid of the gun, it'll be a piece of cake."

Tellwright massaged his rubbery nose. "Put like that, homicide seems a better bet."

I sneezed. A head cold would top off the morning perfectly. "Let's get started. You wait here for Morley to finish. I'm going down to the road, and I'll send the mortuary folks up, but hold them here until Morley is ready. The vic is nailed to that tree, so it might take the four of you to get him loose and onto the gurney."

Tellwright, for once, had no sarcastic comment. "Guv."

I trudged downhill turning over possibilities and creating scenarios, none of which fit what I'd seen. Only two speculations stood out. If he'd been dragged to the tree, it was either by someone with a lot of strength, or there were two or more people involved. And there was a definite whiff of hatred about the brutality visited upon the lifeless body.

Protocol demanded I call the boss. I considered how to phrase my report to give Fitzwalter the least number of chances to question, find fault, or create problems. The Superintendent was a competent and experienced officer, but he'd gradually been buried by management and bureaucracy and the desire for promotion, and I was convinced that he now saw crimes only as budget and manpower issues.

He picked up on the first ring. "Tom, how does it look?"

I walked him through what we knew. "We might get a quick result if he's local, but it's a long shot."

"Quick would be helpful, but, as you say, we can't bet on it. You'll be in charge. Howarth won't be back on duty for two weeks, and Whiteside's on another case. Since you've already been selected for DCI, I'll upgrade you to Acting DCI effective at once, and we'll announce it that way to the press. Where are you setting up your incident room?"

"Probably the village. There should be something we can use, and I would prefer a building rather than the mobile van."

"Van's not available anyway. Communications gear is out of commission."

"Also, there's a PC named Kippler who is supposed to be from this area. I've asked Trammell to find him, and we'll attach him to the team for as long as necessary."

"Let me know as soon as possible about manpower. You know how shorthanded we are. Overtime on two homicides will just about sink the budget, and the Chief Constable was all over me about it just yesterday, so keep that in mind."

"Always do sir. I'll call you as soon as things develop."

I was waiting for the final budgetary nail to be placed in the coffin of criminal investigation. I reckoned the Home Office would soon produce a cost per hour rate for various crimes, which would become the standard to judge police efficiency. "Superintendent, that last homicide cost £124.72 per hour to solve, well over the required £83.14."

Acting DCI sounded nice, but I didn't welcome the promotion. I'd disappear in paperwork the same as Fitzwalter, and I hated administration. Also, it put me at a crossroad, one I'd been dodging for almost a year: Does I stay, or does I go? No time to think about it now.

The patrolman who had strung the crime scene tape came over. "John Kippler's here. Came straight over so he hasn't got his uniform on."

"No problem, I want to pick his brain, not take his picture. Send him up."

The patrolman backed away, embarrassed without quite knowing why. That was stupid. Why gig the poor sod just because I was feeling less than happy? I shook my head. Time to start acting like a pro.

PC Kippler was a tall lean man of perhaps thirty, with a humorous face and the blackest hair I'd seen in some time. He stopped in front of me and threw a half salute. "Morning, sir. Sergeant Trammell said you wanted to see me."

"Sergeant Trammell was, as usual, entirely correct. I've got a dead body up there in a field, and it's a homicide. I understand you're from this area."

"That's right, sir. Next village over, Nether Turcote. About a mile and a half that way," he said, pointing west.

"But you know this village well?"

"Oh, yes sir."

"The first thing we need is to see if you can ID this chap. We haven't been able to take a thorough look at him yet, but we did find a green disk in his pocket with a Roman numeral II on it. Mean anything?"

"Yes, sir. The landlord at the pub gives them out on two-for-one nights if you don't want the second pint. That's the Kings Head, sir."

"You're the man I want. You are being seconded to my team for as long as necessary. When were you last on duty?"

"Last night, sir. Finished at 2400."

"Been on a CID investigation before?"

"No sir, but I've had the Crime Scene course."

"Good chance for you to get some experience. Go up to the field, staying as far to the right as you can. You will find Sergeant Tellwright and the SOCOs up there. I want you to take a close look at the body and see if you recognize it. If you do, let me know straightaway."

Kippler nodded and ducked under the tape. I watched his exaggerated, high-lifting steps and smiled for the first time. Then I turned my thoughts to putting the team together.

### Chapter 3

Kippler came down the track five minutes later, trailing after the crime scene carnival. The mortuary people were first, wrestling the unwieldy gurney through the mud. Three SOCOs followed, white shrouded figures attending the death like apparitions. Tellwright and Kippler brought up the rear.

I raised my eyebrows at the PC, but saw no excited recognition, rather an expression of puzzlement. "No joy, I take it."

Kippler shook his head. "I can't rightly say, sir. Couldn't put a name to him, but there is something familiar. Anyway, maybe it'll come to me later. That's often the way."

"We'll hope so." I looked Tellwright over to see if he'd had to assist the mortuary team, but there was no indication of it. "They managed without you, then?"

He grunted and seemed a trifle green about the gills. "They couldn't get the spike out. Had to pull him off it." Even for a man who'd seen fifty bodies, there was always something new."

"I've been on to the boss. We need to set up an Incident Room in the village and get the house to house started as soon as we muster the troops. The mobile van is out of whack, so we need a building. Kippler, do you know of anything in the village that would do, something big enough for about ten people with power and telephone lines?"

Kippler stared into space for a minute. "Reckon the old school would do. Plenty of room, and I think the power is still connected. Not sure about the telephones though."

"Let's take a look. Sergeant, get everything squared away here, notify the team, then meet us in the village."

"Will do, Guv. Anyone you especially want, or don't want?"

Tellwright's question was a little more pointed than it appeared. Most of the CID officers were competent and experienced. Three, in my estimation, were not. Two of them I could blow off without any comeback, but the third would be a problem if I deliberately chose not to use him. Detective Constable Roger Halton was on the fast track. A university graduate, he'd done well in training, and was personable. To me, he was a classic square filler, regarding each posting as a temporary stop on his path to Chief Constable.

Or Tellwright might be hinting about Sergeant Kerrigan. We'd been discreet, but maybe someone saw something. The gossip shop never closed.

I gazed at the florid face for a moment. "We're shorthanded according to the Super, so I don't know as we'll have much choice. But do what you can."

Tellwright got the message and smirked. "Leave it to me, Guv."

I turned to Kippler. "Drive into the village and I'll follow."

Kippler nodded and walked over to a green Toyota. I headed for my Audi, working through a quick rush of nausea. I needed something in my stomach, but there was no prospect of food for some time.

I tucked in behind Kippler and we wove between the police vehicles. Once clear of the crowd, the lane followed a smooth arc to the left, then back to the right. The weather was finally clearing, but there was no hint of sun, only the eternal grey stratus.

After less than a mile, I saw the village. I anticipated a Cotswold chocolate box hamlet, and I wasn't disappointed - thatched roofs and stone cottages by the bushel. Kippler followed the narrowing lane around the curve of a fair sized central common, past the Kings Head pub, and turned off down another street that wasn't much wider than an alley. He stopped after thirty yards, and I parked behind him.

The building on the right side had the classic high narrow windows of an old-fashioned school house, and the Cotswold stone had mellowed into that soft gold so esteemed by the London commuter.

Kippler said, "Went to school here myself for four years."

"A nice building. I'm surprised someone hasn't redeveloped it or bought it for a house."

"Someone has - bought it for a house that is. But I don't think he's been able to get planning permission. The owner's a man named Norman Tinsley. Lives in a cottage just the other side of the green."

We went through a low gate with rusty hinges, and up to one of the windows. When I peered through, I could see a large square room, bare except for some old furniture pushed against a rear wall. The space was adequate. I stepped back and examined the roof. Both power and telephone cables appeared to still be connected.

"This will do. It's a little tight getting vehicles down here, but we'll manage. Go see Mr. Tinsley and tell him we need it. The county will pay him for the rental. I'm going to knock the publican up. What's his name by the way?"

"Russ O'Donnell," said Kippler. "Best if you go around the back. He probably won't hear anything at the front."

I went back to the car to change from wellies and traffic coat to street shoes and a leather jacket. Then I walked back down the lane, peering at the cottages and gardens that bordered the way.

The pub was only three doors down from the end of School Lane. The sign on the scaffold pole proclaimed the name above a cheap painting of King William IV. Ten thousand pubs in the country and eighty percent used one of the same four names. The Kings Head looked to be one of Upper Turcote's oldest structures. The stone had evolved beyond gold to a sort of tarnished black, and the windows were small and filled with ancient specimens of the glazier's art. The wide door, although as old as the rest, had been given a fresh coat of black gloss. Over it, a small sign proclaimed that Russell O'Donnell was the licensed proprietor.

I strolled down a stone-flagged pathway on one side that led around to the back. Everything smelled of wet, bedraggled vegetation. As I rounded the rear corner, I saw a man about my own height with remarkably little hair up top, but huge red mutton chop whiskers surrounding a pale face. He wore a ratty grey sweater and blue work trousers and was gazing over a poor excuse for a back garden.

I said, "Mr. O'Donnell?" He jerked back against the doorway, eyes glaring.

"Bloody hell, what are ya doin' sneakin' up on a man that way. Me heart like to've stopped." He grasped his chest to check the diagnosis.

"My apologies. I'm Detective Inspector Quill." I shoved my warrant card forward, but he ignored it.

"Are ya now? Well, you've little cause to be checkin' on me. Everything above board at the Kings Head."

"I'm sure it is. Can we go inside and have a chat?"

O'Donnell peered at me for a moment, his small eyes pecking and assessing, then nodded. He turned and went through a door that was a twin of the one on the front, but without the new paint. I opened a bedraggled gate and followed him into the pub along a stone-floored passage, and toward what appeared to be the main bar.

The publican thumbed a switch, and the lights came on, dim but serviceable. He gestured to a bar stool and took his accustomed place behind the taps. I tucked my legs up and realized how tired I was.

O'Donnell's eyes narrowed for a second, then he turned to the bottles behind the bar and selected a Jim Beam. He carried it over to a coffee pot, filled a mug with hot aromatic liquid, then topped it off with a generous tot of the bourbon. Setting it in front of me, he said, "Improve your outlook no end," and gestured at a tray filled with silverware and packets of sugar, salt and pepper.

I glanced at the coffee, then up to O'Donnell.

The man rolled his eyes and said, "Never saw a t'ing, yer honor," the brogue sounding cartoonish.

I could only grin. "I hope that's not literally true. We've had a serious crime committed just outside the village, and I need information."

Despite our little conspiracy over the alcohol, I watched the man over the rim of the cup. Would he react to the news, and if so, how? But I learned nothing useful.

O'Donnell raised his eyebrows and said, "What kind of information would that be?"

Interesting that he didn't ask about the crime, but it could mean anything or nothing. I decided to be indirect. "We found a small metal disk, green with a Roman numeral II on it. I understand you give them out."

"I do."

Not going to volunteer anything. "What are they for?"

"Second pint on two-for-one night."

I sipped at the coffee. My belly withheld judgment for a moment, then relaxed. "The dead man had one in his pocket."

Bingo. O'Donnell grasped the edge of the bar, staring at me, and muttered, "Holy Mother of God! Is one of my customers dead?" The brogue had vanished.

"I don't know if he's one of your customers or not. It's a man in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, quite tall and strong built, and wearing a new or almost new brown Barbour jacket. Any ideas?"

O'Donnell's eyes went full open, and his jaw dropped. I let him work through it, knowing I'd get the victim's name in a minute.

"Bradley Noris." It came out flat and precise. "Mother of God," although whether benediction or expletive, I couldn't tell.

"How can you be sure?"

"The jacket. He was in here last night, and I remarked on it. What the hell happened? You said a crime."

"We believe the man was murdered. Was he a friend of yours?"

O'Donnell's mouth hardened into a scar-like line. "Murdered! Think of that." He stared at me for a long moment as though calculating. "No, he's not...was not a friend. Where did you find him?"

The general details of the murder would go through the village like a tornado, and probably before lunchtime, but I saw no reason to release any more information than I had to. Some of what we knew would be held back anyway to weed out the crazy confessors who popped up with every homicide. And it was useful to have something with shock value if needed.

"Just west of the village. If Noris was not a friend, how did you know him?"

O'Donnell recovered his self-possession, assisted by a large dollop of his own scotch. "D'you not know anything of the Noris family?"

I shook my head.

"They used to be big around here - lord of the manor people. Mostly gone now. Bradley lived here years ago, then left."

"When did he come back?"

"Not certain sure. I think 'twas about a week or ten days ago. He's been in here most nights since then."

"He drink a lot?"

O'Donnell nodded, and I saw the ghost of a smile. "He did, indeed. Very free-handed was Mr. Bradley Noris, as others will agree."

"What time did he leave last night?"

"Half an hour before last orders. Surprised me a bit as he'd been stuck in 'till the last dog was dead the other nights."

I finished the coffee. That gave me the beginnings of a timeline assuming O'Donnell closed when he was supposed to. Something to check.

Someone hammered at the front door. I said, "That will probably be one of my men."

O'Donnell went around the bar to open up. PC Kippler stood outside with an elderly man dressed entirely in green tweeds. He wore a trilby which had seen better times and stroked a small white goatee.

Kippler said, "Mornin" Russ," and escorted his catch into the bar. "Sir, this is Norman Tinsley. He owns the old school."

I slid off the barstool and shook the outstretched hand. "Good of you to come over Mr. Tinsley. We need to use the schoolhouse for a while. Any problem with that?"

Tinsley removed the trilby revealing a very pink scalp. "I do not believe there will be any difficulties, Inspector. Your officer enquired if the electrical power and telephone lines were intact, and I am happy to confirm that they are. Do you wish to take possession immediately?"

I smiled. We just wanted to borrow it, not buy it. "We do. If you give PC Kippler the keys, I think we can manage from there. One of my people will contact you later with the paperwork."

Tinsley made a slight bow. "Of course, of course." He handed Kippler a ring with what looked to be two dozen keys on it. Then he bowed again to all of us and exited in what seemed to be some embarrassment.

I looked at Kippler who shrugged, then at O'Donnell who was grinning.

"Professor Tinsley is teetotal. Never been in here before."

"If you'll just wait here Mr. O'Donnell, I have a several more questions." I jerked my head at Kippler, regretting it immediately as everything swirled, and walked out the front door. Once in the street and out of earshot, I said, "O'Donnell says the victim is Bradley Noris."

Kippler slapped his leg. "Of course. Yes. I haven't seen him since I was a kid, but I heard he'd come back. That's who it is, all right."

"Did you tell Tinsley about the homicide?"

"Oh no, sir, just said we needed the school for a few days over a police matter. He didn't ask why."

"Good. We keep back details as much as we can for as long as we can. Which won't be long as I had to tell O'Donnell what had happened to get the ID. But the less everyone knows, the better. You open the school building and check the lights and heating. I'll call Sergeant Tellwright, then you can help the team set up the room."

Kippler said, "Got it, sir," and strode off down the street.

When Tellwright answered, I passed the details.

He said, "Crime scene's all buttoned up. I'll leave a PC at the entrance to the track. The troops are getting the kit together. Should be there in about forty-five minutes."

"We've got a solid ID on the victim. A man named Bradley Noris, according to the publican, and Kippler says he remembers him as well. Get someone at the office to check on Noris and see what they come up with. I'm going to run a few more questions across the publican, then I'll meet you at the school."

Back in the pub, O'Donnell had poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned on the bar scratching at something on its scarred surface and looking bored. I climbed onto the barstool.

"I presume you know most everyone in the village."

O'Donnell nodded.

"Any objections to talking about them?"

He thrust his chin out. "Do I look like an idiot? They're my customers and friends. You want to know about them, ask them yourself."

Any shock had obviously worn off, but I was curious. O'Donnell was more than typically Irish aggressive, particularly for one who had lived in England for a good while. He might have come our way at some time, so that was another thing I needed to look into.

"We will certainly do that. Problem is, without some idea of whom to talk to and who to pass over, we have to get into everyone's knickers. Wastes a lot of our time, and of course if we waste their time and piss them off, it might come back to you."

O'Donnell sneered. "Worse than the bloody Garda." He finished his coffee. "What do you want, then?"

Just the name of the killer - that will do nicely.

### Chapter 4

I took a turn around the village green. It was shaped rather like a painter's palette with a war memorial in the center. The villagers had dutifully produced fifteen boys in the first war and nine in the second to be sacrificed on the altar of patriotism. At the bottom, there was a new inscription dated from the First Gulf War. I didn't recognize the name.

O'Donnell had given me a vague rundown on many of the people in the village and those from the outlying farms, but nothing jumped out. Nor did I expect anything. I just wanted to keep him talking to see if he would fasten on anyone that he thought might have done the deed. But his descriptions were as non-committal as possible. Even when I probed, he gave little away.

Back in School Lane, a flurry of people and vehicles had arrived. The rusty gate and the main door had been propped open. A Detective Constable named Thornberry, backing out of the gate, trod on my feet.

Muttering, "Sorry, Guv," he swiveled away with a large box.

The Incident Room team had adopted the old furniture and various people dragged pieces to new locations. It looked chaotic, but they knew their business. Standing in the center of scurrying officers and directing traffic in crisp tones stood a Valkyrie in a trouser suit. Sergeant Brenda Kerrigan always reminded me of a Victorian governess, albeit one with long blonde hair. Stern with slackness or lack of diligence, encouraging when conditions were bleak, she was the best office manager I ever encountered. One less thing to worry about during an investigation.

"Good morning, sir." She never called me "Guv", although she sometimes called me other names, usually while cooking breakfast as I showered.

"Morning Sergeant. Got everything you need?"

"Yes, or we will have presently. Does the telephone work?"

"According to the building's owner, it does. PC Kippler knows where he lives if have questions. I'm shooting for a first briefing at 1200. Can you make that?"

Kerrigan looked her watch. "We'll be ready." She darted to help another officer who carried a large box with part of the HOLMES system.

I was in the way, so I walked out to the lane as Tellwright and Kippler wound through the throng of cars and vans.

Tellwright said, "Young Kippler gave me the guided tour. Most of the village is clustered around the green which should make the house to house a little easier."

Kippler said, "There's a fair few farms around about as well. Sergeant Tellwright asked me about the Noris family, but tell the truth, I didn't know them very well. This Bradley left maybe twenty years ago. Might be some relatives, but I'm not clear who is who."

I nodded. "O'Donnell gave me a bit of history, and the Noris family is complicated. We'll put together a genealogy as soon as we have more information. I plan to brief at 1200, then get the house to house started straight away. I want preliminary statements from everyone in the village by close of business."

"It shouldn't take more than a few hours if we've enough people," said Tellwright.

"For the first forty-eight, we're OK. After that...well, we'll see how the boss feels. Speaking of which, I need to call to him."

I opened my mobile and wandered down the lane. A few of the local people were beginning to show an interest by being ostentatiously uninterested. And the newspapers would get hold of the case sooner or later and start the usual circus. But for the moment it was just us.

Fitzwalter must have come out of a positive meeting. He sounded crisp and approved of our progress. "Sounds good Tom, getting an ID this early should help. I'm sending everyone available so you can finish the preliminaries quickly, then we'll look at it again. See you for the briefing, unless the roof falls in somewhere else."

At ten minutes before noon, I returned from another stroll around the village feeling distinctly better after a toasted sandwich and half a quart of orange juice provided by O'Donnell. A PC standing in front of the gate was conversing with a tall, older man dressed in green coveralls and a shapeless old Norfolk hat.

"Sir, this is Mr. Kelton Pullham. Says he owns the field."

"Morning Mr. Pullham, I'm Inspector Quill. If you'll come with me, we'll get things sorted out."

Pullham leaned over and glared down at me. "No sorting to do. You've closed off my field. I need to get up there and work, but you've a police car blocking my entry, and tape everywhere. Remove them and we'll say no more about it."

I looked at him for a moment. Despite his appearance, his speech and manner billowed with upper class superiority. He expected his orders to be obeyed. It was tempting to play with him, but I hadn't the time.

"Mr. Pullham, that area is a crime scene. The body of a homicide victim has been discovered there. It will stay a crime scene, and we will restrict access by you and everyone else until we're finished. I'm sorry if that causes you problems, but that's the way it is. In addition, we need a statement from you. One of my officers will contact you presently to get it. Now if you want to complain, the Chief Constable may be happy to listen."

I turned away from the red scowling face and marched into the Incident Room.

The earlier frenetic activity had evaporated. Now there was a quiet buzz of people on phones, people on computers, people giving and following instructions. Kerrigan had wrought her magic once again. Faces looked up expectantly as I stopped by the crime displays at one end of the room.

"Welcome to another edition of "Whose Life Is It Anyway." There were a few smiles and chuckles. "We'll get started as soon as the Super arrives."

And Fitzwalter, picking up his cue with perfect timing, walked in, resplendent in full uniform. He said, "Morning, all," and strode to his reserved seat in the front.

I gestured at the photos on the cork board. "Most of you know what we've got. A white male, age approximately early-fifties, found in a field just under a mile from here. The discovery was the result of an anonymous 999 call, so one of the main things we need is the identity of that caller. The victim was sitting under a dead pine tree. He had a rope around his neck running to the rear of the tree where it was lashed to a stump. Preliminary indication is the positioning was carried out post-mortem possibly to hold the body up. We think the victim died from a bullet to the chest, but the PM will have to confirm that. A spike, like a long clouting nail, had been driven through the wound and into the tree behind him." That raised a few soft whistles and mutterings.

"Unusual to say the least. I'll come back to that in a moment. Because of the wind and rain last night, I do not expect much forensic from the area. The body will hopefully give us more, and the PM will be conducted by Dr. Halperin. We have an ID on the victim, supplied by the publican at the Kings Head and confirmed by PC Kippler." I pointed to the Constable who reddened. "Kippler has been seconded to us for the duration, and his local knowledge will be useful."

I had their full attention. "The victim's name is Bradley Noris." I pointed to the top of the whiteboard where the words had been inscribed in thick red letters. "I had a long chat with the local publican and obtained some useful background on the Noris family. We'll have a handout prepared with that info and pass it around. Briefly, the Noris clan used to be one of the wealthier ones in the district, but they broke apart many years ago. Bradley Noris left for parts unknown and reappeared about ten days ago."

"We'll post the tasking for the enquiry teams who will work under the direction of Sergeant Tellwright. I want statements from everyone we can find by six o'clock this evening. Almost the entire village is within a few yards of the common, so hopefully it won't take too long. We also need a detailed statement from the publican, one Russell O'Donnell, and from the farmer who owns the field, a man named Kelton Pullham. Once we've produced some grist for the mill, we'll work out more specific lines of investigation."

By the nodding and scribbling, they were getting into it. "Now, my thoughts on the case. Because the victim reappeared only within the past week or ten days, I think we'll find part of the motive is in the past. It's improbable that he could have done something serious enough to get himself murdered in such a short time. So, dig into people's memories. Second, the positioning of the victim and the 999 call suggests the killer wanted us to find the victim quickly, and he or she wanted everyone to know it was not simply a random homicide. It is likely the murderer is someone local. The murderer may be either male or female - we have nothing that points one way or the other. And, given the size of the victim and the difficulty of getting him into that field, we may be looking at two or more perpetrators. Finally, the elaborate positioning of the corpse and the nail in the wound suggest revenge."

The scribbling intensified. "The nail and the rope around the neck we keep to ourselves - only the killer will know about them. Now - the big caveat. Do not, repeat not, allow any of this speculation to prevent you from digging into everything. These are just things to keep in mind as you interview. It's also likely that Noris had a car, so question anyone who saw him and try to get a description or registration number. Last, we found no mobile phone, but he probably had one. Ask your interviewees for confirmation."

"Administration. We have the Hogwarts staff assisting us this time." I used the sobriquet because the Incident Room officers had produced some magic in the past. The laughter was affectionate. "Please be conscious of accuracy and details and getting reports in quickly. As they say in my neck of the woods, 'time's a wastin'. Questions?"

There were none. I turned to Fitzwalter and said, "Sir?"

Fitzwalter stood and faced the group. "This could be an odd case. Few homicides show the complexities of this one, so use your imaginations. I will adjust rosters and workloads as necessary, but keep in mind we are very shorthanded. We need to put this one to bed as soon as practicable, but above all we need to get it right. The press will have a field day, so be careful who you talk to. Good luck." Turning to me, he said, "A word, Tom, please," and headed for the door.

I followed him out to the lane as the teams clustered around the Incident Room staff. Fitzwalter said, "I got a call from Halperin on the way here. He'll do the PM this evening and get you the report tomorrow morning."

"Great, maybe we'll get a break on the cause and time of death."

"I've given you all the bodies I can spare, but I will need to reassign four of them after 48 hours. If you can release some earlier, it would help. I also just received a memo from the CC about the increased costs of DNA analysis, so don't request any more of them than absolutely necessary. Plan on being at the press conference when things break, but let's keep it low profile for as long as possible. I don't want any second guessing from other agencies."

That was code for the Home Office and the Met, who somehow always wanted to oversee anything the press turned into a national story. I said, "Understood, I'll give you a bell this evening around five or six."

Fitzwalter tapped him me the shoulder, pulled on his cap and strode off to his car.

I walked back to the Incident Room. Tellwright had assigned two-person teams to segments of the village, each containing four houses, with one DS assigned specifically to Pullham. The Sergeant said, "I'll take the publican myself," which elicited guffaws and suggestions about free beer.

The Statement Reader, DS Katherine Abbott, was setting up her computer printouts on the largest table. She was the oldest member of the team, a matronly woman with hair dyed a virulent red and a phenomenal memory. Legend had it that she'd personally solved two major cases by integrating data well before there were computers. "Hello, Kate, ready for action?"

"Hi Tom. Just about. There's one more filing cabinet to come, but I'm good for today."

"I need to dictate my information from the publican."

"Right, let me get Carter in here." She punched a number on her phone, and a minute later a young female constable, whom I had never seen before, came in with a laptop case. Abbott said, "DC Carter, DI Quill. The boss needs to dictate his notes. Use this desk while I check on a few things."

The Constable said, "Sarge," and sat down. She opened the case, looked up with a blinding smile, and said, "Go ahead, sir."

I smiled back. "Do you do shorthand on that?"

"Depends on how fast you talk, sir. But I usually do a mixture of shorthand and straight transcribing. Saves time."

"So it would. OK, here goes."

O'Donnell had given me a potted history of the Noris family, burnished with his sarcastic personal opinions, but I now had a better picture of the victim. The Noris's were landed gentry. At one time, they owned over a thousand acres of quality farmland. Then, whoever controlled the money began to sell the land and invest in the stock market. Things went well for several years, but it didn't last. For reasons O'Donnell could not elaborate, their fortunes started downhill. Rumor had it there were major ructions between members of the family, some of which evolved into long-running feuds. The upshot was that about twenty years ago, Bradley and his father had a final rupture. Bradley left, and no one knew where he'd gone. His sister, a woman named Amanda who was Bradley's junior by several years, had also moved away from the area, although O'Donnell thought she was somewhere around the Cotswolds. The old man died within six months of his son's departure. The house and remaining assets had been sold off to pay debts and death duties.

I paused for a moment to check my notebook. "There are two people mentioned by O'Donnell who are direct relatives of Noris. One is a woman named Marjorie Knight-Ellis with a hyphen. O'Donnell thinks she's a cousin. The other is a Jacqueline Kidde with an E. She is either a niece or a cousin. O'Donnell could not offer any more details."

Bradley Noris had walked into the Kings Head seven days earlier. No one recognized him although there were several people in the bar at the time who had known him in younger days. Noris ordered a round of drinks, then strolled over to a regular named Caddy Forester. He started a conversation and after a few minutes, Forester stood up and said, "Bradley Noris as I live and breathe", or words to that effect. Several other people then recognized him. Noris returned to the pub every night, seemed flush enough to buy rounds frequently, and drank large amounts himself. Despite questions from O'Donnell and the others, Noris refused to reveal anything about where he had been or what he'd been doing during the intervening years. O'Donnell thought he might have been in America from some things he said but could not give any examples.

"Noris was in the pub last night and left about 2220 which was contrary to his normal practice as he had previously stayed until closing. He did not seem agitated and had taken no calls while in the pub. O'Donnell had nothing else to offer."

Carter, who had been typing in a trance, finished and looked up. I said, "I think that's all of it. Print enough copies so everyone gets one."

The Constable said, "Got it, sir."

I got up and stretched. Fatigue was setting in. Lying down for an hour would have put me right, but there was no rest on Day One of a homicide investigation. Coffee was required. I went to the machine which had been the first piece of equipment installed, and drew a mug of thick, black liquid that took me back to army days.

Kate Abbott came over. "All finished?"

"Yes. Be nice if we could do that for all interviews."

Abbott snorted. "Make my life a hell of lot easier for a start. But people get put off for some reason. Don't mind you taking notes but bring out a computer and they get the wind up."

The one I needed to get the wind up was the murderer.

### Chapter 5

Despite downplaying O'Donnell's speculation about Noris being in America, I was curious. I walked over to the DC in charge of the HOLMES system and our resident geek, Arnie Prevakhan.

"Hello, Arnie. Everything hooked up?"

"Yes sir, just got the latest system update."

"The victim may have been out of the country and returned recently, so check with Immigration. I'm not sure of the timing but go back at least thirty days. And check on HOLMES as well."

"Will do." He turned to one of his terminals and began to type rapidly.

I wandered outside. The weather had cleared off and allowed a fine autumn afternoon to take its place. The sun was a bit weak and watery, but a welcome visitor after the last three days. I stood by the school gate staring at nothing and realized I could fall asleep standing up. And not the first time. There was probably something I should do, but the system had taken over, and for the moment I was a spare wheel. Trudging down the lane to my car, I saw wisps of smoke and smelled burning leaves. The villagers were putting their gardens to bed and tidying away for the winter. I did little of that although a neighbor sometimes pitched in when my lack of gardening interest overwhelmed him.

I remembered a pint of bad bourbon in the boot, and I was tempted to indulge in a quick slug when my mobile buzzed. Saved by the bell.

"Quill."

"Tom, it's Ted Copthorne." Wonderful - the Assistant Chief Constable.

"Afternoon, sir."

"Anyone with you?"

"No."

"Any idea why I'm calling?"

"I can guess. Kelton Pullham?"

"Got it in one. The CC got a call and passed it on to me. Give me your version."

"He owns the field where our victim was found. It's all taped off, of course, and there's a patrol car parked in front of the access track. Pullham complained about it."

"And?"

I knew Copthorne well, having been a DS under him for two years. We respected each other but presuming on the earlier association would make things worse.

"He ordered me to remove the tape. I told him it would stay there until we completed our investigation. And I told him if he had a complaint, the CC might be happy to listen."

"You got the last part wrong. The CC was not at all happy to listen. Nor was I when I spoke, or rather listened, to Pullham. Explaining that the place is a crime scene is fine. Telling him to go crying to the CC was just stupid. You're Acting DCI on this case, and I'm sure you're handling the operation well. But if you go about pissing off the big frogs, you'll be out of there in a flash. This Pullham went to school with the present and the former MP, and he is, as they say, connected. Stay away from him. If you need to contact him, put someone with a little tact on it. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry I got you involved."

"Part of the drill. How's the investigation going?"

"Early days, but everything is in place, and some solid preliminary leads to work on."

"Good. Fitzwalter does not know about this conversation, and unless Pullham gets hold of him, he won't. But no more screw-ups."

"Understood."

Shit, shit, shit. I thought about asking Tellwright to kick me, except he'd enjoy it too much. Fatigue and hangover must have addled my brain, or maybe I'd lost my inhibitions about telling people where to get off. It was pure luck Pullham's call had been bucked to Copthorne. Anyone else and I'd have been canned already.

I no longer felt like a nap. None of the enquiry teams had come in yet, and afternoon somnolence settled over the office staff. It was drowsy quiet except for the hum of equipment. Prevakhan, except for his fingers and eyes, appeared frozen in the same position I'd left him.

"Got anything, Arnie?"

The technician looked up, blinking. "Yes sir. There's a record from Immigration. A Bradley Noris, with one R, arrived at Heathrow seventeen days ago."

"Flight number and departure airport?"

Prevakhan scrolled the screen. "BA 172 from Dulles, Washington DC. Overnight flight, landed at 0714."

Eight days between the man's arrival and showing up at the Kings Head. He could have been sightseeing or visiting someone who decided to kill him. "Anything show up on HOLMES?"

"No sir, at least under that name. When we get his prints, I can do some more checking."

The post mortem would produce fingerprints and much more. We still needed to confirm the identity for formality's sake. Although O'Donnell identified Noris based on my description and Kippler confirmed it, that wouldn't be enough for the Crown Prosecution Service.

"I need grub. Anyone made arrangements for food?"

Kate Abbott said, "Not yet. You want me to call the Sarnie Coach people?"

"Please. And set up some standard delivery times. I'm going to go out for something. I'm on my mobile if needed."

I headed for pub three miles away that opened all afternoon where I'd have a chance to sit and think.

The Chequers perched on the brow of a small hill and presented customers with a nice view of the North Cotswolds when the weather cooperated. The food was adequate, the beer better, and it was just what I wanted.

I ordered gammon and chips and a pint of bitter. As soon as the beer hit bottom, I wondered if my belly was going to start rolling again, but after a minute it quieted. The food showed up halfway down the glass, but the intense smell nauseated me. I fought it down, took a deep breath and dug in.

Fifteen minutes later, I decided I might live after all. When the waitress eyeballed me for another pint, I nodded and sat back to run details through my own computer.

Noris posed several questions. How long had he been in the States, and what was he doing there? According to O'Donnell, the man seemed very flush, so where did the money come from? Where had he been between arrival in the UK and returning to Upper Turcote? And, for that matter, why come back at all? Had he been to see his sister or cousins? And, although he seemed to be in the pub every night, where did he go during the day?

There seemed two obvious lines of investigation. Looking for some local who carried a long grudge was likely to be the better bet. But it was possible that Noris had come home because he was on the run, and thought, incorrectly as it turned out, that Upper Turcote would be a good place to hide. And that would probably involve an American connection because it seemed unlikely he would have been able to get in enough trouble in eight days to invite murder.

Of course, he might have been coming in and out of the UK regularly. But I reckoned there would be an Immigration flag if that was the case. Frequent flyers are highly suspect unless they've got impeccable credentials. But it needed confirmation.

I paid my score and returned to the fray. The first man I saw was Kippler, who dropped his cigarette as soon as he saw he spotted me and ground it out.

"Sir, I remembered something about Mr. Noris."

"What?"

"This is hearsay I'd guess you'd call it, although I can't remember who told me or when. Mr. Noris had a sister named Amanda. She was engaged to some man, don't know his name. Anyway, there was a story that Mr. Bradley got his dad to call off the engagement, and that was some of the reason for the big family bust up."

"Did you know this at the time it happened or later?"

Kippler squinted at the top of the school. "Been trying to remember. I believe I must have heard it at the time. I reckon I was about nine or ten when Noris left, but I can't get any closer than that."

"OK, give that to Sergeant Abbott to put into our notes."

Kippler said, "Yes sir," and hurried into the building.

I was inclined to doubt the value of Kippler's revelation, but it was one more thing to plug into the mill.

When I walked into the Incident Room, I saw Tellwright sitting on the edge of DC Carter's desk. I figured he was trying to chat her up, and by the look on the girl's face, getting nowhere. As soon as he noticed me, he stood up and pulled out his notebook, all business.

"Just finished with O'Donnell, Guv. I don't think he had a lot more than what he gave you. I got the names of the people who were in the pub last night, and most of the other nights for that matter. One thing - far as O'Donnell could tell, Noris must have been walking to the pub. Never heard or saw a car. If he had one, maybe he parked somewhere else, or he might have stayed in the village."

"I'm betting he had a car. According to Immigration, he flew into Heathrow seventeen days ago from the States. Did you find out from O'Donnell where we can get hold of this Caddy Forrester who recognized Noris?"

"I did. He's in the pub almost every night. Retired now, but he used to farm close to where the Noris family lived. He lodges at another farm a half a mile from here."

"Give your notes to Kate, then we'll dig him up."

I started out the door, but once again almost ran into DC Thornberry. "One of us is going to need a siren, Constable."

Thornberry had a big grin. "That would be me, Guv. We've got something. Bailey and I were interviewing people on the opposite side of the green. There's another lane over there, looks like this one, but it has four newish houses on it. The last one is occupied by a family named Keller. They rent out a spare bedroom, and it looks like the vic's been staying there for the past week. Bailey's still there, but I thought you'd want to know straight away."

"You thought right. Hang on a minute."

I went back in and found Tellwright dictating to Carter. I told him about Thornberry's discovery, and said, "You find this chap, Forrester and I'll go talk to the Kellers."

Tellwright said, "Guv," and kept on reading his notes in the same monotone.

I returned to Thornberry and said, "Lead on, MacDuff." The Constable seemed puzzled. Obviously not classically educated.

Although it was still bright, the sun had starting to lower, and the shadows across the village green grew long and pointed. It was still squishy underfoot from the recent deluge, and my shoes acquired a coating of wet leaves and mud by the time we reached the house.

It was a type that always made me cringe. Light red brick with white wood facings, two floors and an enclosed porch, the whole lot screamed cheap and flimsy. They'd built thousands of them across the country. Every time I looked at one, I wondered how anyone who had grown up in England could construct anything so graceless.

Thornberry knocked, and the door opened immediately revealing a child of about six. She had cornflower blue eyes and hair so blonde it was almost white. Thornberry said, "Hi, Sarah, this is my boss. Can we come in and talk to your mum?"

The little girl nodded gravely and stepped back without releasing the door knob. Just inside we met a woman I assumed was the girl's mother. She was also blonde although her color was manufactured by a French company. She wore ripped jeans and a man's checked shirt tied off in a knot over her midriff. Thornberry repeated his introduction.

She said, "I hope you're not going be long. My husband will be home soon, and I have things to do."

"We'll be as quick as we can. I'm sure you've already answered Constable Bailey's questions, and I don't want you to have to repeat any of that."

She nodded, then jerked her head down the passage. "In here."

The lounge looked as if it had been decorated by one of the larger discount furniture stores. Bailey stood at the end of the couch, notebook in hand. "Guv."

"Have you got all the main details?"

"Yes, Guv. Mrs. Keller has been very helpful."

"I'm sure of it." I turned to the woman and saw little Sarah hiding behind her legs and peeping out. "I only have a few questions. Did this man ever receive any phone calls here?"

"Not through our phone, if that's what you mean. He had a mobile, and he got some calls on that."

"Did you happen to overhear any of the calls? And please don't take that the wrong way."

"Not really. We could hear him talking sometimes, but it was too low to get any of the words."

"Did he pay you in cash or by check?"

"Cash. He's paid up until next Friday."

"Thank you. Have the officers explained why we're looking into this man?"

"Just said they need to trace him, that's all."

"That's correct. But I'm afraid he will not be returning." I waited.

It took her a few moments, then her eyes got wide. One hand rose to her mouth, and the other grabbed her child.

"I don't want to go into details in front of Sarah, but we will need to talk with your husband. If we come back about six, would that be convenient?"

She couldn't seem to get any words out, but she nodded.

"I know it's a shock, but we'll take things as easy as we can. If you wish, I can have one of our Family Liaison officers stay with you until your husband returns."

Her hands moved down, and she lifted her daughter up. "No, we'll be OK. I mean, there's no danger, is there?"

"None at all as far as we know, but I'll leave a uniformed officer at the front until we come back. By the way, I assume Mr. Noris left his things in his room?"

She nodded.

"Thank you. Please lock the door to that room until we return. Here's my number if you need to call me before this evening."

She took the card and tucked it into a jeans pocket, and we trooped out.

In the lane, I said, "Thornberry, go back to the Incident Room and tell them to put a uniform here until this evening. And tell the SOCOs about Noris's gear. But nobody goes in until I give the word."

I wanted Mr. Keller there before we took this any further.

### Chapter 6

According to Mrs. Keller, Noris had knocked on their door almost two weeks earlier. They rented out their spare room for a bit of extra income, but it was usually unoccupied at this time of year. She assumed Noris found them through their advertisement in the post office. He seemed nice, and he paid in cash for two weeks without any quibble. And he told them he might stay longer.

Bailey checked his notes. "Noris ate breakfast with them, although not every morning, but he took the rest of his meals somewhere else. He usually went out soon after and stayed out until past eleven at night. She reckoned he was at the pub, because she could smell the booze when he came in, but he was never any trouble. Just said 'Good Night' and off to bed."

"She stayed up to wait for him?"

"I asked her that, and she said yes. They don't provide a key for lodgers, but they tell people they can come back any time before midnight. After that, she locks the door. Her husband gets up early for work, so he's usually in bed by ten-thirty except on weekends."

"Any visitors?"

"None. He kept himself to himself and didn't have much to do with the family although he seemed to like the little girl. Brought her a present, they said."

"What?"

Bailey frowned. "Don't know, Guv. Is it important?"

"Not that he bought a present, but where he bought it might give us some idea of his movements."

The Constable winced. "Didn't think of that. Anyway, there's not much else she can tell us. Noris never said if he planned to leave on Friday or not. She's worried about us talking to her husband because he's tired when he comes home - works in construction. Says he had almost no contact with Noris as she handles the lodgers."

"Not much to work with. What about a car?"

Bailey nodded, now on firmer ground. "He had one. She took the make and registration number, which she always does in case they do a runner. It's a blue Renault, she thinks new. He parked it in that turnaround." Bailey pointed to a wide churned-up patch off the end of the lane's tarmac.

"Call in the details and see what they can find. Probably a rental, but so far, we haven't seen it anywhere. Put it on the Watch List with a note to call us without touching it."

Bailey said, "Guv," and pulled out his phone.

As he talked, my mobile buzzed. The caller ID made my eyes roll. I debated not answering but fighting the inevitable is futility defined.

"Hi, Aunt Dot, how are you?"

"Very well, dear. And you?"

Dorothy McDevitt is my mother's sister. After my parents died, Dorothy had tried to be a substitute mother. I appreciated the effort and the sentiment, but the woman was not instinctively maternal and had little aptitude for it.

"Good, but I'm a bit busy."

"Oh, I shan't be long. On a case, are you?" Dot read crime novels by the bushel and longed for me tell her all the gory details of real murder investigations. The fact that I'd never done so deterred her not one whit.

"Yes, I am."

"Of course, I understand. Well, it's Jennifer." It was always Jennifer, the cousin with the world's most complicated love life.

I almost blurted 'What now?' but held it back.

"She wants to talk to you. She's having problems with Barry. I told her you were a working man, but you know Jen. Thinks everyone should be interested in her world." Gets it from her mother, no doubt.

"OK, I'll call her when I get a chance, but I really have to go. Love to you and say hello to John." John McDevitt was well up the list of long-suffering husbands, saved only by a few wicked eccentricities.

Bailey wandered back, tucking his mobile in a pocket. "Done, Guv. No reports of the car so far. If it is a rental, it must still be within the rent period."

A patrol car turned down the lane, and parked next to us. I gave the PC his instructions, then Bailey and I walked across the green. "You and Thornberry go back and talk to Mr. Keller when he comes home. I'll tell Morley to do his stuff while you're there."

Just as we stepped over the ornamental chain, a man in a snap brim hat came out of the bus kiosk. My eyes rolled again. Another distraction.

"Afternoon Bailey, Inspector Quill. Or should I say DCI?" Mark Twomley was what was loosely called an investigative reporter. In my opinion that meant he badgered police officers and everyone in local government to tell him stories. He then wrote and printed whatever would create a sensation without regard to what he'd been told. It's called freedom of the press.

"What can I do for you Twomley?"

"Tell me about this nice little murder you've got."

I shook my head. "Not a chance."

Twomley contrived to look like his puppy had been run over. "Now don't take that attitude, Inspector. The public has a right to know what's happening. Particularly when there's a dangerous killer on the loose."

I grunted, my face as blank as I could make it. "No comment. There will be a press conference, and you can ask your questions then. So, if you'll excuse us?"

We continued to the Incident Room, Bailey grinning beside me. Twomley was not popular with the local police, having published unwashed linen that resulted in the premature retirement of a well-regarded officer. The fact that the officer deserved what he got cut no ice with the rest of the force. They believed that, as the guardians of the law, their own transgressions were immaterial.

Tellwright was coming down School Lane from the other direction. I told Bailey to get the Keller statement on the system, then leaned against the rickety fence waiting for the Sergeant.

"Guv, I've been looking for this Forrester chap, but no joy. The easiest way is to catch him is at the pub tonight."

Now why didn't I think of that? "We've had a chat with a Mrs. Keller across the green. Noris was lodging there, apparently since he arrived. He had a car and we've got the details, so something might turn up. Bailey and Thornberry will go back to Keller's at six when the husband's home, and I'll get Forensics in to examine whatever gear Noris left behind."

Tellwright nodded. "At least we're getting stuff we can use."

On some cases we ran into a stone wall from the outset, working every scrap of information and making zero progress. This one felt different, as though the problem would be sorting through too much data, rather than too little.

I called Fitzwalter to report our progress. "And Mark Twomley is hanging around already."

"Wonderful. Does he know anything?"

"I don't think so. Someone in the village is probably acting as a stringer and called him. I told him there would be a press conference later."

"There will, but we'll hold off until tomorrow morning. I want something solid before we give it to the wolves. Anything from the PM yet?"

"No, but I'll check it."

I'd worked out a system with the pathologists. If they were elbow deep in guts, they left a message not to be disturbed and turned their phones off. If they weren't, they answered. Halperin usually hated to give any results over the phone preferring to produce an elegant, if long-winded, report. But this one couldn't wait.

He surprised me by answering on the first ring. "Perfect timing. We're just putting him in the drawer."

"That was quick."

"There was nothing else on my schedule. My report will be available at eight o'clock tomorrow."

"I know, Doctor, and I'll read it carefully. But I need at least the basics now while it's hot, so to speak."

Halperin grumbled, as he always did, but acquiesced. I heard paper being shuffled. "White male, aged approximately fifty. Six feet one, fourteen stone ten. Cause of death - a gunshot wound to the left chest which penetrated the right ventricle at an angle. He might have survived the shot had the bullet not glanced off a rib. As it was, he probably died within a minute."

More paper shuffling. "Time of death is problematic due to the weather. The best I can say is approximately eight to eighteen hours before he was found. Lividity indicates he lay on his left side for some little time after being shot but was then raised to a sitting position before the blood had time to completely settle on the left. The rope was placed after death as was the spike. Neither contributed to the death. The spike, however, did complicate matters by disturbing the bullet wound. The bullet was not in the body. Is that enough?"

"It helps, thank you. We saw what looked like drag marks from the road to where he was found, a distance of about thirty yards. Would that affect anything?"

"Very little. It would possibly disturb the lividity pattern but have no impact on cause or time of death determinations."

"Any other marks on the body?"

"Yes, a tattoo on the upper right shoulder. It's an odd image, and I'm not sure what it represents. You will need to see the photo. There was also a birthmark over the right kidney consisting of a brown, almost circular disc approximately one inch in diameter. No defensive wounds or other marks of significance."

"Thanks, that's all I need for now. I'll call if there are any questions about the report."

Halperin snorted, the implication being that his reports were so clear, there would not _be_ any questions.

I called Morley. "Derek, any results yet?"

"Some. It'll be better if I brief everyone at once. And I got the message about the Keller house. What time?"

"We'll do the briefing at five o'clock. Bailey and Thornberry will go back to the Kellers at six when the husband's home."

Things were moving along. We might get lucky and wrap this up quickly if the murderer was a local person. Sometimes it was just that easy.

The enquiry teams began to drift in. Each pair found somewhere to sit and started writing reports. Most of what they collected would be useless or serve only to eliminate a few people from the suspect list. But a long history of botched investigations had taught us the value of collecting everything.

I assumed no one had discovered anything that rang bells, otherwise they would have reported directly to me. Finished reports went through Kate Abbott, then onto the computer systems. I always wanted to read them myself, but if there was anything to catch, Abbott was far more likely to see it.

I decided to close off one avenue. Prevakhan was filling online forms. "Arnie, I want you to check something when you get a chance. Find out if the Americans have anything on file about Noris. Query the FBI, the Washington DC police, and Homeland Security. I'm interested in anything and everything, and specifically any criminal activity, even if it's only suspicions."

Prevakhan scribbled. "Got it, Guv. Get to it as soon as these reports are in."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kippler come in with a DS named Wellborne. Kippler looked around until he spotted me and walked over.

"Remember something else?"

The PC grinned. "Yes sir. Crazy how much I've forgotten. Don't think about the old days often. Anyway, I remembered that Marjorie Knight-Ellis used to live in a house about half a mile outside the village. I'm going to call a mate and see if he knows if she's still there."

"Good, but don't tell him anything else."

"Oh no, sir."

Kippler pulled out his phone and sauntered off to track down his friend. I wandered around the teams hoping one would look up with a gleam in his eye. But they ignored me, concentrating on getting details and nuances just right. Young detectives had it drummed into them that the smallest scrap could be critical once matched to other things, so they were meticulous about accurate reporting if not imaginative about following up on what they heard.

By four-thirty, they were finished. I told everyone to grab something to eat or drink, and we would do a final briefing at five.

I kicked off with a summary of what we knew, discussed the PM results, then passed the baton to Derek Morley.

"We've confirmed the residue on the front of the jacket is gunpowder. Given the pattern and the wound, we estimate the gun was fired from no more than one foot away. The powder residue is also interesting because it's an older type no longer manufactured. One of my people is researching a list of bullets and manufacturers that used it. We cannot determine the caliber of the weapon with any degree of certainty because the spike enlarged the wound significantly."

He glanced at his notes. "There was no ID on the body, in fact there was nothing in any of the pockets other than the disc you know about. The jacket is new, and we are trying to trace where it was purchased. The rope around the victim's neck was a piece of blue nylon cord available from any DIY or hardware store. It was quite old, but the ends had been cut recently. If we find the rest of it, we should be able to get a positive match. There was no trace of foreign skin or blood on the rope or the victim to give us any DNA. We believe the bullet must be close to where the victim was found because the PM confirms he wasn't moved very far. We are still searching, but it may be a long job. Questions?"

One of the sergeants said, "Any chance of tracing his other clothing? I mean to see if it's from the UK or somewhere else."

Morley nodded. "We're looking, but they appear to be standard brands available everywhere, and manufactured in India or Bangladesh. Other than the jacket, none of it is new. Hopefully we'll get better results when we look at what the victim left at his residence."

I said, "Thanks, Derek. We're turning up a lot of information which may help, but nothing pointing at a suspect. Anyone gotten a sniff of anything they feel is not quite right?"

Lots of introspective looks and slow head shakes.

"We've made a decent start. A few thoughts based on the new information. How did the killer or killers get Noris out to that field? Unlikely they walked, so did they use his car, then stash it, or did they have their own? And the old gunpowder. Did they use a war relic, or just happen to have some old ammunition lying around? Last, what was he doing during the daytime? He left the Kellers shortly after breakfast and didn't return until past closing time. So, sightings of him or the car could be helpful. Any other ideas?"

Only blank faces.

"Finish anything you need to do, then knock off. A summary of where we're at will be available in the morning."

Conversations broke out and everyone got up. I was reminded of school letting out, which was appropriate given the setting.

Then Fitzwalter come in the door. It surprised me as he hadn't mentioned attending the briefing. And he was not in uniform. My neck hair prickled.

He looked grim. "Tom, how's it going?"

I brought him up to date, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it did, there was a loud thump.

"You know Whiteside's been on another case?"

I nodded.

"It's a woman found stabbed in bed at home. The neighbors called it in when they hadn't seen her for a few days. Uniform broke in and discovered her. I won't go into details, but Halperin was reading the autopsy notes and he called me twenty minutes ago. She has a birthmark almost identical to the one on Noris."

### Chapter 7

The day, which I had thought done, was just starting. I stared at Fitzwalter and muttered "Shit."

He nodded. "That's the word."

I took a deep breath, trying to move from slowing-down-and-going-home to investigator-takes-new-case. It was like climbing through sludge. "A couple of names came up that we think are relatives. One of them?"

"Possibly. I asked Halperin what the odds are on the birthmarks being that similar on unrelated people, and he said astronomical. The mark itself is unusual, but the size and location mean it's nearly certain the victims are related. How closely related, he couldn't say."

"We think there is, or was, a sister of Noris and two nieces or cousins, but we don't have anything specific yet."

Fitzwalter glanced at his watch. "Don't move on this until we are absolutely sure. The MOs are completely different, so we might have two killers who are part of the same plot. If we establish a solid connection between the victims, we'll take a view on combining the investigations."

I did not heave a sigh, but I wanted to. I was in no shape to delve into another homicide. "Any idea what she was stabbed with?"

"Whiteside thinks an ice pick or something similar. When they found her, she was lying on her back in bed, fully clothed. There was a tiny smear of blood on her chest. No sign of a break in or a robbery, so he's working on the hypothesis she either knew her killer, or for some other reason let him or her in."

Staring at the dissipating sunlight, scenarios once again galloped around in my head. Pointless, but impossible to avoid.

Fitzwalter said, "Hold off telling the team until we're sure. You look like you'd better have an early night."

It was just pointed enough to make my eyes snap back. But the Super simply nodded and made his way to his car.

When I looked around, the enquiry teams had evaporated. Tellwright was also gone, no doubt seeking his missing witness in O'Donnell's establishment. The Incident Room would continue through the night with their never-ending record-keeping. Kerrigan was visiting her mother.

The car drove me home, my head full of fudge, thinking about murder and finding I didn't much care if we solved the damn thing or not. A pub half a mile from the house was always good for a quiet pint, but when I looked at the gleaming bottles behind the bar, I forced myself back outside. By the time I parked the car and closed my front door, I felt as hollow as an empty husk.

I sat in the only comfortable chair I owned, in the dark, for an hour. No thoughts, no sensations, no awareness of anything but my own heartbeat. Unconscious but conscious.

My bladder eventually clamored for attention, forcing me back into the world of futile life and banal death. And somewhere deep in my sodden brain, a small imp of self-mockery stuck a pin in my metaphorical backside. I shucked my clothing, then stood in the shower with the water as hot as I could bear until it ran cold.

After eating something, washed down with orange juice, I returned to the chair. On the table, a full bottle of Bushmills and a single Waterford whiskey glass flirted outrageously. I opened the bottle, poured exactly half a glass, and recapped it.

The fumes, strong and peaty, almost burned my nose. I drank half in the first go and finished it with the second.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, still in the dark, I tried to get into a meditative state I'd practiced for the past six months.

Ten hours later I shot up from my sleeping bag, reaching for my weapon. It wasn't next to me where it should have been. I rolled left and fell to the floor, jarring both knees. Panting, I stayed there until my heart slowed. I was home, not in a sand-bagged bunker.

Daylight filtered through the curtains, outlining lumps of furniture in formless gray. Six-thirty according to the clock on the bedside table. I felt like I'd woken from a coma. When I grasped the edge of the bed to lever myself up, a white-hot drill bored into the small of my back and dropped me on the floor again. That bloody chunk of steel moving again.

After a while the pain trickled away, and I managed to get to my feet. As I contemplated the daily chores of cleaning up and dressing and going to work, the pointless futility of everything settled on me like a shroud. I told myself it was the only game in town, which made not the slightest difference.

The morning drive to Upper Turcote was easier the second time. The lack of wind-whipped rain, the absence of a hangover, and a belly full of food instead of whiskey made a better combination. I decided to try the same technique tomorrow to see if it was a fluke.

Morning briefing kicked off just after eight. Yesterday's interviews had done their job, eliminating many people in the village as potential suspects. "We'll keep a few on the list until we can verify alibis, but most are well outside the frame."

I ran through the Keller interview. "Anything come out of last night's chat with the husband, Bailey?" The DC looked as though he was going to say something, then changed his mind. "No, Guv."

"Derek, anything from the victim's gear?"

Morley stood up. "Nothing that's likely to help. Two suitcases, both new, and clothing which is a mix of new and old. More significant - what wasn't there. No passport, no wallet, no money, no ID of any kind. My guess is those items were on him when he died, and the killer took them. For what it's worth, Noris's effects look like they've been sanitized. He went to some trouble to avoid having anything personal and identifiable."

Tellwright wore a slight frown as though something in the middle of his forehead hurt. "Simon, any luck with Forrester?"

The Sergeant lumbered to his feet with painful effort. "He was there, Guv, and we had a long chat. Some good information about the background of the Noris family. There are three members still living hereabouts. One is Noris's sister, Amanda. Forrester doesn't know where she lives. Marjorie Knight-Ellis is a cousin, and Jacqueline Kidde is either a cousin or a niece. Knight-Ellis is in her forties and runs a sort of farm. I asked him what the hell a 'sort of a farm' is and he said she doesn't do it full time." He looked up from his notes. "Forrester's a drunk, and not blindingly clear. The Kidde woman is younger, and he thinks she's a nurse or a schoolteacher, but no idea where she lives."

PC Kippler, in the back, jumped up. "It's nurse, sir. She's a District Nurse."

There was a smattering of sarcastic applause. I said, "Thank you, Constable. What else, Simon?"

"A lot of stuff about the old days and the family feuds. I'll have it transcribed, then we can do handouts. But he couldn't point to anyone who might have murdered Noris."

Time to move. "I want one team on Knight-Ellis and another on the District Nurse. And be careful. We have no suspects, so family members are fully in the frame. I will take the sister if I can locate her. Simon, check the Post Office shop and find out if we're missing people like weekenders, tourists, whatever. The rest of you continue with the house-to-house until it's all nailed down. Let's get to it."

After the room cleared, Tellwright and I looked over the information from Forrester. Tellwright said, "A lot of the stuff he gave me was rumor or hearsay, the usual crap that runs around a village. Because the Noris's were gentry, there must have been a lot of gossip, and that's mixed in with what I got from the old soak."

I noticed Bailey hovering. "What is it, Bailey?"

The DC grimaced. "Probably nothing, Guv, but I don't want to let it go. Last night when we interviewed Mr. Keller, he was a little on edge. No real reason for it I could see, and he answered the questions. But a couple of times he looked at his wife like he was not very happy with her. No words, no offhand remarks, or anything like that, but it was strange."

"Any idea what was going on?"

"Well, I've been thinking about it all morning. Suppose Mrs. Keller and Mr. Noris got a little too friendly for Mr. Keller's liking. Keller is out at work all day, Mrs. Keller's cooped up in the house with a young child. You know what I'm saying, Guv, maybe the old story, and Keller decided to do something about it. He struck me as a man who could cut up rough if he needed to."

"Did you have the impression that Mrs. Keller knew what was eating her husband?"

"No, she was a little concerned, but she didn't seem to take much notice of him. If he did do something, I'd bet the wife doesn't know about it."

"OK, run a check on him and his movements and see if there is any time not accounted for, and if his boss or workmates back him up about his work hours. As far as we know, he wasn't in the pub that night, so we'd have to find out if he could get out of the house without his wife knowing."

"Got it, Guv." Bailey made for the door.

Tellwright said, "What do you reckon, Guv? Seems a bit farfetched."

"More than that." And I told him about the second victim.

Tellwright's eyes were wide. "But we're not sure yet, right? Could just be a weird coincidence."

"It could, that's why we're not moving on it unless Fitzwalter makes a definite connection. But it's a strong possibility, in which case I think Keller would be completely out of it. He might do Noris out of jealousy, but why would he knock off a woman he probably never heard of?"

Tellwright sat down with DC Carter to dictate his notes, and presumably make a second pass. I asked the computer operators to find an address for Amanda Noris, but they came up empty. And HOLMES had nothing either. I was tempted to call Fitzwalter, but it was a waste of time. I'd get the word as soon as he wanted me to.

DC Stanhope, who maintained the Policy Book, was on the phone, and he waved me over.

"All right, I've got that. Make sure it's taped off and put a cover over it if it looks like rain. I'll tell Forensics."

He hung up and said, "Sir, we have a hit on the victim's car. Traffic got a call about an abandoned vehicle and sent a patrol out. A blue Renault, and the reg number matches the one the Watch List."

"Where is it?"

"They gave a grid reference. The name of the place doesn't mean anything to me." We went over to the Ordnance Survey map which had been tacked to one wall. Stanhope traced the grid with a forefinger, muttering co-ordinates. "Looks like here." He squinted at the tiny printing. "That's it - Chivington Copse. The patrol says it's off the road and in the forest, but you can see the back end."

"Who reported it?"

Stanhope pushed his glasses up on his forehead. "Anonymous, sir, like the first call."

"He doesn't want us to miss anything, does he? I'll go out and take a look."

What made no sense was the complete lack of identification on Noris's body. Why would the killer lead us to the body and the car, but take Noris's documents and mobile? The only explanation I could invent was that there was something in the missing items that connected Noris to the killer like a phone number perhaps.

Morley's idea that Noris had intentionally removed anything identifiable from his baggage did make sense, however, if he thought he was being tracked by whoever killed him. It didn't tally with his appearance in the pub and his re-connection with old friends, but very little about this case fit any pattern I'd ever seen.

Halfway to the car's hiding place, my mobile buzzed - Fitzwalter. "It appears the second victim is Amanda Noris. She was living under the name Peralta, but she owned the house and the Land Registry shows her as Noris. So I need to figure out how to put the investigations together." He sighed. "It'll save manpower anyway. Call me in thirty minutes."

### Chapter 8

There was no point in going back to the Incident Room yet, and I was only half a mile from Noris's car. Forensics was ahead of me - two vans, a patrol car and crime tape everywhere. The uniform logged me in and I walked carefully on the trackside once again, thinking it would be nice for some of the investigation to be on pavement.

One of Morley's assistants, DC Harold Clemens, stood on the roadside verge photographing the back end of the car. I tapped him on the shoulder.

He gave me a glare identical to the one Morley gave me the previous day. Probably learned it in Forensics 101. "Looked in the car yet?" I asked.

Clemens said, "Yes, of course." And stopped.

I had encountered the attitude before: Crime scenes didn't require fumble-fingered detectives, just dedicated scientists. I wondered if Clemens had ever made an arrest.

"And?"

"Nothing obvious. We need to check all external traces first."

"When do you expect to finish?"

"An hour here, then we'll transport it to the lab. Probably another hour or two there."

And the report will be a masterpiece of jargon, all sound and fury, signifying zilch. "Ask Morley to call me."

Clemens nodded and resumed his photography.

I was tempted to walk through the obvious tire tracks on my way back to the car. When I got there, I called Fitzwalter.

"Whiteside is at a standstill," he said. "He's cleaning up details, but like you, no suspects. However, he's been operating on the basis that the victim was Peralta rather than Noris, so we'll combine the investigations, and you'll run both. Call Whiteside and get a full dump, then let me know how you're going to organize things."

I reckoned the young DI would be unhappy about having his case taken away. He'd been promoted only a few months earlier and hadn't yet had any homicides. This one promised to be unusual enough to generate headlines. And he was ambitious, keenly aware of opportunities to burnish his credentials.

When Whiteside answered, he said, "Hi, Tom. Fitzwalter says you're taking both investigations."

"Not my idea, Jeremy. Why don't we see him and talk it through?"

"Wouldn't make any difference - he's made up his mind." Then the brave face. "It makes sense as you're Acting DCI now. With two bodies, the press will expect someone senior to be in charge."

As if they needed a bigger target. "Your place or mine?"

Whiteside had the grace to laugh. "I'll come over there. I'm on the east side of Cheltenham anyway. Fifteen minutes."

I meandered back to Upper Turcote. Big cases always turned into two things I hated, a media circus and an exercise in management techniques. The crime and the criminal were just excuses for the other activities.

The Incident Room hummed quietly, which made it look like a model of efficiency, but it really meant there were no good leads and no suspects. Kerrigan looked up at me, a question in her eyes. I shrugged.

I picked an empty desk and sat. It had been salvaged from the schoolroom and showed the artwork of generations of bored students. As my forefinger idly traced initials and nicks and gouges, I ruminated on why someone would kill a brother and sister who had lived apart for years, and probably had bad history. Could Noris have killed his sister? We had no idea where he'd been during the days since his return.

Whiteside walked in before I fell into fantasy land. His suit looked like Armani, the white shirt was crisp and French-cuffed, and the tie would have been perfect for the six o'clock news. He was much prettier in front of the cameras than anyone else in CID, but he'd not had much opportunity. I rated him a good detective if somewhat detached from the grimy reality of crime.

I stuck out a hand. "Welcome to our humble abode."

Whiteside glanced around. "Not bad. About twice as much space as we have, but Fitzwalter's already pulled half my people. Got any decent coffee?"

DC Carter duly showed up with an ancient cracked mug of scalding liquid. Whiteside sipped and said, "Tastes better than it looks."

He dropped a folder full of paper on the desk. "Those are the originals. Everything that will go on the computer is in but have a look if you need to."

I rested a hand on the pile. "I doubt if I'll get around to that any time soon. Can you give me an overview?"

Whiteside nodded. "The victim was discovered four days ago, on Monday. Her mail and milk were building up on the front porch. Uniform investigated and when they got no response, they popped the door. Found her in the bedroom, fully clothed for indoors, and laying on her back. We think the murderer placed her there because everything was too neat. Legs straight, arms by her side. Looked like she was in a coffin. Anyway, there was a slight smear of blood on her chest almost directly over the heart, but no other signs of wounds or struggle."

He paused for more coffee. "First thing we learned was her name - Amanda Peralta. Documents in the house, letters and such, seemed to confirm that. No sign of forced entry, so she either let the killer in or he had a key. No obvious burglary, nothing out of place or missing. Initial theory - she lets someone in, they stab her with something like an awl or an ice pick, pick her up and lay her on the bed and leave. Killer might have been there for some time, or it could have happened in a few minutes. The whole house was neat as a pin. No dirty dishes or anything, which makes me think the killer was not there long, and no social amenities were observed."

He finished the mug. "Peralta, or Noris, was a fair-sized woman. I'm inclined to think the perpetrator was male. A woman could have easily stabbed her, but not many could pick up a dead body that big and put it on the bed. But it's speculation. The pathologist who did the PM couldn't confirm whether she'd been moved or not. Lividity indicates she was on her back either at death or within moments thereafter, but the autopsy described the wound as 'problematic'. She could have been stabbed while standing, picked up and placed on the bed almost immediately, or forced to lay down, then stabbed. Halperin thought if she'd been upright, he'd expect more blood on her front. But it's not enough to say one way or the other.

"Anything like bruising?"

"No, and no defensive wounds of. She was either completely passive or caught totally off guard. Some of the evidence from the neighbors indicated she could be a bit of a tartar, so I lean toward her being off guard."

"And I suppose, as usual, no one saw or heard anything."

Whiteside grinned. "Almost. A woman who lives across the street reported seeing a van, but she can't remember anything about it, or what day she saw it. Anyway, the PM confirmed that the wound in the chest was the cause of death. She died at least seventy-two hours before she was found, and probably more like five days. The house was cold, so decomposition was not too advanced. But the pathologist wouldn't commit to anything more definite."

I grunted. "The never do. Suspects?"

"Not a sniff of one. We've interviewed all the neighbors. No obvious motives, and so far, all the alibis check. Of course, with the time wide open, we can't nail everything down completely. Same for trades people. The last confirmed sighting of her was at the local Waitrose six days before. We found a grocery receipt with a time stamp, and the lady at the pastry counter remembers seeing her. After that, nothing firm. The neighbors often noticed her come out to pick up her milk and post, but none of them can remember any specific day. The milkman raised the alarm. He saw her bottles hadn't been picked up and asked the next-door-but-one if Ms. Peralta was away. He makes a Saturday delivery, and Thursday and Friday's bottles were still there."

I calculated. "So best guess, Wednesday or Thursday?"

Whiteside nodded. "No one remembers anything unusual happening on either day, no visitors, no loud voices, nothing. Other than the approximate time of death and the cause of death, we've got nothing. The one odd feature is her laying on the bed. How would you get someone to lay down first before stabbing them? Or, if you stabbed them standing up, why not leave them where they fell?"

"Presumably no motive."

"Nothing we can find. She was OK financially, although just OK. Money was invested, and she appears to have lived off the dividends. Her bank handled her estate, and they say nothing had changed for years. She had no credit cards, and no loans. Not a junkie, didn't gamble, no booze in the house bar a half a bottle of sherry. Her purse had twenty-eight quid and a debit card in it, neither touched."

"Prints?"

"The only potential light in the dark. We've accounted for all but four, and those four come from one hand. The bedside table has a glass top, and the prints were all there in a row, although not visible without powder. If we fingerprinted everyone..."

I leaned back and stared into space. "But now it looks like she might be the sister of our vic. Opens some possibilities, doesn't it? Someone trying to become the family heir or out for revenge? Assuming it's one killer, the motive would seem to be in the past. Our chap's been out of the country for years and only recently returned. Maybe that triggered the killer. But it looks like the sister was killed before the brother was back in the country. Not that it helps a lot."

"How do want to handle the transfer?"

"Anything going on?"

Whiteside shook his head. "Finishing up the routine. With no leads, we're at a dead end."

"I'll talk to Fitzwalter and see what he wants to do about bodies. We'll probably shift everything here."

Whiteside stood up and stretched. "Well, I wish you luck. Sort of." He rolled his eyes and left.

I thumbed the Super's number. The department receptionist answered. "I'm sorry, sir, but he's just gone into a meeting. Would you like to leave a message?"

"Tell him I've talked to Inspector Whiteside, and we're ready to transfer his investigation." A bit of a near thing - I'd almost said 'liaised'.

I'd been wrong about one thing. It looked as though Amanda Noris's murder was going to add nothing new in the way of either evidence or suspects. But killing a brother and sister a few days apart, if not unique, was at least unusual. Finding out what the relatives knew and getting a clearer picture of the Noris family would drive the investigation from now on. I needed the end of a thread, but it eluded me, hiding in tangles of surmise and conjecture.

### Chapter 9

Tellwright shouldered through the door. "What was Whiteside doing here? I thought he was on something in Cheltenham."

I nodded. "There have been developments," and I brought him up to date as he slid his bulk onto a chair. "We need to get familiar with all this.".

"Bloody hell." Tellwright grinned. "That's why you wanted to interview the sister."

"You're quick, I'll give you that. Anything worthwhile from the Post Office?"

Tellwright leaned back. "Yes and no. The postmaster's name is Coghill. He's a good source with a lot of stories about the locals, and he's lived here for six years. But none of it points anywhere. It's just a mass of unconnected stuff, not pieces that fit together."

"Any weekenders or tourists in the picture?"

"Haven't been any tourists for five weeks or so. The only transient was the victim. He used the Post Office twice. First time, he mailed an A4 envelope. Coghill said it was heavy and felt like loose paper, a manuscript or something. The address was some place in Virginia in the States."

"Not Langley I hope."

Tellwright cocked his head. "How did you know?"

I breathed deeply. "Langley is CIA Headquarters."

"Oh, shit!"

"Exactly. But let's not leap to conclusions, there are other explanations. What did Noris do on his second visit?"

"He bought two packets of first-class stamps and mailed three letters. Put them in the pillar box, so the postmaster didn't see them."

"And the killer took the stamps for his Christmas cards. Jesus. Anything worthwhile on the local people?"

"He knows both the relatives. Knight-Ellis sounds like a Dickens character. She apparently dresses like a tramp most of the time, drives an old Land Rover flat out, and he's never seen her without wellies. He also knows the nurse to speak to, but not much on her background."

"Here's the plan, then." I detailed Tellwright to handle the transfer of Whiteside's people. "Depending on what the teams on Knight-Ellis and Kidde come up with, we'll have a powwow and figure out how to make sense of all this."

I called Fitzwalter who sounded none too happy when he answered.

"I don't think we'll need any of Whiteside's people," I said. "He's covered all the obvious things, and unless something new pops up, we're not going to hammer the same nails. Once his Incident Room has passed everything to my people, we'll cut them loose. If there are no other homicides, the manpower budget might get well."

"That would be a relief. I've been raked over the coals again by the bloody accountants, and I don't want a repeat bout. Anything like a solid lead?"

"No. We've found Noris's car, but Forensics hasn't finished yet. We're collecting lots of bits, but nothing points at anyone. Two teams are talking to the only Noris relations we know about. Depending on what they come up with, I may bring both women in to dig a little deeper."

Fitzwalter grunted. "OK, I've another meeting. We're holding the press conference tomorrow, probably late morning, so try to keep it free."

Two detectives came in, both laughing, but they went poker-faced as soon as they spotted me. I said, "Not the one about the panda, is it?"

They looked blank, and I wondered if I was going to have to explain. The older of the two, DS Jenkins, said, "No, Guv, sorry. It just this Knight-Ellis woman. She's right out of a novel. We were trying to figure out how she got that way, and...well, we came up with some interesting ideas."

"I shouldn't wonder. So, do tell."

The officers had walked to Knight-Ellis's address. She lived in a rundown manor house half a mile from the village perched on a small hill.

"We knocked on the front door, but no answer. Then this person came around the side of the house. Ratty old clothes, muddy wellies and an old hat pulled almost over her eyes. We couldn't really tell if it was a he or a she, but it was carrying a shotgun."

His partner, DC Lander, said, "Didn't like the look of that gun. She was holding it like she wanted to use it."

"Anyway, we showed our warrant cards, but she didn't take much notice. Said she knew who we were and what did we want poking around her place. I asked her if she was a relative of Bradley Noris, and she just hooted."

Knight-Ellis had been completely uncooperative and told the officers to get off her property. "Not much we could do under the circumstances, Guv."

I had a different opinion, but I was used to dealing with younger officers who took a 'softly-softly' approach and tried not to upset anyone. "OK, we'll follow up later. Write out your reports."

A courier came in and passed a pouch of documents to Sergeant Kerrigan, who signed for them. She riffled through the stack, then brought one envelope over. "Looks like the PM on Mr. Noris."

I thanked her and sat down to skim through the medical jargon. Halperin was commendably thorough and seldom missed anything, but he loved Latin and sprinkled his reports with as many obscure terms as he could manage. However, the gist was clear, and much as he had told me over the phone. The photos of the corpse and its appurtenances always reminded me of the pictures in true crime rags, designed to appeal to voyeurs rather than provide information. The spike which had been driven through the wound looked like a very large nail, about eight inches long. It was rusty and not quite straight, something you'd find on a farm full of tatty old tools.

Pictures of the tattoo and birthmark were stapled to a form. The latter looked like a black coin had been laid on the dead white skin. The former was unusual, a symbol that I could not recall seeing before. It was an elongated Maltese cross inside an ellipse, and below the cross a Gothic E. Odd to find a tattoo of any kind on someone of Noris's age and background.

I handed the packet to one of Abbott's people. "Put those photos on the board please, and circle them in red."

Kate herself came over a moment later. "Got a report on the 999 call about the body. There's a recording as well as a transcript. Want to play it?"

I nodded. One cubicle had been set up to interview witnesses. It was rigged with three tape machines and microphones. Abbott put the cassette in one and switched it on.

The voice was muffled and the speaker's sex indeterminate. Without preamble, the voice told the emergency operator there was a body in a field and gave the road number and distance from the village. The operator tried to get a name, number and location, but the voice just said "No" and terminated the call.

"Not much help," Abbott said. "The operator thinks it came from a mobile, because the background is different from a phone in a building, but there is no way to trace the number. They tried for a voice print, but it's too indistinct to be useful."

"Very informative like everything else we're getting."

Abbott grinned. "No one said it'd be easy."

"Or fun. Well, it's one more thing to eliminate."

DC Prevakhan stuck his head in the cubicle door. "Guv, got the prints from the PM. I've put them on the system, but Mr. Noris had no record with the police. But they do confirm the ID. Noris was in the Army, and his prints are on file."

"Thanks, Arnie. Any response from the States on our queries?"

"Not yet, but the agencies acknowledged receipt of the request."

"Encouraging, but not very. Please send the prints to them and see if that triggers anything."

Someone shouted that the food van was outside. Having never been able to face the limp sandwiches and wilted salad that passed for lunch, I tried to think of somewhere I wanted to eat and realized I hadn't thought about a drink all morning and no hunger pangs either. Something to this clean living perhaps.

An old-fashioned pub two miles to the east, The Cricketers, served great food and cask ale and was much frequented by the racing crowd. But on this day, there were only two men standing at the bar. I ordered a plowman's plate and a pint and sat watching the noontime news. There was nothing yet on my homicides. I assumed Twomley and his cohorts were waiting for the press conference.

When I got back to the Incident Room, Thornberry was staring at the photo board. I strolled over and said, "Anything?" causing him to jerk out of his cogitations.

"I think so, Guv. It's that tattoo. I've seen something like it, but it doesn't seem to make sense."

"Where did you see it?"

"On a video game." He realized how that sounded and tried to explain. "I don't play them, Guv, not much anyway, but I saw this on a game we confiscated. It's a combat game -special operations and like that. And one of the characters has a tattoo identical to that."

I looked at him. "A video game."

The youngster grimaced. "Like I said, it doesn't make sense. The victim is in his fifties. Why would he have a video game tattoo on him?"

"That, Constable, is a very good question, and you are going to find the answer. Any idea how to go about it?"

Thornberry squinted for a while. "Start with the game, I guess. Find out the name of it and who created it, then ask them where they got the image from."

"That will probably work. You can also ask Arnie to do a search on the internet to see if he can find the image and any information about it. Might be quicker."

Thornberry grinned. "Reckon it will, Guv."

I doubted the tattoo would lead anywhere, but you never knew. Lots of guys in the Army got them, and they were usually meant to be bloodthirsty and macho. Obscure symbols were a little more in the line of gang insignia, but that didn't fit Noris's profile either.

My mobile beeped. It was a text message from my cousin, whom I had conveniently forgotten to call. I walked outside, unwilling to expose my secret shame to my colleagues.

"Hi Jenn."

"Tom, thank God you called. I'm at my wits end." A short journey, I thought, then wished I hadn't.

"What's the problem? Aunt Dot said something about a man."

"It's Barry, the one I've been seeing for six months. Well he's starting to get, sort of like, complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"Well, it's like he wants us to get serious, then he backs away. Like he can't make up his mind or something. I mean, I don't think we're going make it to the altar, but we get on well and usually have a good time, and it's like, comfortable, you know?"

"So, what's the problem?"

"Well, I want to find out why he's acting this way, but I'm afraid if I just come out with it, I might spook him or something. I like, don't want to upset him or anything, but it's making me a little crazy, you know?"

One of life's great dilemmas. "Jenn, you've got to either ask him what's happening, or ignore it. There isn't any other way. If you've been together for six months, he shouldn't shy away at a straightforward question."

"What I was hoping was, I was hoping you could talk to him, you know? Sort of guys at the pub kind of thing. I'm sure he'd like to meet you, and I could set it up easy."

Oh no you don't. "Jenn, I'm up to my eyes, and I will be for some days. I just don't have time to do this, and I don't think it's the best way to handle it. If you can't talk to him, maybe you're seeing the wrong guy. Might be nothing important anyway, or at least nothing to do with you. But you have to deal with it."

She started with "But Tom" and moaned in my ear for another few minutes before I got loose. Trouble with boyfriends was an annual sport for Jennifer. But it bored me into a coma, and I'd learned not to get roped in.

During the conversation, I'd wandered down the lane and onto the village green. One of the enquiry teams drove up and parked. The DS driving, an older fatherly type named Driscoll, got out and walked over.

"Sir, I have Jacqueline Kidde in the car. She insisted on coming to see you."

"Any idea why?"

"Well she was pretty shocked when I told her about Noris. Seems she hadn't seen him for years, then finds out he's here and been murdered, and I guess she just wanted to get it directly from the horse's mouth. So to speak."

"Well, the horse will be happy to talk to her. Fetch her out and let's have a look."

And the look was worth it. Driscoll opened the back door and a woman dressed in a spotless nurse's uniform stepped out. She was pale and seemed even more so under a mane of auburn hair, but in control, and she started for me without hesitating.

"Are you the Inspector in charge?"

I made a small mock bow. "At your service, madam."

She stared at me for a moment, then a tiny smile tugged the corners of her generous lips. Her eyes were warm green, and they searched my face as though looking for symptoms. Whether she found any, I couldn't say.

"I need to understand what's happened to Bradley Noris. The Sergeant said he was murdered, but that doesn't quite cover it. I suppose I'm having trouble taking it in, but some facts would help. Or aren't you allowed to tell me the details?"

"One of the few nice things about being in charge is I get to decide what to tell and what not to tell. Let's go to our Incident Room and I'll see if I can fill in the background."

I gestured toward School Lane and she strode away without a backward glance. I tagged along, appreciating that the rear view was as pleasing as the front. She was about my height and put together in a fully-packed way. I'd heard the phrase "crowning glory" to describe a woman's hair, and her tresses fit the bill. The interview promised to be more interesting than most.

She stopped at the gate and stood surveying the schoolhouse for a moment.

"We're you a student here?"

"Yes, I was. I don't think I've been in it since I finished."

I pushed the gate open and took her in. As I led the way over to the interview cubicle, a few interested masculine stares followed us. There would be a bit of chaff in the pub tonight about the old man only interviewing the good-looking ones.

I pulled out a chair for her and took the one on the opposite side. They were ancient gray metal folding chairs, even more uncomfortable than they looked. "Would you like a coffee or water?"

"Is it normal police coffee?"

"Probably worse."

She wrinkled her nose. "I'll pass, thank you. Now please tell me what happened to Bradley."

It was tempting to let it all out, but I could be building in some major problems if she turned into a suspect, a possibility I was loath to consider.

"Before we go into that, I need to understand your relationship to Mr. Noris."

"He is...was my uncle. Or half-uncle I suppose."

"That's a new one. What's a half-uncle?"

"My grandfather was married twice. Bradley and his sister Amanda are the children of the first marriage. My father was the only child of the second."

"I'll add that to my vocabulary. One more thing. Do you know a woman named Amanda Peralta?"

"Yes, as I said, she's Bradley's sister. Oh, you mean the last name. That I cannot explain. She started using it about twenty years ago, but never said why. It was not her legal name, and she didn't change it by deed poll as far as I know."

I hated this part, but I'd learned to cut deep and quick. "I'm sorry to inform you that Amanda Peralta is also dead."

She froze. Her normal paleness lost what little color it had, leaving her white as flour. "Dear God. What is going on? What happened?"

I watched her for a few moments until I was sure she'd absorbed it. "Were you close to your aunt and uncle?"

"No. Not close at all." Then she got the last piece and her eyes opened almost impossibly wide. "Amanda was murdered too, wasn't she?" she whispered.

I nodded, and she buried her face in her hands. She stayed that way for a minute but didn't seem to be crying. Finally, she dropped her hands and looked at me. The pallor was still there, but she regained control quickly.

I considered whether it had all been an act but rejected the idea. I'd yet to see anyone who was guilty able to drain their color away as this woman had.

"This is rough, I know. Do you want to continue?"

She didn't reply for a moment, again searching my face. "Yes, I'll deal with it. Like you, I am somewhat in the business of death, so it's not as shocking as it might be. But I think I need some of your coffee."

I signaled DC Carter, holding up two fingers and pointing at the coffee. As soon as I was back in the chair, she folded her hands on the table and said, "Please tell me everything."

And I almost did.

### Chapter 10

Throughout my recital of the gory details, I had to guess how much to tell her. There was no way of knowing what Fitzwalter would give the press, and it would be embarrassing to feed them something I'd failed to tell the victim's family. I decided to keep it as general as possible and hope for the best.

Jacqueline Kidde handled herself well after the initial shock. She asked probing questions and made acute observations. I tried to remain detached because she was a possible murderer, but it was hard going. In-depth interrogations of attractive, intelligent female homicide suspects were not an everyday occurrence.

I opened with, "Obviously we need to find the person responsible as quickly as we can. Family background would help."

She nodded. "Of course, and I'll tell you anything I can, but I'm not sure it will be much use. I haven't spoken to Bradley or Amanda for a long time."

I smiled. "I'd rather hoped you would name the killer and give me his phone number. Failing that, we think both deaths may have been triggered by Bradley's reappearance in the village. Either someone was threatened by his return or decided to even an old score. If you help me understand the family's history, it will fill in a lot of blank spaces. We've talked to local people, but most of their information is hearsay or gossip. I need facts."

She leaned back and stared out the window. "It's funny," she said. "I used to sit in almost this exact spot when I was nine or ten. The past is always connected to us by tiny threads, isn't it. Most of what I can tell you is also hearsay, because it happened when I was young, and it was an era of 'not in front of the children'."

I watched her sink into a reverie in which I was merely a spectator.

"My grandfather, Jacob, was a very capable businessman. He inherited some money but ran it up to a considerable sum. The Manor had been in the family for generations, but it became semi-derelict while they lived in London. Jacob returned and restored the whole place, and it was quite a showpiece in its heyday. But it didn't last very long."

She leaned forward, staring at me. "I told you he'd been married twice. Bradley and Amanda are older than my father, and the three were never close. Bradley, as the eldest son, expected to inherit everything. But he grew into one of the more unfortunate examples of his class - drinking, gambling, girls, all that sort of thing. It didn't set well with Jacob who was rather Victorian. The two fought incessantly until my grandfather disinherited him. It's my understanding there was some specific thing Bradley did or said that caused the final rupture. But I don't know what it was. At any rate, Bradley reined himself in at least a little, but the bad blood between him and his father continued. Then, quite unexpectedly, my grandfather died."

I listened with growing interest. The intense, almost violent past of the Noris family was exactly the type of situation that might breed a long-running feud which culminated in murder. "Anything suspicious about your grandfather's death?"

Her eyes widened again, this time in surprise. "No, not that I'm aware of. He was in his seventies, and I assume it was age or illness. But no one ever mentioned the exact cause." She shook her head. "They didn't in those days. There were ever so many things that one didn't talk about. But I can't recall anything odd about it or people acting strangely."

"Just an errant shot in the dark, a by-product of investigating homicides. You start to question every death. And you've no idea what this incident between Mr. Noris and your grandfather might be?"

"No. It could have been something to do with Aunt Amanda. She and Bradley did not get along terribly well. Amanda was supposedly engaged to be married. I don't know who the intended was, but the engagement was broken off. I overheard my mother talking to my father, to the effect that Bradley had thrown a spanner in the works. How or why, I never heard. But Amanda was heartbroken. I don't think she had many suitors, and she never did marry. If the story was true, that might have led to the row between Bradley and Jacob."

"Do you know when Bradley left?"

"No, I wasn't living here then."

Something in her tone caught my attention. "You moved away from the village?"

Her eyes puckered, and she rubbed the corners of them with delicate forefingers. "Yes, I went to live with my mother's parents."

I looked a question, but she turned her head away. Eventually she took a deep shuddering breath and said. "My parents died when I was ten, killed in an air crash."

Before I could snatch it back, it raced out of my mouth. "Snap."

Her eyes widened again.

I shook my head violently. "Sorry, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to say that."

She stared. "Do you mean your parents also died that way?"

I didn't want to talk about it, acknowledge it, or remember it. The hole in my psyche caused by their loss had never entirely healed over.

But I couldn't ignore her intensity. "Yes. They did. I would also like to ask about a woman named Marjorie Knight-Ellis. I believe she's a relative, but I'm not clear on her place in the family."

Kidde's face bore a look of pain, unsuccessfully suppressed, and her voice dropped to just above a whisper. "I find it difficult to talk about too." Without being obvious, she sought my shared regret and a human connection. And I retreated behind the barricades where it couldn't touch me.

"Is Miss Knight-Ellis a cousin of yours?"

Once again, she searched me, looking for something I didn't want her to find.

"Yes, Marjorie is my cousin, second cousin actually."

"I don't mean to pry unnecessarily, but neither you nor your cousin carry the name Noris."

"Marjorie is descended from Jacob's sister, Eileen. I took my maternal grandparent's name."

This was costing me, but I had no choice but to press on. "Could you tell me about your cousin, please? We've not had much success talking to her."

She leaned back and her face relaxed. "I'm not surprised. She's a rough road for anyone. Marjorie is older than me by a few years. Her father died when she was a teenager, and her mother disappeared. Marjorie was something of a deb before her mother left, then her life seemed to unravel."

"What happened to the mother?"

"No one knows. She was there one day and gone the next. And before you ask, there was no suggestion of foul play. She'd packed all her clothes and apparently taken the train to London. From there, someone learned she booked a passage to the Far East, Singapore or someplace like that. No one knew why, but she'd not taken her husband's death well. And Marjorie...Marjorie became difficult."

"Difficult how?"

She looked away. "It's absurd, but I find it uncomfortable to discuss even now. However." She stared at the knot in my tie. "Marjorie is a lesbian."

I was no further forward. "And?"

"And she made little attempt to hide it. Upper Turcote wasn't prepared to cope with someone of that persuasion who wasn't ashamed of it. Marjorie flung it in their faces. While her parents were alive, their position shielded her, but after they were gone, she was rather exposed. She had the house, but no money. She asked Bradley for help, but he refused. And she gradually become a bit of a recluse."

"So, she had a reason to dislike Bradley. Do you see much of her?"

"No, we were never close. I haven't seen her in over a year. But you mustn't get the wrong idea. She and Bradley had a falling out, but so did almost everyone in the village. As I said, he was not a shining example of good fellowship."

"I'm afraid we're going to be a bit heavy handed if she won't talk to us voluntarily. Would she come in if you asked her to?"

She thought about it. "I don't know. She's become so crotchety over the years, I'm not sure she'll listen to anyone. But I'll ask her if you wish."

"It would help. Now, Ms. Kidde, I don't want to keep you any longer than necessary, but I there's one last question. Can you think of anyone, particularly anyone from the past, who might harbor a grudge sufficient to make them kill?"

She shook her head at once. "I've run through a list in my head but come up blank. I was so young my memory of that time is all fragments. But there is someone who might help. Aunt Velma - Velma McKendrick, that is. She's actually Marjorie's great aunt, but I've always called her Aunt. She's in her eighties, but quite sharp, and I daresay she would remember the details."

"Would she be willing to talk to us?"

"Oh, I'm sure she would. She loves all sorts of intrigue."

"If you could arrange for me to see her, that would be great. Does she live alone?"

"Well, no. There is a great-niece who stays with her, but the girl is not often there. Velma lives in a big old house in Worcester, and she's always glad of company."

I pushed my card across the table. "I'm available almost any time. If you call me on the mobile number, I'll meet you there. Now, I don't want to keep you any longer. You must have patients to see."

She stood and glanced at her watch. "It seems like we've been talking for a long time. Can I get a ride back to my car?"

"Of course." I went into the Incident Room and found it had refilled while I'd been delving into the past. I told the detectives who brought her in to return her to wherever she needed to go.

At the door, I said, "Thank you for your frankness. It's been very helpful. And if you can ask your cousin to drop in, it would complete my day."

I reached for her hand, and sparks jumped. This time her face flooded with color. She smiled. "I'll do my best."

After a moment I pulled my hand away although I didn't want to. But I couldn't stand there in front of the whole team staring into those green eyes.

When I turned around, I realized the performance had held the attention of fifteen police officers. They immediately began to shuffle paper and speak in low tones, trying to look efficient and busy rather than like cinema patrons. Kerrigan was out and missed the show, but her existence loomed large in the part of my mind where I kept my guilt.

Derek Morley charged through the door waving a large envelope. "Got something this time, Tom. Just finished with the car."

I wrenched myself back into the investigative groove. We found a desk and sat down.

Morley said, "To start with, we reckon the killer was in the car with Bradley."

I looked the obvious question.

"Fingerprints. Noris's, of course, were all over it. But we found three separate prints that we can't account for. We checked with the car rental company and got lucky. The Renault is new, only been rented once before. When it came back from the first customer, the company checked it with a magnifying glass to make sure nothing was wrong or damaged. Then they detailed it inside an out. The man who did the detailing is an ex-con, and his prints are on file. Didn't match."

"The ones in Peralta's home?"

"No, but that doesn't necessarily mean they aren't from the same person. Could be from different fingers."

"Where were the prints?"

"All on the passenger side. My guess is that Noris picked up the murderer, and he or she wasn't wearing gloves at the time."

"What else?"

"We matched the tires to the tracks by the crime scene so that's almost certainly how the victim got up there. We've also found three strands of hair and a tiny patch of fabric caught in the seatbelt lock. The hair won't give us a DNA profile since it doesn't have any skin cells attached, but if we get a suspect, we can do a straight match of the strands."

"Any signs of a fight or blood or anything?"

Morley shook his head. "The inside held nothing else of interest. The rain pretty well cleaned off the outside."

"They drive up to the field, get out of the car in the middle of the night and the crap weather, and the killer shoots Noris, then fastens him to the tree. More than a little farfetched. Presumably the killer, now wearing gloves, then drives the car away and does a half-assed job of hiding it before calling 999 to tell us about the body. Then calls again to tell us about the car. Why not just leave the bloody car and make one call?"

"Panicked after the killing?"

"Unlikely. He had the foresight to bring the rope and the spike, so he'd planned ahead. I can't see him freaking out once he'd done the deed. But I don't have another answer."

Morley stood up. "I've reviewed the data from the Peralta scene. There's not much to go on. Physical evidence is sparse, and the PM didn't come up with anything startling either."

I also stood and stretched. "Good thing we've got the fingerprints, otherwise we might still be chasing fairies."

Prevakhan waved at me as Morley departed. "Sir, I've just heard from Homeland Security in America. They have no information on Mr. Noris. He was not on their no-fly list, and they show no records at all."

I said, "Not surprising. He wouldn't have been allowed on the plane otherwise. Let's hope the FBI has more. Did they receive the prints?"

"Yes sir, but they couldn't say when they'd be able to process them."

"If we don't get anything by close of business today, I'll make a call. Did you and Thornberry have any luck with the tattoo?"

"No sir. I found the symbol several times on websites, but always in reference to the video game. No other links. I looked at a site that deals with heraldry and magic and stuff like that, but it didn't turn up there either. Looks like the manufacturer just made it up. They do that quite a lot to avoid copyright issues."

"Even if it identified Noris as some grand Pooh-Bah in a secret society, it probably wouldn't help much."

I wandered out the door. The autumn afternoon was well advanced, and the clearing weather left everything bright and clean. I stood by the gate staring at nothing, my mind nibbling on Jacqueline Kidde.

DC Bailey came down the lane, his lugubrious face drooping like a Bassett hound's. "Hullo, Guv. Mr. Keller is not looking too likely. He checks out as being at work at the relevant times. He's at a site over in Gloucester, so he leaves here quite early. Assuming Noris was killed at night, Keller theoretically could have done it since he has only his wife for an alibi, but it would have been difficult. We should probably check his car for evidence."

I shook my head. "Won't fly, Bailey. We found Noris's car. Forensics matched the tires to the tracks at the crime scene. And I don't think Keller would even know about Peralta, much less have a motive to kill her. But get him printed, just to cover all the bases."

The DC nodded sadly, his imaginative theory blown to bits.

Sergeant Kerrigan stuck her head out the door. "Phone, sir. SOCOs think they've found the bullet."

Derek Morley said "Tom, I believe we've got the slug from the Bradley Noris killing. It was buried in the soil about eight feet from the body. We're not going to get much ballistic information, as it's not in good shape. But it's unusual, steel jacketed, and looks like a military round. Not sure about the caliber yet, but it looks old. That would coincide with the older type of powder residue we found on the coat. I'm thinking maybe a war souvenir or something similar."

"Thanks Derek. Based on the evidence from the car, I'm assuming the killer used a pistol. A rifle would be much more clumsy and difficult to handle under the circumstances. Can you research the most common types of weapons the soldiers brought home from WWII and Korea and see if anything fits?"

"Already on it. We'll work the slug and try to get a better idea of caliber, then it'll be easier to match. Call you later." The science johnnies definitely had their uses.

I grinned. All I had to do now was fingerprint everyone within ten miles and search every building for old pistols. Piece of cake.

### Chapter 11

Simon Tellwright, scowling through a sheen of sweat, walked into the Incident Room. Members of Whiteside's Incident team jostled in behind him. Tellwright turned and shoved them back toward the door. "Wait," he bellowed.

He conferred with Kerrigan and came over to me. "I swear to God, Guv, it's like trying to herd rabbits. First, they weren't happy about their case being taken over. Then they said their Incident Room should be the main one because it's in 'civilization'. Then they moaned about having to haul their kit all the way out here."

I grinned. "I don't reckon you're in the running for personnel manager of the year. Pull up a pew and I'll give you the latest."

I discussed the report from the car and Morley's researches, but skimmed over the bare bones of Kidde's statement. I felt slightly sensitive about the nurse, without precisely knowing why.

If Tellwright noticed anything, he ignored it. "Bad blood all around with Mr. Noris. Certainly widens the field."

"It does, but we can't chase them all. I'm inclined to pay a little more attention to this Knight-Ellis woman. She's the first one we've come across with a motive, however obscure. And the fact that she doesn't want to talk to us makes me eager to talk to her. We'll let Kidde try to level the road, but we'll have to see her tomorrow one way or the other."

"Interesting about the bullet. Be almost impossible to trace if it's an old war trophy."

"Might be another explanation. Either the killer has access to an old weapon through a friend or acquaintance, or there's a stockpile of stolen weapons somewhere that the criminal fraternity knows about. In which case, we could get lucky. Check with the teams and see if everybody's covered their assignments. If the house to house is finished, cut 'em loose. In the meantime, I'll chase the FBI, a sport designed for morons."

Tellwright snickered and began looking for his detectives. I stopped at Prevakhan's desk. "Anything from the Fumbling Bunch of Idiots, Arnie?"

"Who? Sir."

"It's what the mafia used to call the FBI."

"Oh. Yes sir, an email from an agent in the fingerprint bureau. Says he's still running the prints, but no match yet. They've a zillion sets on file, so it takes some time."

"Unless they're hoping for Public Enemy No. 1. Run a search on Marjorie Knight-Ellis, please."

"Just on HOLMES?"

"Start there, and we'll expand if we need to."

Prevakhan began to stroke his keyboard. To me, the operators and their systems appeared to be in a symbiotic relationship, neither complete without the other. After a few clicks, he said, "Got a hit, Guv."

I'd expected nothing - it was just a random procedural shot. "What is it?"

Prevakhan stared at the screen, scrolling up and down. "It's pretty cryptic. Old too - goes back about twenty years. An allegation of child molestation at a school south of Gloucester investigated by a DC Wentworth. He, or possibly she, interviewed a headmaster named Canning and a supply teacher named Marjorie Knight-Ellis. And that's it. No disposition, no follow-up, no charges, and nothing in the record about what the interviewees said."

Without being completely aware of it, I muttered, "No female DCs in those days." I instantly tried to make a connection - lesbian and child molester. Only later did I wonder why I should make that assumption about a lesbian but not a straight. The 'no further disposition' could mean anything. No evidence, victim recanted, swept under the carpet because of the scandal. We'd have to check.

"See if you can find details on DC Wentworth."

Prevakhan clicked away for a minute. "This is probably him. Detective Sergeant George Wentworth. Retired four years ago. Living in Stroud. Got an address and a pension reference number."

"OK, make a note of it. We'll need to talk to him."

Tellwright had been grilling one of our enquiry teams. "Another reluctant local, Guv. Woman named Yvonne Garrett, lives about three doors down from the pub, refused to talk to us. She seemed unusually nervous and aggressive, wouldn't open the door, and shouted through it."

"Put her on the follow-up list, and we'll hammer the door tomorrow."

At the wrap-up, I covered the main points including the car, the fingerprints and the bullet. "Evidence accumulates but we still don't have anything like a hot suspect. This woman Knight-Ellis appears to have a motive, and we've had another refusenik who doesn't like talking to cops. I want everyone up to speed with the Peralta killing, so read the reports and talk to your opposite numbers. We're nearly certain both victims were killed by the same individual. Since no other bodies have turned up, the murderer presumably held a grudge against the Noris family specifically. However, Knight-Ellis and Kidde are still alive, so my theory is the killer doesn't think of them as part the family. Tomorrow we concentrate on tying off loose ends and digging up more about the ugly past. Get your reports finished, then knock off for the day."

I searched the room to find Kate Abbott and motioned her to come over. She didn't have to fight her way through \- the Red Sea just parted before her. "Kate, are you picking up anything yet?"

"Nothing tangible. The general sense is most of the villagers know nothing about the Noris family - it was before their time. There's a smaller group who knew them, or knew about them, but the stories are fragmentary and mostly rumor and gossip. The one thing they agree on is there was a considerable row between Bradley and the old man, and Bradley took off. The old timers, so far, do not have any motives I can identify."

Within twenty minutes, the detectives finished and trickled out the door in ones and twos. The noise sank to a quiet hum. I sat at a terminal and typed in the details of my interview with Jacqueline Kidde. I didn't think of it as an interrogation, and I didn't see her as a suspect in a murder. Like any policeman, I had hunches and gut instincts about people. I was convinced Kidde wasn't the killer, but it had nothing to do with a hunch. She was an attractive woman I wanted to know better, so I simply decided she didn't do it. Contrary to conventional opinion, that's often how policemen make decisions about people. Equally often, they are remarkably bad decisions.

Her shock had been genuine when I told her about the death of her aunt. There are some physical reactions, sudden and dramatic, that people can't fake. But I'd also seen some remarkable acting. One of the best had been a mother who drowned her child but convinced everyone her daughter had been kidnapped. I'd have to watch my step around Kidde, the more so if any of my detectives were around. They already had some fuel for the gossip fire.

My computerized notes contained all the important interview details, but I'd dried out the context. It now read like a proper police report, factual and bloodless. But I could not cast her out of my mind to join faceless throng I'd interviewed over the years. She and her auburn hair stayed firmly in the middle of my mind's eye.

Only three night-staff remained in the Incident Room, overseen by the ever-efficient Brenda Kerrigan. "Everything up to speed?" I asked. "Why am I even saying that? You would tell me if there was a problem, wouldn't you Sergeant."

Kerrigan always managed somehow to look as crisp and unruffled at the end of the day as she did at the beginning. Her face was grave. "Oh yes sir, I'd come over and throw myself at your feet, whimpering."

I nodded. "I feel better knowing how much you depend on me."

The Ice Maiden face dissolved into a wide grin. She was a very attractive woman when she did that, which was probably why she didn't do it often. The Sergeant was one of the few female officers who never had to fend off a pass, drunken or otherwise. Quite how she and I managed to get together mystified me when I thought about it.

"Since everything appears to be running smoothly, I shall take myself off." And then, quietly, 'Tonight?"

Equally quiet, she said, "Mother's," without moving her lips.

Kerrigan visited her infirm mother almost every other night. The woman was in the middle stages of Alzheimer's, and she didn't always recognize her only daughter. Brenda clutched their remaining time with all her considerable strength. I admired her staunchness and was irritated by it in equal measure. Thus thinks man, the most unreasonable of creatures.

Where to go and what to do? Too restless to sit at home, nowhere I wanted to be and nothing I wanted to do. Keeping up the clean living sounded like an excellent project in the morning but had fewer attractions now. I left the village trying to recollect a good Italian restaurant with bowls of pasta and crisp red wine. But all I could come up with were pizza joints, and the thought of all that stretchy cheese twisted my stomach.

On the outskirts of Cheltenham, I drove by a pub I'd last visited almost a year earlier. The food was good and the beer acceptable, so I pulled into the car park. It was packed already. At five o'clock everyone who managed to skive off work early made for the nearest bar. I considered for a moment, not at all sure I wanted to fight through the scrum, but there was nothing better to do.

As the evening weather was still tolerable, many of the drinkers stood outside, jackets unzipped, and pints balanced in both hands. The inside of the pub was blue with smoke, and a jot short of deafening. Squeezing through the crush without upsetting anyone's glass, I edged into a half-space at the bar, ordered a pint of best and gave up any idea of trying to have a meal.

I found a stool next to the ancient chimney and perched on it to watch the world go by. Imperceptibly, the smoke grew thicker and the volume increased. Together, they numbed the mind better than alcohol, albeit at the risk of deafness and lung cancer. I lifted my glass, mildly surprised to find it empty.

I made it to the bar and noticed my stool had already been taken. The hell with it. By the time I reached my car, it was almost full dark. There was one pub I remembered that might be less than heaving.

The "Locomotive" was tiny and tucked away on a residential street. Few people knew about it other than the inhabitants of the local bungalows and flats, most of whom seemed to be apathetically waiting for death. I'd been there once and reckoned I was the youngest man in the place by at least forty years. But it was quiet, and you breathed oxygen rather than smoke.

There was no car park, you just found a place on the street. Inside, it was dim and almost silent except for clicks created by two men in flat caps playing dominos. The landlord produced a pint with a proper head, and I took a long, grateful pull.

I assumed the classic position, elbows on the bar and staring vacantly at the array of bottles behind it, and the image of a red-haired woman popped into my head. I shook it, trying to dislodge her, but she persisted. All right, why not think about her? Only it wasn't thoughts, more like fantasies, uncomfortable fantasies. I hadn't had a real relationship with any woman in a long time. Kerrigan was beautiful and interesting, but we were just buddies with benefits. Maybe I was just lonesome, but it didn't strike me that way. It felt like something else, something from the dim and distant past I'd forgotten about. Or maybe didn't want to remember.

Another pint sat on the bar, foaming gently over the side of the glass. I asked for a shot of Jameson's to front the beer, knocked it back and drained half the pint. Somehow things looked better, more positive, more optimistic. Until my mobile buzzed. The flat caps spat filthy looks at me, so I walked outside and thumbed the keys.

It was Aunt Dot. "Tom, darling, I'm so sorry to bother you. You must be deep in your case, I know, but I had to ask what you said to Jennifer."

"I just told her she needed to handle it herself. She wanted me to have a chat with this Barry, and I suggested it was the wrong way to go about it. Why?"

"She's been here all afternoon in floods of tears. She asked Barry what the problem was. He said he really liked her and thought he wanted to marry her but wasn't sure she was right for him. She fell to pieces of course."

"Well, that should solve the problem. She told me she didn't want to marry him in the first place."

"I think she convinced herself that he'd never ask, so she could imagine she wasn't interested. Of course, she always wants to be asked."

I failed to conceive of anything more tedious than Jennifer's man troubles. "Tell her I hope she feels better. I've really got to go now."

The conversation had taken the optimistic edge off the beer, so I went back to the pub and ordered another pint with a whiskey chaser. Or was the beer the chaser? Who cared? Both settled in my belly without worrying about precedence.

I managed one more pint and one more whiskey, despite the fact the landlord was starting to give me the fisheye. I needed food to soak up the booze. The little voice in the back of my skull gigged me about food _before_ booze, but I told it to shut up. I paid my score and got though the doorway with surprisingly little difficulty.

Dropping my keys twice trying to unlock the car suggested I might be drunk. Surely not, just tired. It had been a long day and I'd been up early. A bit of grub, a hot bath, and the world's rosy glow would only get warmer.

I stopped at a McDonalds and ate something loaded with grease and limp lettuce. But my belly was so happy with the beer it allowed the ingestion with barely a murmur. And then the magic carpet deposited me at my door.

I had a stiffener from the whiskey bottle, dumped my clothes and ran a bath as hot as I could stand it. Pure heaven.

I woke up after an hour, the water cold and slimy. I climbed out of the tub, and my head started with the whirlies. A few minutes later, the phrase "knee-walking, bowl-hugging drunk" occurred to me, but by then I was empty.

I made it to bed, as wretched and disconsolate as I had ever been, and wished with all my soul for oblivion. Granted, someone said, and I passed out.

### Chapter 12

Pain lanced from the back of my neck to my eyeballs. The foul-tasting sandpaper lining my throat and a fur coated tongue told me I'd tied one on. A bottleful of water on the bedside table slid down my gullet and eased some of the rawness, but my head continued to pound.

I'd been hungover times without number, but it was up to two or three times a week now. In the past few months, I'd moved past the casual confidence of 'I can quit anytime' and into 'one more won't hurt'. Sober, I knew how lame it all was, but my brain dissolved as soon as I poured a little alcohol on it.

A quart of tomato juice helped the throat, and I began to feel, if not entirely human, at least among the living. Searching through overloaded coat hooks for a serviceable jacket, I caught a whiff of something nasty and realized it was the house. It stank. Dirty dishes in the kitchen, two piles of sweat-sodden clothes on the floor, garbage overflowing the bin for four or five days - just like a half-demented recluse. I promised myself I'd clean the place later. The ugly angel sitting on my shoulder told me to cut the bullshit.

Leaves skittered along the stone path when I opened the front door, and the young evergreen on the lawn bent and relaxed with each gust of damp wind. The car, skewed across the drive, stared at me with dim half-closed headlights. Perfect.

But the old battery forgave me this once. When I pulled onto the road, the daylight was just coming gray. I glanced at my watch. Far too early to be going to work, but too late to go back. An extra hour of sleep would have been useful had I thought to check the time.

The car seemed able to find its own slow way to Upper Turcote, and I was content to be a passenger. Drifting into a thoughtless cocoon aided by warmth from the full-on heater, I considered stopping in a lay-by and napping. But a patrol car would spot me as sure as death and taxes, and the story would sweep the county in a day. 'Yeah, a DCI running a double murder enquiry, asleep on the side of the road. Dunno what he was doing, drunk probably.'

The lights in the Incident Room still blazed although daylight manned the sky. Heads turned in surprise when I pushed the door open. Three sleepy-looking officers constituting the night staff were drinking their tenth cup of coffee.

"Good morning. Thought I'd come in early to see if you'd caught our killer." Grins and rueful head shakes. "Thank god, otherwise I'd have a wasted day." And just like that, I moved from being a potential disgrace to the hardest working DCI on the force.

I gathered up the files from the Whiteside investigation and tried to concentrate on the details from each interview hoping twenty other officers missed something that might be useful. My eyes wandered despite two coffees, and I found myself reading the same paragraph three times.

I piled the folders on Abbott's desk and looked at my watch. Still early. The main incident board, a collage of photos, maps and graffiti, blurred into colors and lines, but something caught my attention. I had to search for a minute to find it. The map - something about the map triggered a surmise.

We always used an Ordnance Survey chart of the local area. It was decorated with circles and notations related to the case. My eyes started to measure distances. The killer or killers presumably drove away from the field after arranging Noris's body, then walked away from the car after stashing it. But the car was less than a mile from the body. Why had they left it there? It had been indifferently concealed although the nearby lane was not well traveled. But we'd found it almost as soon as we started looking.

The obvious answer - they had two cars. One drove Noris's rental, then the confederate picked him up after he'd hidden it. But we'd had no reports of anyone else leaving the pub about the same time as Noris, or of any other unidentified vehicles in the area around the time of the murder. And having two cars at the murder scene significantly increased the risk of discovery.

None of which got me anywhere. I could make up a dozen scenarios to account for how two killers could work it, but there was no evidence to show which one might be correct. A single killer had to walk after he'd ditched the car. He could have gone one direction or the other on the lane, or hiked cross-country. There were no pathways or trails on the map anywhere close to the hiding place, but the lane might be worth investigating. My finger began to follow it.

I could see no reason why he would backtrack the way he came. If that was his intent, he could have dumped the car closer to where the body was. Presumably he carried on the other way.

The lane was narrow, just wider than a single-track road, and probably used mostly by farm vehicles. And there were four farms within three-quarters of a mile. But no turnoffs. He could have come from or gone to one of those farms - not likely as we were bound to check them after finding the car. Or, if he passed by, the occupants might have seen or heard something. An obvious place to continue the investigation at any rate.

No more than a hundred yards beyond the last farm on the map another single track led off to the left and ran back to the village. And there wasn't a house or a farm anywhere on it. If that was the route he'd followed, he would be back in Upper Turcote well after midnight and not likely to be seen. If he hadn't turned off, he could have continued to France for all I could tell.

The door banged open and two enquiry detectives came in, as surprised to see the boss as the Incident Room staff had been. I waited for the rest to arrive, impatient to get into something that felt like it had a point rather than going through the motions.

Tellwright came in chuckling. DC Carter came in behind him looking less than amused. I was becoming annoyed at Tellwright's heavy-handed courtship, or whatever it was. Males and females couldn't help engaging in the barnyard dance, but senior people like Tellwright needed discretion, particularly as Carter was obviously not returning his serves.

He caught something in my face because he stopped looking so jovial. "Morning, Guv."

"Morning. Look at this." I went through my analysis and pointed to the buildings in the circle. "Get the teams organized to cover these today. You and I are going to see Knight-Ellis."

While everyone sat and sucked up the first cup of coffee or tea, I explained the strategy. "Focus on anyone who was out for any reason the night Noris died and follow it up. You're also looking for anyone who saw or heard a vehicle after about 2230 or saw anyone walking either on the roads or through the fields. We can't pin down the precise time of death, so be flexible. If you get a hit, nail down the details, then work on the timing."

Tellwright gathered them around the map and started parceling out assignments. I went outside to call Jacqueline Kidde.

She picked up on the first ring and said, "Good morning Inspector." She'd loaded my number on her mobile. Mean anything? Probably not. Although I'd done the same and it did mean something.

"Morning, Ms. Kidde. Any luck with your cousin or your Aunt?"

"Yes and no. Yes, Aunt Velma would love to talk to you, this afternoon if that's convenient. And no, Marjorie does not want to talk to you. She was quite profane about it."

"Thank you for trying at least. Do you know why she's so dead set against us? She must realize that, in a murder enquiry, it looks very suspicious for someone to refuse to co-operate."

"Oh, I don't think she's refusing to co-operate in your enquiry. She's just refusing to have anything to do with the police."

"Why the belligerence?"

"Many years ago, she had a sort of run-in with the police. No idea what it was about, but she took against you and never got past it."

"Thank you for the effort anyway. Would you ask your Aunt if two o'clock is convenient?"

"I'm sure it would be, she said her whole day was free. Like most of her days, I imagine."

We arranged to meet at the Worcester junction. By the time I clicked off, the enquiry teams were coming out the door by twos, off on their quest. My phone buzzed.

Fitzwalter said, "Morning, Tom. I expected to hear from you last night."

Couldn't sir, too drunk to talk.

"Sorry about that, it completely slipped my mind. There isn't much to report anyway. We've completed all the normal interviews and eliminated most of the villagers from the enquiry. Today we're starting on the farms and outlying houses within a mile of where the car was found. The killer might have walked away after dumping it, so maybe someone heard or saw something."

"Reasonable. Anything from Whiteside's investigation?"

"Nothing we can use. They covered all the obvious lines. Unless we come up with a connection to Peralta, we'll stay focused on Noris."

"I've scheduled the press conference for 1100 this morning. Can you be there?"

"Yes sir. I'd like to withhold as many details as possible about the Noris MO other than straight cause of death?"

"My thought exactly. We'll sidetrack them when we tell them both murders are related. By the way, can you release any more people?"

"I think so. We'll have covered just about everyone we can for the routine stuff. I can probably get by with a couple of bodies unless something opens up."

"Excellent. See you at 1100 then."

There was one more thing to attend to before bearding Knight-Ellis in her den. I found Arnie Prevakhan tapping away as usual.

"Nothing yet," he said, "but of course it's the middle of the night there."

"Must be budget cutbacks. I thought they were on the job 24/7."

Prevakhan shrugged. "I'm sure they'll get back as soon as they have anything."

I didn't share his confidence. Gathering up Tellwright, I said, "Let's figure out how to approach Knight-Ellis. Ms. Kidde didn't have any luck getting her to come in, so the mountain will have to go to Mohammed."

Tellwright rubbed his bulbous nose. "Wonder what her problem is, or is she just one of those who hates coppers?"

"Kidde reckons it's the run-in she had about that molestation case. Hasn't felt kindly toward us since then."

Tellwright stared. "What molestation would that be? Guv."

"Didn't you read my interview notes with Kidde?"

Tellwright's eyes scrunched up. "I've been a bit busy, Guv. Haven't had time to catch up on all the reports."

He was upbraiding me for not keeping my number two in the loop. And there was no good reason why I hadn't told him. But I couldn't remember if I'd slipped up or decided to hold some things back. Either way, it was stupid.

"No harm done. It was a minor incident as far as we know." I gave him the gist of the story. "We'll have to chase up this DS Wentworth and find out what really happened. But I can't see it having a bearing on the murders."

Tellwright nodded, only partly mollified. "So, Knight-Ellis. How do we handle it?"

### Chapter 13

I reckoned Knight-Ellis would be an aggressive pain-in-the-ass and refuse to help. "I'm not going to give her any options. If she comes out with that shotgun, we'll arrest her for threatening behavior. If she doesn't have it, we'll think up something else to charge her with, like obstruction. Either way, I want her in here and out of her comfort zone, so we can pry her open."

Tellwright nodded. "She sounds like a real bull-dyke. Don't run across many of those."

"No, but let's not get carried away with the lesbian thing. I doubt if she'd kill Noris just because of that."

We took a patrol car and one of the uniforms. If we had to arrest her, we needed the proper kit. Much easier if she cooperated, but that didn't look likely.

Her house lay on the outskirts of the village. I told the constable to reverse the car, then wait. The gate was a twin of the one in front of the school only bigger. I could just see the building through a screen of huge old chestnut trees and bedraggled undergrowth. It crouched on a small hill and could have qualified as a haunted house any night of the week.

Tellwright pulled the gate open, and we started up the drive which was a rutted combination of gravel and broken tarmac. It was forty yards long and we took it steady, alert for any hint of our target. But we made it to the front door without seeing any sign of her.

The house seemed to sag in various places as though too tired to carry on. What little paint remained peeled off in small strips, and the Cotswold stonework was discolored and patched with lichen. Nothing had been done to the place in years. The lawn and what passed for a garden were equally dilapidated.

We climbed the three stone steps. The door was a massive piece of ancient oak, black with age and studded with pitted ironwork. There was a bulldog knocker in the middle and Tellwright tried to use it, but it was rusted fast. He pounded on the woodwork with a heavy fist.

No answer and no one seemed to be at home. Tellwright tried one more time, but still got no response. "Let's try round the back," I told him. An old stone pathway was just detectable through the long grass on the left.

It was quiet, the breeze having died off to almost nothing. The back of the house and the rear garden appeared to have been converted into a junk store. It was a tip. Old tools and implements scattered about, stuff hung on nails driven into a rickety wooden lean-to, orange crates full of filthy bottles.

Tellwright whistled. "Jesus! Looks like she's been collecting rubbish most of her life."

A deep, gravelly voice said, "None of your damn business, is it?"

It seemed to come from the lean-to, but I couldn't see anything at first. Then she emerged with the shotgun under one arm, broken open, a double barrel gleaming with oil. I couldn't tell if it was loaded or not.

Marjorie Knight-Ellis looked to be in her fifties, although we later learned she was only forty-seven. She wore a shapeless old hat pulled down over dark hair that sprouted from under the brim like an escaping Afro. Her tweed trousers were tucked into muddy wellies, and an anorak that had seen much better days gaped open at the front.

She strode toward us, chin thrust out and black eyes glaring. Her face was remarkably handsome with regular features and unmarked, albeit dirty, skin. But the face was dusky red with anger, and I knew we were not going to get a tractable witness.

"You're the bloody police, I suppose."

Take the initiative, I told myself. "No, we're not the bloody police, just the police. I'm Detective Inspector Quill and this is Detective Sergeant Tellwright. We need to ask you some questions about your cousin, Bradley Noris."

"Well, I'm not answering any questions, Mr. Inspector, so what d'you think of that?"

"I think we'll take you down to the station and charge you with obstruction. Until, of course, we collect enough evidence to change it to murder."

"Murder? I didn't murder that bastard although I'm glad someone did. And you have no damned evidence, or you'd just arrest me without all this palaver."

She was angry, but she wasn't stupid. "That remains to be seen. In a murder case, we expect everyone, particularly everyone who's innocent, to help with our enquiries. Anyone who refuses is automatically under suspicion. That would be you."

"Why, you puppy, I don't have to say anything to you. I know my rights." She brought the shotgun up across her chest and snapped it shut. I couldn't see the breech, and I didn't know if she had one shell or two in there, but it was obviously loaded.

Since this was our first meeting, I had no way of telling if she was under control and just trying to scare us off, or if she was losing it and about to explode. Either way, we had to talk to her. Tellwright had moved to the left, presumably calculating that if she decided to shoot someone, he would be out of the line of fire.

"You're carrying a firearm, and your attitude is aggressive. Threatening police officers in the course of their duties is a criminal offense, so I'm placing you under arrest."

Her mouth sagged open and her arms dropped the gun down to her waist. "I have never heard the like in all my life. You come on my property, tell me I have to answer questions about something that's nothing to do with me, then arrest me for being aggressive. You're all alike. Bloody interfering police."

Tellwright stepped forward to take the gun, but as soon as he reached for it, she brought it back up across her chest. It was aimed up at a forty-five-degree angle, and she wasn't pointing at anyone yet. Tellwright put his hands on it, and they started to pull it back and forth.

She yelled, "Let go, you bastard," and both barrels exploded.

All that old training took me over. I dived forward, hitting the deck. The blast had shaken both Tellwright and the woman, and they'd dropped the gun. I grabbed it, came up in a crouch, and swiveled it around until it was pointed at her face. "Get down," I screamed. "On the ground now, or I'll blow your head off."

Somehow that got through to her. The angry red face bleached white, and she sank to her knees, her eyes as big as plates as she stared up into those two black barrels with the smoke drifting out of them. Neither one of us was thinking about them being empty.

I heard a thudding off to the side, and the uniformed constable hove into view. "Christ, sir! What in hell happened?"

"Ms. Knight-Ellis just failed her firearm safety exam. She would like to go to the Incident Room and ask for a re-take." I looked into those eyes, now pinched but unblinking. "Wouldn't you?"

She nodded.

I pointed the gun away and broke the barrels open. Two twelve-gauge cartridges popped out along with another dollop of powder smoke. "Constable, she's under arrest. Put the derbies on her and take her down to the car."

He looked slightly confused by 'derbies', then figured it out. He and Tellwright lifted her up and handcuffed her thick wrists.

The young officer was half again her size. He took her by the arm and politely said, "Now, if you'd like to come along with me Madam, I'm sure we can get all this sorted out." He was treating her like a ninety-year-old invalid, and that got her going again. "Don't patronize me, you idiot." But she offered no more resistance.

Tellwright swiveled his head around a few times, stretching his neck. "That was fun. I'll tell you something \- she's bloody strong for a woman. Had a death grip on that gun."

"I noticed."

He stared at me, calculating and quizzical. "Don't believe I've seen that little trick of yours, Guv. Looked like one of the tactical boys in action. Were you ever on the firearms response team?"

"No." And that was all he was getting. Truth to tell, I was a little ashamed. I'd over-reacted to the gun going off, but it was something beyond physical control - I couldn't have stopped if I'd tried. But I was interested that old habits could take over so quickly. And I wondered why the little nemesis in my back had not joined the excitement. But it had never been predictable.

I brushed some debris off my front. "Let's have a quick look at that lean-to in case there's another gun in there. I'd like to search the whole place, but I think we'd better get a warrant to tie it up properly."

The shed was ramshackle in the true meaning of the word. Inside there was no electric light, but daylight filtered through innumerable cracks and holes, and we could see well enough. An old bench made up one side of the structure. The other walls had dozens of bits of everything you could think of hanging from hooks and nails. Played-out garden tools, small animal traps and snares, a tennis racket with no strings, rusty stirrup irons, you-name-it. And it smelled like a weasel's den.

Tellwright put his hand up to his mouth. "Something died in here a long time ago," he muttered.

We stood at the entrance and looked around. It was obvious we weren't going to find anything without digging into the mess with both hands. "I don't see any deadly weapons other than those traps. She wouldn't leave it out, anyway. We'll let Morley's lads do the work."

We backed out and walked down to the patrol car. Knight-Ellis had recovered her quarrelsome self-possession. She was in the back seat, still handcuffed and looking like she'd be happy to murder someone, even if she hadn't already done so. Tellwright got in back with her, and the constable and I clambered into the front.

When we walked her into the Incident Room, there was a considerable stir. Everyone leaped to the inevitable conclusion that we'd caught the killer. I shook my head and said, "Nope. Sorry." The disappointment was palpable.

We took her into the interview cubicle and I told the constable he could remove the handcuffs. She stood there glowering and rubbing her wrists. I said, "Sit down please."

She looked sulky, and I wondered if she was going to rear up again, but she finally sat.

She didn't strike me as a calculating killer. Aggressive, obnoxious, someone who detested any kind of authority, but she was a loose-cannon type of personality. If she decided to kill Noris or Peralta, I reckoned she'd just load the shotgun and be done with it. And she didn't figure to be a person who found any use in subtlety.

Tellwright and I sat down. He started to set up the tape recorder, but I put a hand out to stop him. I looked at Knight-Ellis and said, "There are two ways we can do this. I can formally charge you with at least two offenses, we'll give you the standard caution, and you can call your solicitor. Or you can talk to us after the manner of human beings, in which case I might let the charges drop. What will it be?"

She snorted. "You'll put that bloody machine on and stitch me up if I don't have a lawyer here to stop you."

"No. We'll record this interview whichever way it goes, but we can't, as you say, stitch you up. Even if you swore on the book that you'd murdered everyone in the county, it wouldn't be admissible in court if we hadn't crossed all the T's and dotted the I's. All I'm interested in is information, mainly about the past. Shouldn't be difficult, but it's your decision."

She chewed on it for a while. "I reserve the right to stop at any time and call my solicitor."

I nodded.

"All right, but none of your bloody trick questions."

"Crank up the machine, Sergeant."

He got it going and set the microphone in the middle of the table, then read the standard statement off the card, inserting her name in the appropriate place, and we were off.

I did it formally to keep the Crown Prosecution Service happy. "We are investigating two homicides, that of Mr. Bradley Noris and Ms. Amanda Peralta." I watched her reaction to the news about Peralta as it had not become general knowledge yet. Her eyes went wide again, but she showed nothing else. "Do you have any knowledge of either of these deaths?"

"No, I bloody don't."

"You are related to both victims, is that correct?"

"Yes." She wasn't going to volunteer anything, so we'd have to pull it out of her, a piece at a time.

"Would you define the relationship, please?"

"Second cousins."

"When was the last time you saw Bradley Noris?" Her eyes shifted down and right for an instant. Cometh the first lie.

"Years."

"How many years?"

"How should I know? I didn't mark it on the calendar. Maybe twenty, something like that."

"You haven't seen him since he returned to England?"

"I didn't know he'd been out of England."

"He'd been staying here in Upper Turcote for over a week, and in the pub almost every night. And you knew nothing about it?"

"Didn't say that. Heard he was here, but I never saw him."

"Were you close to Mr. Noris in the past?"

"Not by a damned sight." She'd tried to control that one, but whatever had happened all those years ago had as powerful an effect now as it had then.

"And when was the last time you saw Ms. Amanda Peralta?"

"Peralta! Stupid name. About a year ago, I suppose." She was less worried about Amanda for some reason.

"Where did you see her?"

"In Cheltenham. Ran into her in town."

"I take it you were not close to Ms. Peralta either."

"You take it right."

"Please give us your movements through the day and night for last Wednesday."

"What, the whole bloody day?"

"Yes."

"My God, I don't remember everything I did. Just around the house mostly."

"Did you go anywhere, anywhere at all?"

This time she got a little overelaborate, leaning back and staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. But she was a poor actress. "Don't think so. No, I don't think I went anywhere."

"We will check that of course. Did you meet anyone during the day or night?"

"Not likely. They know not to bugger about coming up to my place."

"Who is 'they'?"

"People around here."

"So you saw no one and no one saw you, is that correct? No one who could verify that you were home all day and night. In other words, you have no alibi for the time when Bradley Noris was killed."

She was so busy being obstructive, she hadn't seen it coming. "I don't need any alibi. I...did...not...kill...him. Got that?"

"Did you hate Mr. Noris?"

Her eyes narrowed, and she went cagey again. "Hate's a strong word."

"It is. Did you hate him?"

She considered. When she answered, her voice was low, and somehow had a quality of vulnerability to it. "Yes, I hated him."

That surprised me. She must have known it put her in the frame. It was as though she needed to tell someone. "Why?" I said.

She shook her head slowly. "I'm not going into that."

"I'm afraid you'll have to. We have a man murdered, a man you admit you hated, and you have no alibi for the time he was killed. That gives you two of the big three, motive and opportunity. If we find the weapon you used, you will be up on a charge of murder straightaway."

But she shook her head like a bull annoyed by flies. "I didn't kill him."

"Very well, let's leave that for the moment. Our information is that Mr. Noris left this area after a major row with his family. Can you give us any details about that?"

"Why do you want to dig into all that? Ancient history."

"Because it's possible that both of the Noris's were murdered because of something that happened in the past. We believe Bradley's Noris's return to Upper Turcote triggered the murders, so we need to know what happened back then."

"Nothing I can tell you. Bradley and Jacob were always arguing about money, so maybe that was it. I didn't associate with them any more than was necessary, so I don't know what caused him to up sticks. One day he was there, the next he was gone." Almost the same phrase Jacqueline Kidde had used.

"Did Amanda Noris continue to live at the house after her brother left?"

Knight-Ellis grimaced. "Not for long, left after a few months. Moved to London."

"Why did she leave?"

"Who knows? Wasn't my business."

"Did you see much of her after she left?"

"No. We did not move in the same circles. She was a stuck-up cow. Thought because she was born into money, everyone else was a peasant. Couldn't stand her."

I wanted to ask if there was anyone she could stand, but it wasn't relevant to the legal process.

"Do you know of anyone who had a reason to kill the Noris's?"

"Legions of people wanted to kill Bradley, I should imagine."

"Why?"

"Because he was a bastard! Told you that."

"Give me an example of how he was a bastard."

"Oh, Christ. He chased girls. All of them, all the time. He was always what they used call on-the-make. And he thought they should fall at his feet because he was the lord of the bloody manor or something."

"And he chased you too, didn't he?"

Her mouth opened, but for once nothing came out.

### Chapter 14

We'd gone as far as we could. Although she claimed ignorance of her family ructions, I didn't believe a word of it. The idea that she hated Bradley, had no time for his sister, but was oblivious to a major bust-up in a place as small as Upper Turcote was too much of a stretch. But without leverage, I doubted we could dig out anything else of value. And I'd just noticed the clock on the side of cubicle. I needed to get to the press conference or Fitzwalter would land on me with both feet.

I said, "Do you have anything more to add?"

"Nothing."

"Very well, we'll terminate this interview for the time being. However, I want to caution you about a few things. We'll retain this tape for the record, but it will be destroyed if it proves not to be relevant. You are still under suspicion due to your uncooperative attitude, your lack of alibi, and your admitted motive. We will check your assertions, and probably need to talk to you again. Please do not leave the area without notifying us. Do you have any questions?"

"Just one - can I get out of here now?"

Tellwright and I stood up. "You're free to go. By the way, I'll keep that shotgun for a while."

She clouded up again, but apparently decided it was no use, and stalked out of the building.

Tellwright pursed his lips. "I think she's a prime candidate. She hated Bradley because he made a pass at her, and she's a dyke. She was too young to do anything about it years ago, but when he showed up again, it was a chance to get even."

It didn't feel quite right somehow, but I had to agree it was plausible. "We need to chase up this retired sergeant and get the full gen on what happened during that investigation. Get on to him and set up an appointment. I need to be at the press conference like now."

"Good luck, Guv."

Most officers detested talking to the press, regarding them as the enemy. Anyone who did like the job was suspected of naked ambition, and quietly shunned by his colleagues. But if you were the head poohbah on an investigation, it came with the territory.

I got to the office about two minutes before the start. Fitzwalter was tapping his foot and looking at his watch like a schoolmarm.

"Anything new we need to account for?"

"No sir. We have a possible suspect, but no other evidence in either case."

"OK, let's go."

We used a room specifically set up for press briefings. The chairs were comfortable, there was always tea, coffee and biscuits, and the sound system was a good one when the place was packed. The only thing the journalists couldn't do was smoke, and for some, that was torture.

This morning, the numbers were modest. They didn't yet know about the connection between the two killings, they probably didn't know much about Bradley's past, and we hoped they didn't know about the bizarre method of his death. So only the local news people and reporters from two of the smaller regional papers showed up. No TV cameras or any of the sound recording stuff they used if we had a big one. I hoped the briefing would be quick and easy because the more they knew, the more they started to interfere.

Fitzwalter walked through the usual drill, giving a few carefully selected details about Noris's death and the current state of the investigation. It was bland, as it was meant to be, and most of the reporters let their recorders do the work. Except for Twomley. He was leaning forward and staring at Fitzwalter like he expected revelations. And he got them.

Fitzwalter said, "We are also investigating a suspicious death that occurred approximately nine days ago. A woman named Amanda Peralta was discovered dead in her home. The post mortem determined she had been stabbed to death." He paused, and you could feel the room start to crackle. "Ms. Peralta was the sister of Bradley Noris."

They exploded. Everyone talked at once for about thirty seconds, but Fitzwalter just stood there staring at them. He made no attempt to quiet the melee, and they gradually dropped the volume to a manageable level.

"Hold your questions for a moment, and I'll give you what we've got." He didn't of course, but he gave them enough to spice up their next editions. "Obviously we believe the murders are related. But there are anomalies. The MO is different for the two deaths, and that's unusual in our experience. Killers tend to stick with the same methods that worked before. Second, Bradley Noris's body was stripped of personal items and identification. As far as we can determine, nothing was taken from Ms. Peralta or her home. And finally, the woman was killed in the city, and the man in a field in the countryside."

He told them that the discovery of Bradley's body had been the result of the 999 call, but we held back on the call about his car. "At the moment, we have no solid leads. We've eliminated many people from our enquiries, but we are handicapped by the fact that Bradley Noris had been out of the country for many years, and we don't yet know whom he may have met or seen since his return."

Twomley couldn't wait any longer. "Where was he?"

Fitzwalter kicked it over to me. "He was in America for at least some of the time. He returned to England just over a week ago. We've sent enquiries to the applicable American officials, but no answers yet."

"Where in America?"

"We don't know where he lived. He flew into Heathrow from Washington Dulles, but he might have come from anywhere, even another country. We'll have to wait for our American colleagues to collect the relevant information."

Twomley was muttering into his recorder. He looked at Fitzwalter. "Sounds like a family feud kind of thing."

Fitzwalter didn't rise to it. "Was that a question Mr. Twomley? As I said, we have no suspects. We do, however, have a request. We are trying to establish whether any strangers were seen around Ms. Peralta's house about the time of her death, or if there were any deliveries of any kind made to her home. The neighbors don't remember anything unusual. It might be helpful if your reports ask those questions."

We were trying to get the news organizations to concentrate as much as possible on Peralta. We had too little to go on with that one, so anything they dug up saved us time and effort. And I was certain that the solution lay in Upper Turcote, one way or the other, and I didn't want reporters mucking things up. But I reckoned Mark Twomley would camp on the village green. He had a nose for this kind of thing.

The rest of the questions were routine so they could make it look as though they were being diligent. We finished in just over thirty minutes and passed out copies of the details we wanted released.

Fitzwalter and I walked back to his office. "Tell me about this suspect."

I ticked off the facts but left out some of the details about the shotgun confiscation. "I didn't expect to have the gun to use for leverage, so in a way it was helpful."

"Maybe, but you might have butchered it if she turns out to be the killer. Her defense will make a circus out of that interview with no solicitor or cautions."

"Don't think so. She gave us nothing that we can use except denials that she was involved. If she starts to look more likely, we'll never use the tape in evidence. We'll do everything by the book, and if anyone asks, the first interview was just the usual conversation we had with everybody to eliminate them from the list."

He wasn't entirely convinced. Anything that opened us up to criticism bored into him like an insect. "A bit close to the wind, Tom. Be careful. What are your next steps?"

"I'm still reasonably sure the motive is something from the past. The Kidde woman and I are going to meet with the victim's aunt and turn over some old rocks. If we figure out why, then I think the rest will fall into place."

"Isn't Kidde a suspect?"

"Not likely. It almost has to be either a strong man, or at least two people. She's got no motive or opportunity we can find."

He nodded. "Very well but play it straight. You are not on the CC's fair-haired-boy list."

I was not certain I wanted to be, but I made concurring noises.

As I left the office, I noticed my in-tray was over a foot deep, ignored it, and went in search of food. There wasn't much time, so I dropped into a motorway service area and had a grease burger and a coke, which tasted as good as it sounds. Then I drove up the M5 to the Worcester junction.

There were cars parked on the access streets as usual. I pulled into the first available space. A moment later, someone tooted behind me. I got out, and she was standing by her car. She'd changed out of her uniform and wore a sky-blue skirt and angora sweater. She also had great legs, which I hadn't noticed before as she'd worn trousers. But that auburn hair shone just as brightly as the last time.

"Good afternoon, Inspector. Shall we take one car, or do you want to follow me?"

"Good afternoon. If it's all right with you, I think we'd better take mine. I may need it if anything comes up." It made a lot more sense to follow her, but the temptation to be alone in the car with her was too much.

We headed into the city. She directed me to one of the older sections inhabited by large houses and huge old trees. It could have been taken for a wealthy area, but if you looked closely most of the homes were either shabby from neglect or had been converted into flats. Anyone who wanted a big house these days moved to the countryside. Cities lost their appeal as crime and poverty rose inexorably.

Aunt Velma was one of the last holdouts from the previous generation. Her home was vast with six bedrooms and bathrooms, and even a small ballroom. "What does she do with all that space," I asked.

"Not a thing. She lives in two rooms. Everything else is either closed off or covered with dust sheets. It puts you in mind of a cinema set."

"I need background Ms. Kidde, but I don't want to upset your aunt or pry into things that are none of my business. Can you suggest a way we can go about it?"

"Yes, I can. To start with, call me Jackie. Ms. Kidde puts my teeth on edge."

"Thank you. I'm Tom."

"So your card said. Well, Tom, the best way to handle Aunt Velma is to just wind her up and let her go. She's old, but hasn't lost her faculties, whatever those are. Anyway, I've explained what you're looking for, so I think she'll stick to the main question. But she's not pretentious, and she doesn't demand that we cater to her age, so if you need to ask something, just ask."

"She sounds remarkable."

"You'll be able to judge for yourself. That's the house there."

She pointed to three story square block that looked to be over a hundred years old. It was stone up to six feet off the ground, then weathered wood above that. The yard was small and deep in autumn leaves and fallen branches. An iron gate fronted on the pavement, guarded on either side by two magnificent oak trees probably older than the house.

There were almost no cars on the street, and I parked in front of the gate. Jackie was out of her door before I could walk around to play the gentleman. I tried to remind myself she was still a suspect, but that was going nowhere, and I knew it.

We went up the short walk and climbed two steps to the porch. She said, "Be careful where you put your feet. I'm sure some of these boards are rotten, but I can't convince her to get them replaced."

They creaked and groaned, but nothing gave way. She didn't knock, but walked straight in. "There's a woman who comes in three days a week, but she's only here in the mornings. The rest of the time, Aunt is either on her own or with a niece."

"I presume the District Nurse drops in to see her."

She grinned. "I certainly do. Through here, her sitting room is at the back of the house."

The ceilings were about ten feet high, the floors were polished hardwood with fifty years of wax on them, and the walls were covered with ancient flocked wallpaper that had once shown a rose pattern. But the roses had disappeared and only their shadows were discernible in a few places.

As we navigated through the halls, I heard voices. Jackie said, "Telly, I expect. She watches everything and loves soaps."

We came to a closed door. She knocked on it, then entered. Aunt Velma was sitting in the middle of a medium-sized room in a huge old overstuffed chair, looking at a black-and-white TV. Someone on the screen was assuring her that moving to Sun City would make her life complete. She clicked the remote and the advertisement died.

She did not rise, but the eyes she turned on us were keen and quick. "Jacqueline, my dear, I'm so glad you've brought your friend."

Good, that. Put me on the defensive right away. I suspected she knew exactly what she was doing.

Jackie said, "Hullo, Aunt. How are you feeling today?"

"Well, I'll tell you. I thought I might die tonight, but after your phone call, I've decided to postpone. The funeral home will simply have to make other arrangements."

I grinned. This might be more fun than I hoped.

Jackie said, "If you don't stop teasing me, I'll arrange for more tests."

"Anything but that. Alright, I'll be a good girl. Now there are two chairs there for you to sit in, and tea is on the sideboard. Jacqueline, you may be mother, but only after you introduce us."

"Teddibly sorry, I'm sure. Velma McKendrick, Detective Inspector Thomas Quill."

She held her hand out and I walked over to take it. For a giddy moment, I thought about kissing it, but that passed. It was as light and insubstantial as paper, but vibrantly warm.

"How do you do, Ms. McKendrick?"

"I do quite well, all things considered, Detective Inspector Quill. Now, we'll have no more of that silly formality. I'm Velma, you are Tom, and I imagine you know her name."

"I think I can remember it."

Jackie brought us each a cup of tea and a biscuit and we sat down, all as cozy as a Victorian picnic.

"Now Tom, Jacqueline says you are investigating the deaths of poor Bradley and his sister. I understand both were murdered. How can I help?"

I finished the tea and set the cup on a small table. "Our investigation has not turned up any likely suspects. But we think Bradley was out of the country for many years and only recently returned. That seemed to trigger both deaths. It therefore looks like the motive must be something from the past."

It was possible that someone had followed Bradley from wherever he'd been, but that did not account for Amanda Peralta's death, and I didn't want to get into abstract possibilities.

"We've discovered that there were significant family conflicts years ago, but no one seems exactly sure what happened or why. Getting details from that time might give us a pointer to the right direction."

"And might identify someone in the family who is a double murderer," Velma said.

"I'm afraid so, yes."

She leaned back for a moment and closed her eyes. "It was a long time ago, and rather a mess. I will try to be clear, but you must ask me questions if I'm not."

"Of course." And she was right. It was more than a mess.

### Chapter 15

"I suppose the place to start is with me. McKendrick is my married name. My maiden name is Knight-Ellis and Marjorie is my great-niece, although I always referred to her as my niece. My brother Richard married Eileen Noris, Jacob Noris's sister. Their only son Ian was Marjorie's father. Is that reasonably clear?"

"It is, thank you."

"Jacob was the head of the family. He married twice. His first wife, Rebekah, died giving birth to Amanda when Bradley was two. That became a greater tragedy because Rebekah was a strong, forthright woman, and few of the subsequent disasters would have occurred had she lived. Pure speculation on my part, of course. Jacob remarried about two years after she died. His second wife, Margaret, is Jacqueline's grandmother. That is an approximation of the family tree although there are other branches."

I jotted a few notes although I had no idea if they would be any use. "Clear enough, I think."

Velma nodded. "Now to the meat, which I believe is the correct term as used on television. To begin with, Jacob Noris was somewhat of a domestic tyrant. His attitudes were not uncommon, but it was not a pleasant household in which to live. So long as Rebekah was alive, she kept his excesses in check. Margaret was a fine woman, but she was under Jacob's thumb, and believed it her place to adjust to his requirements."

"When the children were young, a succession of nannies looked after them. Most of them left after a few months. Margaret tried to be a mother to them, but when her own child was born, she transferred all her attention to him."

Velma shook her head. "The way in which Bradley and Amanda were raised is probably a cliché today, but it was a disagreeable thing to watch. By the time Bradley reached adolescence, he and his father were constantly at odds. Jacob wanted a dutiful son who would nevertheless be strong enough to take over the family business, and he could not see that the two desires were antithetical. Bradley ran away from home several times, and once from boarding school. The rows became more heated over the years."

"Was this the usual father-son competition, or were there more concrete reasons?"

Velma looked over at Jackie. "That, my dear, is why this young man is a detective."

Jackie smiled, but said nothing. I wondered if this resume of her family's past troubled her.

Velma said, "Two things caused most of the discord. One was money. Jacob was not freehanded with his children. He believed they would be ruined if they had too much too soon, so he gave them little in the way of ready money. He paid for the best schools, of course, and the necessities. But as Bradley grew older, he took to spending what he didn't have. He got into debt at school and wanted his father to give him money to clear himself. What they used to call a debt of honor, a euphemism for gambling. Jacob may have done so a time or two, but eventually he refused. Money was a source of unending friction."

"And the second," I said, "was girls."

Velma nodded. "The oldest story in the world, of course. Bradley was the scion of the wealthiest family in the district and pursued the local girls as though by seigniorial right. Are you familiar with the term?"

"Lord of the manor gets the prettiest maidens sort-of-thing?"

"Correct. I am sure that many of them were more than willing, but Bradley had a brutish side to him which was most distressing. There were scandals, but most were hushed up. All rather grim, I'm afraid."

Jackie said, "Aunt Velma, were there ever any children because of Bradley's trysts?"

"Not that I know of, dear, although it is possible that one of the liaisons produced a child, and the mother had it somewhere far away and gave it up for adoption. It was a matter of the gravest moment in those days and not spoken of except in whispers."

"We've heard from several people that there was one final row, following which Bradley left. Any idea what that was about?"

"Yes, I do, and it involved Amanda. I haven't mentioned her as there is little to tell. She was quiet and had no obvious problems aside from being rather plain. Margaret could have done more to help her socially, but for whatever reason, did not. When Amanda reached the age when one starts to consider marriage, there were few eligible men who called. At any rate, she did finally become engaged. The boy came from somewhere in the North I believe. I never met him."

"Now, what happened exactly is a matter of speculation. I had the story from Margaret, but years after the fact. Bradley was the eldest son, so of course he expected to inherit everything despite the bad relationship with his father. That was the normal situation then. But Jacob changed his will, intending to split the estate between Bradley and Amanda, with Amanda receiving the larger share. When Amanda became engaged, Jacob shifted even more of the estate to her. Bradley found out about the new will and managed to have the engagement between Amanda and her young man broken off."

"Do you know what happened to the fiancé?"

"I'm sorry, but no. He simply disappeared and that was that. Well, Jacob refused to change his will, and he and Bradley had a frightful row. And Jacob died within the month."

"Cause and effect?"

Velma smiled and shook her head. "People speculated at the time that the fighting between the two had been so stressful that Jacob had a heart attack. There was never, so far as I know, any suspicion of foul play."

"And Bradley left."

"He did, although not immediately. All this occurred in the early spring, but as I recall he was gone by the beginning of summer. And that might have been the end of it except for one extraordinary fact. Bradley somehow managed to get his hands on most of the estate, and Amanda was left with very little."

"How could he do that if the will was clear?"

"We never found out. Amanda was left with the house and property which was worth a considerable amount, but only if she sold it. There was no money to run such an establishment. She lived off the proceeds for much of her life."

"Did you see Amanda at all?"

"Very seldom, I'm sorry to say. Amanda was somewhat reclusive after her father died. I last spoke to her almost two years ago."

"And Bradley never returned?"

"Not as far as I know. There were rumors that he left the country, but I don't think anyone knew anything for sure. And there the saga ended."

"Thank you, that's helpful. It gives us some definite points to research, the most obvious being the will. We're checking for records on Bradley in other countries, but we've not had any results yet. I'd like to delve into one other area. If you don't wish to discuss it, I understand. It's about your niece."

Velma nodded, and for the first time a shadow passed across her face. "I expected it. Jacqueline, have you told Tom anything?"

"I mentioned her sexual orientation."

Velma shook her head. "In my day, although we knew of people who had different proclivities, no one ever mentioned it. Of course, it was illegal then." She sighed. "Poor Marjorie. She had quite a normal childhood until adolescence, then things started to unravel. No one was quite sure why, but the girl became unmanageable. Out all hours, lying about what she was doing and with whom, smoking, drinking. Terribly distressing. She was sent away to school when she was about fourteen. Boarding school was thought to be a cure-all in those days. But after two years, she was sent down. The school refused to discuss the matter saying only that Marjorie was an unsuitable candidate for extended education. They suggested she seek professional help, but no one understood what she needed help with, and Marjorie would not talk about it."

"Because of her sexual orientation?"

"I presume so, although I cannot be more specific. She reverted to her old ways when she returned home, and never completed her schooling. And then, to compound the problems, her father died about six months after her return home. Marjorie's mother, Letty, withdrew from everyone. She may have suffered a breakdown, but no one thought to get treatment for her. And before Marjorie was eighteen, Letty disappeared."

"Any details?"

"Very few, I'm afraid. She packed a suitcase or two, and one of the people in the village took her to the station in Cheltenham. Beyond that no one knows anything for certain. One story had it that she went to the Far East although I found that difficult to credit. But I have no facts."

"So, Marjorie was an orphan at a fairly young age. What did she do after her mother left?"

"She did try to earn a living. The house she lives in was left to her by her father. But she had to wait for some years for her mother to be declared dead before she could inherit it. There is farm land attached to it, and I think she rents it to one of the local people. She tried various things, none of which seemed to work out. I don't remember many of the details."

"Do you recall her working as a teaching assistant or something similar in a school?"

"It sounds vaguely familiar."

I glanced at Jackie. Her face was white and set, but she stared straight ahead and said nothing. I couldn't quite figure out what had happened. She must have known most, if not all, of what her Aunt was telling me.

I turned back to Velma. "What were her relationships with Bradley and Amanda?"

"There is not much I can tell you about the period after Letty left. My husband and I moved abroad around that time. I received the odd letter from various people here, but I did not hear much about Marjorie. The only thing I am reasonably sure of is that Marjorie tried to borrow money from Bradley before he left. He turned her down. Why she wanted money, I cannot say. As for Amanda, the two never had much to do with each other. Amanda strongly disapproved of Marjorie. Like many plain girls, she was rather strait-laced."

My hopes for a breakthrough were fading into the sunset. Velma's information opened areas of interest, but there was nothing that constituted a motive to kill two people years later. And verifying details after this long was not an enticing prospect.

"Thank you, you've given us a good deal to investigate."

"It's kind of you to say so, Tom, but I think most of it too general to be of much use. Or have I said something that I'm unaware of?"

"Not at all. It would always be nice if someone could give me the name and address of the murderer, but it hasn't happened yet. Investigations are usually a matter of taking hundreds of small steps and spending most of the time not knowing what's important and what's not. It only gets frustrating when we completely run out things to look at."

Jackie had relaxed somewhat. "Aunt, is there anyone outside the family who might want to harm either Bradley or Amanda?"

"Oh yes, several."

I felt like a prize idiot. I'd been so wrapped up in the Noris's, I'd completely forgotten everyone else. "Sorry, I should have asked that myself."

Velma smiled and there was just a hint of wicked amusement in it. "You two make quite a good team."

I seldom blush, but I managed it this time, and so did Jackie. She said, "I don't think that would work, Aunt. I'm a suspect too, you know."

"Really? How exciting. I don't think I've ever been suspected of anything, and it's probably too late now. Tom, how do you think she did it?"

"With the candlestick in the drawing room? I'm bound to say, Velma, that Jackie is at the bottom of that list. We've tried and tried to come up with a motive, but it's no go."

"Oh well, you can't have everything I suppose. However. There are three people I can remember who had serious disputes with Bradley. One is a man named Martin Treherne. He owns a farm several miles outside of Upper Turcote, or at least he used to."

Jackie shook her head. "Sorry, Aunt. Mr. Treherne died about eighteen months ago."

"You surprise me. I saw nothing in the paper although I don't always read it. Too many of one's old acquaintances in the obituary pages. Well, I suppose it can't have been him then. The second is Harvey Lampitt." She arched her eyebrows at Jackie.

"Sorry again. He passed away during that bad storm we had on Boxing Day two years ago. Remember that one? Mr. Lampitt was hit by a falling tree."

Velma pursed her lips. "I'm almost afraid to mention anyone else. Yvonne Garrett?"

This time Jackie nodded. "Oh yes, still with us and still living in the village."

I perked up. I remembered a woman named Garrett had not yet consented to an interview. "What about Ms. Garrett?"

Velma stared into the distance. "This would be about a year and a half before Bradley left. I told you he was a devil with the girls. One of his victims was Yvonne Garrett. She was quite a pretty little thing in those days although I don't know if she kept her looks. I suspect not. Anyway, she was completely besotted with Bradley, and I think she saw herself becoming the lady of the manor. Quite a step up for a girl whose father worked in an abattoir. Bradley, of course, had no intention of marrying her. I don't know all the details, but eventually he threw her over. She took it badly and had a serious breakdown. She was hospitalized for about six months and I believe she was on medication for quite a long time after that."

I looked at Jackie. She shook her head firmly. "Patient confidentiality, I'm afraid."

I'd expected it, but it didn't make it less of a niggle. "Ms. Garrett has not agreed to be interviewed. Do either of you know why that might be?"

The two women glanced at each other and I hoped for something useful. Jackie said, "About three years after Bradley left, Yvonne became engaged to George Garrett. They're still married." She stopped for a moment. "I mustn't betray any confidences, but this is probably in your records. Either on her wedding night or the next night, George called the doctor. Yvonne was hysterical. The doctor tried to sedate her, but she fought him off. Eventually he called for help and two of your men responded. It took all of them to get her into the ambulance. Yvonne decided that the whole episode was the fault of the police."

"That happens sometimes. It's the uniforms - makes us memorable. What caused this hysteria?"

"No idea. George wouldn't say anything. You can imagine what the gossip was like. Yvonne was sectioned for six weeks, but then seemed to recover. As far as I know, in the past eighteen years, there's never been another problem."

Until Bradley Noris returned to the scene of the crime?

### Chapter 16

I'd learned all I could from Aunt Velma, and I thanked her.

"There is a price for all this information, you know."

"Is it rubies and pearls? Because I'm a bit short at the moment."

She giggled. "No, but I would like to be kept abreast of the progress of your case. Is that possible?"

"I don't see why not. Very little of what we do is secret, and we give most of it to the press anyway. I'll put you down as a consultant, how's that?"

She pressed her hands together. "Wonderful. I've never been a consultant. I shall update my Curriculum Vitae."

Jackie and I took our leave and walked back to the car. We headed to the motorway junction, and things felt a little strained. "Did something your Aunt said upset you?"

She stared through the windscreen, and for a moment I wasn't sure she'd heard me. "No, it was nothing."

She was evading, but I didn't know why, and I didn't want to ask. Not the brightest way for a detective to operate. I dropped her at her car, and other than a brief 'thank you', she never said another word. Whatever spooked her was nothing trivial. I filed it under 'unanswered questions'.

The Incident Room was quiet. A few of the staff were there, but the place felt like Sleepy Hollow. A few minutes later, Simon Tellwright arrived to alleviate the boredom.

"Guv, good to see you survived the encounter with the press. Any blood?"

"None to speak of. But Twomley's got the bit in his teeth, so there will probably be a few fireworks. Fitzwalter asked them to query the public for anyone who was around Peralta's place in the days before she was found, but I don't think it'll produce much. How have you been spending the Queen's shilling?"

"I tracked down DS Wentworth. Got a bit lucky. He's only just come back from a month in Canada visiting his son. Said he was vague about the interview since nothing ever came of it, but he's happy to talk to us. I told him about five o'clock, if that's OK. He lives south of Gloucester."

I gave him a rundown of Velma's information. "We need to get Yvonne Garrett in soonest. There may be nothing in it and she's just got a thing about coppers, but the more we find out about Bradley the Bastard, the better. Also, on Monday, chase up that will of Jacob Noris. The whole deal sounds iffy, and maybe gave someone a long-term grudge."

"Or somebody thought Noris had come back to blow the gaff on the scheme, so they took him out."

"A distinct possibility. Anything from the teams?"

"Not a blind thing. We've found no one who noticed anything relevant that night. Several heard a car or cars, but the times are too vague to get us anywhere."

"All right, let's clean everything up, and make sure all I's are dotted and T's crossed. Not much we can do on Sunday."

Tellwright and Kerrigan began to wade through administrative junk. Knowing Kerrigan, I figured it would only take them a few minutes. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Prevakhan waving in my direction.

"What's up, Arnie?"

"The FBI sent me an email. No information, but they want the senior investigating officer to call this number and ask for a Special Agent Forbes."

The number got me a switchboard woman who did not identify herself as FBI headquarters or anything else. I gave her my name and asked for Forbes.

When he picked up, I said, "This is Detective Inspector Quill from England. I understand you have some information for me on a Bradley Noris."

"You don't sound English."

"I'm half American, including the voice part."

"That would explain it. I need a few details regarding Noris. What's your interest in him?"

"He turned up dead on my patch. Shot."

"Jesus." He went quiet for a moment. The FBI hates to tell anyone anything, and I could sense his gears grinding.

"Murdered presumably."

"No question about it."

"OK, I'll give you what I can. Can you be overheard?"

"Only by God."

"He's cleared for it. OK, Noris worked for us and for someone at Langley, but strictly in a low-level capacity."

"What does that mean? I don't care what he was doing specifically unless it helps me find his killer. All I need to know is whether he was engaged in something that could have led to his death, and if so, who was likely to be the shooter."

"I understand, but it's difficult. You would need the details of what he was involved in to make that determination. Most of it is classified, and it would take someone above my pay grade to authorize a release."

"I used to hold a Top-Secret Clearance. Would that help?"

"How the hell did you get one of those?"

"It's probably above your pay grade, but I'll tell you anyway. I was in the Army during the first Gulf War."

"Ah. Maybe I can make that work. Give me your Social Security Number, and I'll run you through the system."

I told him. People in the spook business are terrified someone is going to learn one of their secrets, but about ninety percent of what they know is bullshit. Even if Noris had been up to his ears in intelligence work, it probably had nothing to do with his death. Shooting someone was certainly on the cards in that kind of life, but the other pieces of the MO such as the spike in the wound didn't fit. Professional killers were only too happy to get the job done quickly and vacate the area. And Amanda Peralta's death didn't connect with any of that.

But I had no choice. Everything, every trail had to be followed. Cops in the past were famous for deciding who was guilty in the first hour, then stitching up their target using whatever means was to hand. Can't do that now. And I have a funny quirk - I want to know I've got the right person, not just someone who fits so I can close the case. It's awkward sometimes because of the pressure from the top and the screaming from the press. But I've found that most of the time they're over a barrel. You know all the details and you can blow any bad calls sky high. The threat of that keeps them cautious.

Back in the Incident Room, Prevakhan looked at me, curiosity all over him. "Sorry Arnie, they need to check on me and find out if I'm connected to any known Communists." He laughed, but I'm not sure he got it. You don't hear much about Communists these days, but they used to be the big bogeyman.

I checked my watch - four o'clock. I hoped the spooks were not going to take long. DS Wentworth figured to have more useful information, and I didn't want to miss that appointment. One of the teams came in and went straight over to Tellwright. There was a considerable amount of whispering and gesticulating. Tellwright noticed me and beckoned.

"Guv, they've found someone who maybe saw the killer."

One member of the team was Bailey, the other Rawson, a young DC who was dead keen to become the great detective. "I'm all ears."

Bailey, being the senior man, took the lead. "We've been working the farms to the northwest of the village, Guv. The last place on the list is owned by a fellow named Bateman. It's a big outfit, dairy farm I think. Anyway, we found him outside the barn and told him what we were looking for. He said he hadn't seen or heard anything, so we thought we'd struck a blank again. Just then, this other chap comes out of the barn and Mr. Bateman introduces him. He's the head cowman, or whatever they call them, named Tanouski."

Rawson jumped in. "I think that's Santowski, Guv. I asked him to spell it."

Bailey gave him a look. "Thank you." He turned back to me. "This cowman is a Polish immigrant, been working for Bateman about a year. His English is not too good, but he gets by. Bateman told him what we were after, and straightaway he nods his head. Well, long story short, he went out to the barn about midnight to check on a sick cow. He comes out of the barn after about fifteen minutes and stops in a kind of shed out the back to have a fag."

"In that weather?"

Bailey nodded. "I asked about that, and it seems Mr. Bateman won't let him smoke in his quarters - has to go outside. Anyway, he lights up and after a minute or so, he sees someone walking just the other side of the farm fence. Might be easier to show you on the map."

Bailey peered at the Ordnance Survey for a moment, tracing routes with a stubby forefinger. Then he pointed. "Here it is, this is the Bateman farm. This dotted line is an old bridle path, no longer used for that, but it is used as a footpath, usually by hikers. Bateman doesn't like it coming so close to his farm, but it doesn't cross his land, so he has to put up with it. According to the cowman, the figure he saw was on that path."

"Going which direction?"

Bailey ran his finger along the line. "This way Guv. Northwest roughly."

The four of us stared at the map. I said, "Not too many houses along that line. Simon, have we covered any of those?"

He shook his head. "No, they're just outside the radius we decided on."

"Did this helpful immigrant have a description?"

"Not much, Guv. It was dark of course, and with the rain and wind the visibility was bad. He said the person was walking quickly, but he couldn't really see anything distinctive. Just a figure, he said."

"But he's sure about the time?"

"Oh yes, Guv. I asked Mr. Bateman later if the man was reliable, and he said he was straight as they come. The time is fuzzier. It was probably about 12:15 to 12:30. Santowski says he went out just after midnight and he thinks he was in the barn for no more than fifteen minutes, but he didn't check his watch."

"All right, it's the first sighting we've had of anyone out on that night. Good work, the pair of you. Simon, we need to talk to people within a reasonable distance of that footpath. Looks like mostly fields either side of it, so assign a team to walk the path and see if there are any obvious turnoffs or gates. And I want that done today if humanly possible."

Kerrigan waved at me from her desk. We'd have to stock megaphones if this continued. "Phone, sir. From the states he says."

"I'll take it in the cubicle, thank you."

When I picked up the phone, there was a short delay. Then someone said, "Detective Inspector Quill?"

"Speaking."

"My name's Canizares. I work at Langley. Are you free to talk for a moment?"

"I am."

"Special Agent Forbes passed on your request for information about a Bradley Noris. He suggested I look up your records."

"And did you?" This was becoming tedious.

"Oh yes. We have rather a lot of information on you."

"Which adds up to what?"

"I think we'll be able to help. I understand somebody killed Noris, is that correct?"

"Yes. As I told Forbes, I'm not interested in anything Noris was involved in unless it leads me to the murderer."

"OK, here's what I propose. We liaise with a department in your Special Branch. Are you familiar with them?"

More than I ever wanted to be. "Yes."

"I'm going to arrange for a file on Noris to be shown to you. It doesn't contain the whole story, but I think it will give you enough to check in relation to your homicide. Frankly it seems unlikely there's any connection, but I understand you have to look at everything. I'm afraid you can't take the file out of the Special Branch office or make any notes. Will that be satisfactory?"

"Should be. If it turns out we need to dig deeper, I'll push it up the chain."

"Good. One more thing - a personal note. We pulled your military records among other things. You were involved in a tank battle west of Al-Basra about two days after the balloon went up."

What was this all about? "If that's what it says, I guess it must be true. Most of the time I didn't know where the hell I was. Why?"

"I was in a command vehicle a couple of miles south when that started. We were the first ones to reach you when it was over, so I know what happened and what you did. That's one of the reasons I'm letting you see that file. I hope it helps. If you need more, get back to Forbes."

The phone went dead and I stood there holding it to my ear for a few seconds. Was this one old soldier doing a favor for another, or was there something else going on that would make me wish I'd never heard of Bradley Noris?

He was wrong about two things, though. He wasn't the first one there, and I don't think he had any idea what I'd done, or he'd never let me near that file.

### Chapter 17

"Tom," said Fitzwalter, "I've been waiting to hear from you. How's it going?"

"Hard to tell. Things are happening, but I'm not sure if they mean much."

I gave him the edited version of my meeting with Aunt Velma. Although I wasn't trying to hold anything important back, I didn't want to describe my impressions and hunches and guesses. Fitzwalter was a fact man, and he had little empathy for anything that couldn't be quantified in a report.

"Sounds like your instinct was right. If Noris had family problems, it probably came back to bite him."

"Unfortunately, that's the good news. The bad news is Noris was involved with American intelligence."

I told him about the Special Branch connection and, predictably, he was less than thrilled.

"Those bastards will take over the case, given half a chance. Is it really necessary to look at that file?"

"I can't know unless I see it. But they're already in the loop or will be when this Canizares notifies them. If our killer is a local person, I can work around them. But if it turns out we need to expand the field, they could create a lot of roadblocks. How do you want to handle it?"

"No idea, I'll have to go upstairs. Don't move on it until we have a decision."

"One other bit of good news. We've found a witness who saw someone out walking the night of Bradley's murder. The location is close enough to the scene to make it worth considering, so we're putting teams out to check the houses and farms nearby."

"Good. The faster we get a break, the less pain for everyone. Keep me posted and I'll call you as soon as someone decides what to do with the other thing."

Street cops loathed and feared Special Branch in equal measure. It wasn't what they did so much as their attitude. They came across as the "people in the know", the only ones who had access to the important stuff, and they weren't going to share it with some plod in the field. But they had power, too, and they never hesitated to use it if you crossed them. I hoped the CC would decide I was too far down the totem pole to speak to them.

I wanted to get out and chase someone. Tellwright had detailed two teams to check houses close to the track. I figured we could make up a third team.

"Grab your wellies, Simon. You and I are going to take a walk on the wild side."

He managed to contain his excitement, exercise not being one of his major interests. "What would that consist of, Guv?"

"We'll follow the footpath in the opposite direction from Bateman's farm. If the walker is the killer, I want to figure out his movements."

Tellwright shook his head, but he had little choice. We used my car and drove over to the Bateman place. I had my own copy of the Ordnance Survey chart, and I thought we could follow the track without too much trouble.

The other teams had parked on the verge about fifty yards from the farm entrance and I added to the queue. Two of the men were busy putting on their country gear and the other team had already departed. As we walked towards the complex of buildings, the smell of cow shit was strong on the breeze. A man I took to be the owner was standing in a large concrete yard, hands on hips and looking truculent.

"More police?"

"I'm afraid so. I'm DI Quill, this is DS Tellwright. Sorry to disturb you, but we need to get on that footpath and follow it for a way if that's possible. I understand hikers use it sometimes."

"They do." Like most farmers, he was not a fan of the wanderers. "Strew rubbish around, don't know how to close a gate. But the law says I have to let them use it."

"The track is not actually on your land, is it?"

That didn't mollify him - quite the reverse. "Got nothing to do with it. It runs on the edge of two of my fields, so I have the same bother as if it did."

I couldn't quite see that, but I was not inclined to stand around arguing. "If you can show us where it is, we'll get out of your hair."

I think he'd have preferred it if we stayed to debate, but he gestured towards the barn. "Round back. You'll find an opening in the hedge. That's where my man was when he saw this fellow."

I thanked him, and we walked around the side of the huge, modern structure. The cows inside made a steady noise, albeit not an unpleasant one.

"I'll bet he makes a mint out of the EU subsidies," said Tellwright.

Cynical, but probably accurate. The back of the barn featured a strip of grass about three yards wide, bordered by a straggly hawthorn hedge. On one corner of the barn was a security light hanging next to a small roofed porch. Twenty yards away, the trees arched over an opening in the hedge. "That must be the place our immigrant stood. I wonder if that light was on?"

Tellwright said, "I'll make a note to find out, but I reckon it must have been or he wouldn't have seen the figure. Eyes wouldn't adapt to the dark until a few minutes had passed, and he'd just lit a cigarette."

"That is a very astute and detective-like observation, Sergeant. Let us proceed with our tracking."

The hedge opening was overgrown. We slipped through. The path in both directions was discernible, but not well trodden. We started off, me trying to track our progress using the map.

As Bateman said, the track skirted the edge of the fields, and there were few trees to obstruct the view in any direction. I glanced at the ground from time to time, but there were no obvious footprints. Given the storm on the night of the killing, I didn't expect any.

We meandered along for several minutes seeing nothing of interest. After five hundred yards, I stopped and unfolded the map. I ran my finger along the dotted line representing the path. "Notice anything?"

Tellwright peered over my shoulder and shook his head.

"There are almost no landmarks of any kind. Anyone who used this on a dark and stormy night without a light would have to know the ground. One more thing that points to a local person."

Tellwright shrugged. "If he was the killer. Might have been a drunk wandering home."

"I doubt it. This track runs for another half a mile, then ends at a road. And where the path starts is only about three hundred yards from where the car was stashed. No pubs anywhere close by although he could have come from someone's house. But it feels right. An out-of-town killer would never be able to find this path and navigate it in the dark."

"How much further do you want to go?"

"That's enough. Let's backtrack and catch up with the teams."

As we trudged toward Bateman's, the afternoon light began to fade. I expected we'd have to meet the teams back at the Incident Room to find out if they'd discovered anything. But when we got to the opening in the hedge, we heard voices just the other side of the barn. We popped through and saw Thornberry and Jenkins talking to Bateman.

Jenkins said, "Oh, there you are, sir. Mr. Bateman said you'd gone walkabout."

"Find anything?"

"Yes and no sir. There's two houses on the left side of the path. First one's about six or seven hundred yards."

Bateman said, "That's Tony Gaskin's place. Just a smallholding."

"There was no one home. It looked like it had been shut up for a while."

I looked at Bateman. "He's in Egypt, has been for two months. Archaeologist. I keep an eye on his house."

I nodded and turned back to Jenkins. "The second one seems to be an old farm in a bad state of repair. It's a little under a mile from here."

Bateman, the oracle, said, "Harvey Lampitt's farm. Or used to be. Harvey died about two years ago. His daughter Hazel runs it now. After a fashion."

The last bit sounded like Bateman didn't think much of the daughter. "After a fashion?" I said.

"Well, she's a bit harum-scarum is Hazel. Strange woman. Keeps herself to herself. A shame because it's a goodish piece of land. Offered to buy it, but she wouldn't hear of it. She does a bit of farming, but it's just about enough to feed them, no more."

"Them?"

"Hazel's daughter, Libby. Elizabeth that would be."

I looked at Jenkins. "Anyone there."

Jenkins scratched his chin. "No lights on anywhere. We knocked, but no answer and we didn't see anyone. But I had the distinct feeling there was someone about. You know how it is, Guv - your neck hair sort of stands up."

Back to Bateman. "She's likely there, but she don't take to strangers. Hides in the barn sometimes when the council people come out. Like I said, she's an odd one."

The second team emerged from the back of the barn, but they'd had no luck either. Bateman told us the house they'd visited was owned by two teachers. He reckoned they were still at work or on the way home.

I told the detectives to get their reports done, then knock off for the night. "Simon, we'll take a view tomorrow morning and decide on the next steps."

He grunted at the prospect of coming in on Sunday, but that was police work - criminals rarely showed any consideration for others. We drove back to the Incident Room. The moment we walked in, Kerrigan waved a phone at me. It was Fitzwalter.

"Tom, I've been on to the CC. He wants to talk to Special Branch before we go any further, see if he can lay some groundwork before a problem develops."

"I wish him luck."

"As do I. Anything new?"

I told him about the scheduled meeting with Wentworth and what we'd done about the sighting of the person on the footpath. "We're flailing about, but it's all we've got. And I've seen nothing to indicate that the killer is a stranger. A local person is almost the only conceivable suspect. The American thing is likely to be a waste of time although we can't ignore it."

"That cat is already out of the bag. What's your plan for tomorrow?"

"Tellwright and I will review everything, and we'll do most of the mopping up ourselves. I don't think I'll need any of the teams, and Sergeant Kerrigan can reduce the Incident Room staff for the time being."

That made him happy even though it meant we were no closer to solving the crimes. I had an official word with Kerrigan, aware of her slight head shake when I finished, then walked out to my car. I hoped the meeting with Wentworth wouldn't take long, but as I opened the door, I wondered why. Another night yawned like a void. Again, nothing I wanted to do, nowhere I wanted to go, not hungry, and only thirsty for something that would do me no good at all. I was growing to hate evenings.

In the past, I'd find a quiet pub, sip a slow pint and think about life and crime and whatever. But I was afraid if I did that tonight, I'd end up having eight pints and an ugly hangover again. And I did not want to do that. The booze was beginning to scare me. I felt like I was on the edge of losing control over it.

The image of a very attractive auburn-haired woman popped into my reverie. That was another temptation. It was a bad idea, but I wanted to call her, see if she was available for dinner or something. It was Saturday night after all. Maybe I could find out what had spooked her at Aunt Velma's.

I caught Tellwright staring at me, as well he might. I was standing with one leg in the car and staring into space. "You all right, Guv?"

"I have no idea. I'll follow you over to Wentworth's place, then we'll go our separate ways when we're finished."

He nodded and headed to his own car, no doubt wondering if the boss was going quietly barmy. The boss shared his concern.

### Chapter 18

It was just short of full dark when we drove out of Upper Turcote, and black as a coal bunker when Tellwright pulled up in front of a thatched cottage on a country lane. The light at the front of the house clicked on as we walked up the path.

The door opened and a thin man with a bald head and full white whiskers peered at us. "Tellwright?" he said. "I'd about given you up."

Simon apologized. "You know how it is. Something always comes up at the last minute. Hope we haven't put you out. This is DI Quill."

Wentworth stuck his hand out. "Good to meet you, sir. I hope I can help, but I have to say I don't remember too much about the incident in question."

Cop jargon apparently never leaves you. "Anything you can tell us might give us the right lead."

"Surely. Come in, come in."

He led the way into a living room right out of one of the house and garden magazines. In the middle of the chintzes and family photos stood a woman I took to be Wentworth's wife. She was half a head taller than him, and on the ragged edge of fat. Her cheeks were so rosy they looked to have been painted with lipstick.

Wentworth said, "My wife Jane. This is DI Quill and DS Tellwright, dear."

She put both hands out. "It's nice to meet you. So long since we've had any policemen in the house. Now what can I get you? Beer, tea?"

Tellwright waited until I spoke. I think he was running a small test. "Tea would be fine, thank you."

"You all sit down and get on with your enquiries and I'll be right back."

Wentworth pointed to the three-seat sofa and he took his own chair. He leaned forward. "I've been going over that interview in my head all afternoon, but the details are fuzzy. Course, they were fuzzy then which is why it went nowhere."

I said, "I don't know how much you've seen about the case we're on, but it's a double homicide, a brother and sister. One of the suspects is a woman, Marjorie Knight-Ellis, who is a cousin of the victims. Our information is that there was bad blood between Knight-Ellis and the brother, so we're poking around in the past trying to find a motive."

Wentworth nodded. "That makes the picture clearer. I read the papers, always keep up with the crime news, you know. Well, let's see. This must have been about seventeen, eighteen years ago. I'd moved from Thames Valley to Gloucester about six months before. I can't remember how the report came in, but my DI told me to go check on a potential child molestation. As I recall, there were no details, just a contact name and number. It was a man named Randolph, I believe, but I'm not certain about that. It's probably in my report."

Tellwright said, "You're correct, it was Randolph."

Wentworth looked pleased. "Maybe the old memory isn't as bad as I thought."

Mrs. Wentworth hove into view with an enormous tea tray laden with biscuits and a teapot that held at least a quart. She set it on the table in front of the sofa, and we engaged in the English tea ceremony. When we were all topped up, she took her leave and Wentworth continued.

"This man Randolph was either the headmaster or on the school's board of governors. Knight-Ellis was an assistant, maybe a teacher's assistant or something in the administration side, I don't recall which. I asked him to describe the problem, but he was reluctant to tell me anything. That's normal in my experience. People call the police in, then start to regret it. Still the same now?"

I nodded.

"So, I pushed him a bit. As best as I could make out, he, or someone on the staff, suspected this Knight-Ellis of having a relationship with one of the students. It happens of course, but all the students at that school were girls, so that made it unusual. One of the reasons I remember it. But he didn't want to name the girl. I asked him if the parents wanted to prefer charges, and he said he hadn't told them and he didn't think the girl had either. I remember getting pretty annoyed with the fellow. Without a complaint, we were stymied. He said he'd decided to drop the matter."

Fat lot of help that was. A seventeen-year-old unsubstantiated allegation. But Wentworth wasn't finished.

"On most reports like that, I'd have just let it go. It wasn't like we didn't have enough on our plates. But it struck me on the raw. We've a daughter, see, and I didn't like to think about her being in the same situation. I poked around a little before I made my report."

He slurped the last of his tea. "Boarding schools usually have a head girl, so I went looking and found her. Don't remember her name, but she was very tall, like a basketball player. I told her I wouldn't put anything on record if she didn't want me too, and she agreed to that. According to her, Knight-Ellis was as queer as a tuppenny watch. Although they call them gay now, not queer. And she liked younger girls. This head girl said it was common knowledge among the students, but otherwise they reckoned Knight-Ellis was all right. She said a couple of other girls had been approached, but nothing happened."

Tellwright said, "And she didn't want you to do anything either."

Wentworth tapped his nose. "Got it in one. In those days, everyone was terrified of a scandal. Anything else was better, even sex pests. But I wasn't willing to let it go, so I went back to see Randolph. When I told him he had a problem, he said he'd already decided to sack her. That sounded like it would sort things out, so I made my report, but I couldn't put much in it. But I did enter her name so it would stay on file."

I said, "Anything else ever come of it?"

Wentworth shook his head. "Not from that particular instance. But her name came up again in another connection a few years later."

Was this going to be it?

"A report came in of an assault with actual bodily harm. Victim had been beaten up, uniform and ambulance responded, and the woman was in hospital in Cheltenham. The report from uniform said this woman Knight-Ellis had been assaulted in the car park of a pub. The boss sent me over to get the story. She'd been worked over thoroughly. Looked like some of the drunks you see every Saturday night, face chewed up and bruises every color of the rainbow. She didn't want to talk, but she was too doped up on painkillers to give me a hard time. I was curious because I remembered her name, and I thought perhaps the sex thing had led to the beating."

Tellwright focused on Wentworth like a laser. He'd been looking for some way to nail the murders to Knight-Ellis since that first meeting

"Anyway, she said someone jumped her when she came out of the pub. Admitted she'd had a few. Said she'd no idea who did it or why, but thought it was a robbery. Now that was the funny part, so to speak. The report from uniform stated she had a good amount of cash in her pocket, and none of it was touched. So, she was either lying, or trying to steer me away from whatever really happened. When I told her the assailant hadn't taken her money, she refused to say any more and didn't want anything else done."

"But you weren't willing to leave that alone either."

Wentworth grinned. "I always wanted all the answers. Reason I became a detective in the first place. I drove out to the pub in this village. It was in the Cotswolds someplace, but I cannot remember the name."

Tellwright asked, "Kings Head at Upper Turcote?"

Wentworth grimaced. "Could have been, but I just don't know. Anyway, I talked to the landlord. He said the people in the pub heard the noise and everyone rushed out to see what was happening. They found Knight-Ellis on the ground in a bad way and called 999. But I probed a bit and finally learned that someone had been having a barney in the pub with her. It was a man and he'd left just before she had. No one could swear he'd done the assault, but it looked like a good bet. Now he gave me a name, I remember that, but I cannot for the life of me remember what it was. Been trying ever since I got your call."

"Did you arrest this man?"

"No. No proof he'd done it, Knight-Ellis wouldn't discuss it, and we couldn't find him."

"Presumably you looked."

"Well yes, but not very hard. The same day I went to that pub, the Bristol bombing happened. Almost everything else landed in the bottom of the pile, and the whole force was on that case."

One of the IRA's uglier excursions, four dead and twenty-eight injured. "Was the man Bradley Noris?"

Wentworth looked unhappy. "First thing I thought of when you called. I looked at the newspaper article again and saw the name of your victim. But I just can't be sure."

"Did you do a report?"

"Had to since I'd interviewed the victim, and of course uniform also filed one. But I don't know if I put the name in there because there was no proof this chap had anything to do with it. And it stopped right there because the victim wouldn't give us any information. Other things being equal, someone would have followed up, but the bombing knocked everything into a cocked hat, so as far as I know that was the end of it."

"Well, it's helpful all the same. We'll check the reports, get some dates and hopefully we can find someone who was there that night. Not the kind of thing you forget in a country pub, is it?"

Tellwright said, "There's an Irish chap named O'Donnell running the Kings Head now. Would he by any chance have been the landlord then?"

Wentworth shook his head. "No, I would have remembered an Irishman because of the bombing. No, the landlord was English. Elderly man, I seem to recall, and very stout."

"Could have been a different pub. No matter, we'll check the records and get on to it one way or the other. And thanks for your help. This will give us several new avenues to investigate."

"Hope it leads somewhere. I miss it sometimes, you know, chasing down all those traces and connections. I enjoyed my job and I'm not sure now I didn't hang it up too early. But there you are."

We took our leave. Outside the house, I said, "Tomorrow we need to chase up any of the old sweats who might remember that night. I'll get Prevakhan to print out the police reports if he can find them. When he did the first search, he only came up with the one for the school. If they're not on the computer, we'll have to dig around in the back files which will take forever."

Tellwright nodded. "If it turns out Noris did the beating, that would be a great motive. It would also explain him being killed soon after returning to the village, and maybe account for the spike driven into him."

"It would be nice to tie it up that way, but we need a witness to that fight."

I turned it over as I drove home. It could all fit. Knight-Ellis would have to make some plans when Noris returned to Upper Turcote. That would account for the delay. The old rope around his neck and the old nail in the wound - just the kind of rubbish you'd find on a decrepit farm. She could tempt him away by suggesting that maybe this time he'd score. And she was certainly capable of using a firearm.

Against all that? No witnesses and no forensic worth the name. And Peralta. No matter what we dug up, Peralta never fit any of the scenarios. Someone was sure to suggest that Knight-Ellis might have decided to terminate the whole clan. But Jackie was still alive, and Peralta had died first. Which left surmise and conjecture, neither of which would get Marjorie into a court room.

I gave it a rest. And the siren song of a pint in a pub was sounding loud and clear. I wondered if I could get away with having just one. When the urge comes on strong, you start thinking about how cold it will be, and the how the first little flush of enjoyment will feel, and the temptation settles over you like a sticky sheet. I tried to remember how rotten I'd feel at four in the morning if I downed too many, but it seemed not all that bad, memory being highly selective. I needed something else to keep me away from it.

Cooking a big meal involved a sting of activities. Deciding what to cook, going to a supermarket and buying groceries, getting the kit together. Not being hungry made it a waste of time, but you do a lot of idiotic things when the bottle starts to bite you.

And at the time, they seem well-reasoned and necessary, the demarcation between survival and insanity.

### Chapter 19

Five o'clock in the morning, but for a change I didn't want to choke down a drink or slide over the edge into permanent darkness. I'd managed to eat dinner and sleep for seven hours, two functions so normal most people never think about them. But doing both was not my normal routine. I'd cheated by swallowing two sleeping pills, but I wasn't striving for moral perfection. Or any other kind. That was the main symptom of my problem - not going anywhere of my own volition. Life simply dragged me by the heels.

When I turned on the lights, the house didn't look quite as hippie-pad as it had. I'd tidied up, thrown things in the washing machine - might even have put soap in. But despite tiny triumphs over my lack of character, I wasn't ready to give motivational speeches yet. This roller-coaster of drinking and self-disgust and short-lived improvement had gone on for months, and with each cycle, the peaks got flatter and the troughs deeper.

After I cleaned up and forced breakfast down my gullet, I wandered around the house fantasizing about auburn-haired women while the second coffee settled in. Eventually, reluctantly, I headed for the benighted hamlet of Upper Turcote.

It was just coming daylight when I opened the door to the Incident Room. Three of the night staff slept on folded arms at their desks. The fourth, a fat time-server named Salter who was on permanent desk duty because he could never pass the standard physical tests for street work, had his feet balanced on a wastebasket, a newspaper in one hand and a sugar-coated doughnut in the other. His eyes popped when he saw me, and he did a superb imitation of Buster Keaton. Trying to stand up caused one foot to fall off the wastebasket, the other to go into it, and the doughnut to explode over the front of his shirt.

I clapped softly. "Salter, you could make a fortune on the comedy circuit."

He did an encore by trying to brush the goo off his shirt while simultaneously extracting his foot from the basket and turning a bright Christmassy red. By this time, the other officers were awake and enthralled, but he was not gracious about the laughter.

"Has any police work occurred during the night?" I asked.

The doleful shaking of heads made we wonder why Incident Rooms remained open at night. Nothing noteworthy ever happened except for one that caught fire when an emergency flare exploded. But doctrine required a 24-hour operation, and who was I to question doctrine?

Tracing lines on the map, I followed the path adjacent to the Bateman farm looking for a geographical connection between the figure seen by the cowman, the stashed car, and the Knight-Ellis place. It was possible she used that track to go home after killing Noris, but it was not a short or direct route, and would have exposed her to more potential encounters. Either the person the cowman saw was not Knight-Ellis, or there was another reason for her going that way.

I drew a cup of over-boiled coffee and considered whether acquiring more evidence of ancient sexual shenanigans would do us any good. She liked young girls. So did most men - we were wired that way. For all I knew, so were lesbians. It was a long stretch from a predilection to nailing a man to a tree.

The same was true of the assault at the pub. Suppose it had been Noris. Holding a grudge for nearly twenty years was unusual although not unheard of. But where did Amanda Peralta come into it? Peralta nagged me because every scenario I came up with failed to connect her death to her brother's. The dots we'd acquired did not create any pictures, only a jumble.

The day shift would arrive soon, and they'd expect me to have a plan. All I could think of was to keep calling at houses and farms until the murderer confessed, which, any way you sliced it, was less than a dynamic police investigation.

Sundays were more difficult in some ways and less in others. More because the ancillary things we counted on were closed or operating at low level, and less because more people were home and had fewer excuses not to talk to us. And that brought me to Yvonne Garrett. Her name kept floating through the background. She was high on the priority list, and I decided to have a go at her on my own. Tellwright sometimes queered the pitch because his feelings were all over his face, and people recoiled from the obvious disbelief. Garrett might be a non-starter, but I was more likely to find out without my semi-trusty sidekick.

And the Special Branch file crouched at the back of my head like a troll. I constructed detailed mental arguments proving beyond doubt that I was not the man who should look at it. The information in the file might be useful, even critical, but the potential morass of politics and jurisdictional disputes drowned any enthusiasm I conjured up. For once, I was glad the decision was out of my hands.

Day shift people trickled in and each gave me an identical stare - startled because the boss was in already, then excited because they thought I must be on to something.

I gave it to them straight. "Good morning. To summarize the investigation so far - we don't have shit." Faces dropped.

"We've talked to most of the people around here and we know little more than when we started. There are no obvious suspects, and no connection between the two homicides other than the family relationship. No murder weapons, no eyewitnesses, and damn little forensic. That's the downside. Upside - we've eliminated a basket full of potential suspects. We've narrowed down the times of the murders, figured out that the killer is almost certainly someone local with a motive in the past, and are reasonably confident there will be no more victims. Progress of a sort."

They looked glum and I sympathized, but we had to do something. "Today is follow-up day. We go back over everything to see if we've missed anything, and we contact all those people we've missed. And we need to find this person that was seen at the Bateman place. That's the only sighting of anyone out and about at the right time. I'll come back to that in a moment."

"Arnie, I want you to dig up an old report we heard about last night concerning a fight outside the Kings Head. Marjorie Knight-Ellis was beaten up by someone. Sergeant Tellwright will give you the details. I will interview Yvonne Garrett today and get her story. Simon, you roust that Forrester character and any of the other old pub regulars and find out if they can shed any light on that fight."

"We're down to the bottom of the barrel. Looking at the map this morning, I tried to decide if Knight-Ellis would use that bridle path to return home if she killed Noris. It's not the shortest or most direct, but it misses the village. There are two other routes that are more likely. We'll walk those today if we can't come up with anything else and see if we can find any overlooked sightings. Be back here at twelve o'clock for a post-mortem. If nothing breaks, we'll knock off and reassess on Monday."

They started to move, searching for an approach, remembering, analyzing, then shaking their heads when nothing came to mind. I marked the two alternative routes on the map and turned the teams over to Simon for assignments.

Yvonne Garrett lived in a house bordering the village green and directly across from the pub. It resembled a nineteenth century vicarage in miniature and looked well kept. An elderly man pruning rose bushes in the front garden glanced up when I opened the gate but said nothing. I rang the bell. After two minutes, I rang it again.

I looked at the old man as he flexed his shears. "She's in, Yvonne is, but I don't reckon she wants to see you. P'lice, ain't you?" He wheezed a bit, but the amusement was unmistakable.

I nodded and thumbed the bell for a full minute. A curtain twitched at the window on the left, then the door opened a crack. It was gloomy inside and all I could see was a white face wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

I shoved my warrant card in front of it. "Ms. Garrett? Detective Inspector Quill. I need to talk to you."

"What about?" A muffled voice, but high-pitched.

"About murder Ms. Garrett. We can do it here on the doorstep, or over at our Incident Room if you'd prefer."

"No! No." She paused. "I suppose you'd better come in." She retreated into the house pulling the door open. I stepped through into an unlighted foyer overstuffed with knickknacks. When my eyes adjusted, I could see that Yvonne Garrett was also overstuffed. Brassy blond, well dressed, but she bulged in the wrong places. And her makeup, although artfully applied, was at least two layers too thick. She gestured to a door on the right and I walked into a sitting room glutted with furniture of every description.

She gestured at a chintz-covered sofa and curled herself into an armchair opposite. "What do you want to ask me?"

Tension radiated from her. "Sorry to bother you so early on a Sunday Ms. Garrett, but we're interviewing everyone in the village. Is your husband at home? We need to talk to him as well."

She shook her head. "He's in Paris on business. He won't be back until Wednesday." She tried to push herself even farther into the chair.

"I'll try to make this as easy as possible. The bodies of a Mr. Bradley Noris and his sister Amanda have been discovered. Both were murdered. Did you know either of them?"

She was pale, her lips compressed in a tight line, but she'd been like that since she opened the door. "Yes, I know them. Knew them."

"How long have you lived in Upper Turcote, Ms. Garrett?"

"All my life."

"You grew up with the Noris family?"

A nod, slow and mechanical.

"The motive for the murders may be something from the past. Do you know of anyone who had a serious falling-out with the Noris family, someone who might carry a grudge for many years?"

She rose and went to the window as though trying to put more distance between us. Her rigid back rejected me, but she mumbled, "No...I don't know." She turned and stared at me for a moment, her small tongue moistening a bright red mouth. 'I don't know anyone who would kill them."

"I realize this is unpleasant, but we need information."

She extracted a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her mouth, smearing the lipstick, but didn't seem to notice. "I didn't do anything."

"I'm not suggesting you did, but we need to find out what led to these two deaths. About twenty years ago, there was a major row between Bradley Noris and his father, and Bradley left the village shortly thereafter. Do you remember that?"

She sniffled but shook her head.

"Did you know Bradley Noris well?"

Her eyes, narrowed to slits, stared somewhere into the long-ago, but she nodded.

"How well?"

Her voice was just above a whisper, and I almost missed it. "He raped me."

That caught me out. I knew from Velma McKendrick that she'd had a fling with Noris, but there'd been no suggestion of physical violence. "I'm sorry. I don't want to rake this up, but I have no choice. Did you report the attack to the police?"

"No. What if everyone found out?" The old story - fear of scandal outweighed everything else.

"Did anyone else know about this?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Marjorie Knight-Ellis." That came out in a hiss.

Two more dots connected. "How? Did you confide in her?"

Garrett's voice had grown guttural, but the words were precise. "She caught us...him. She hit him to make him stop."

"How old were you when this happened, Mrs. Garrett?"

"Fifteen." She turned away again, every muscle rigid.

I kicked myself for not having commandeered a WPC. "We'd better stop and continue another time. I'll bring one of our specialist female officers."

She continued to gaze out the window but shook her head. "I don't want to talk about this to anyone ever again."

"Very well, but if you need to stop at any time, just say so."

She released a ragged sigh and went back to the chair. "I never told anyone, not even George. I thought I'd put it behind me until I heard Bradley was...dead."

I suspected she'd wanted to tell someone for a long time, but it wasn't coming out as a confessional release. "How did you find out about the murder?"

"Marjorie called me."

"What did she say?"

"Just 'the bastard is dead'. She didn't use her name, but I know that voice."

There was an undertone of hatred or malice. "Why would she call you specifically? Because of the attack?"

Her eyes shifted. "Maybe."

"After the attack, did Ms. Knight-Ellis help you?"

She nodded but wouldn't look at me. I guessed Knight-Ellis had used the situation to make a pass at Garrett under the pretense of comforting the distraught teenager. Garrett took her glasses off and smeared them with the handkerchief. After a few moments, she slid them back on and looked at me. "Marjorie Knight-Ellis is a vicious, wicked woman."

"Why?"

She looked out the window, twisted her handkerchief, but shook her head.

"Did Ms. Knight-Ellis hate Bradley Noris?"

"Oh, she hated him, she really hated him. Said she wanted to kill him."

Dropped her bitter enemy right into it. And she was calculating how to make it worse.

"That's a serious allegation, Mrs. Garrett. I need to understand why Ms. Knight-Ellis hated Mr. Noris. Did something happen between the two of them?"

She twisted the wad of cloth. "He was terrible, a brute. He attacked girls. I'm not the only one."

"Did he attack Ms. Knight-Ellis?"

"Probably."

Rape was bad enough. How much worse would it be if you were a lesbian? I had no idea, but I was sure Yvonne Garrett was trying to paint things as black as possible for Knight-Ellis. And that, in turn, made little sense as the woman had saved her from a traumatic assault, even if the aftermath was embarrassing. "That's not good enough in a case of murder, Ms. Garrett. Are you just guessing about an attack?"

"She told me."

"Then why say he 'probably' attacked her."

"She tells lies. She lied to me. Maybe she lied about that."

Murkier by the minute. "Did you know that Bradley Noris had returned to Upper Turcote?"

"How would I know that?"

"He didn't make a secret of his presence. He was at the Kings Head virtually every night for a week, and he walked across the green to get there."

"I don't go out very often." But it was odds on that she watched everyone she could see through those curtained windows

"How long has your husband been away?"

"He left on Sunday week. He flies from Heathrow when he has to go abroad."

She was on her own the night Bradley Noris was killed. That gave me motive and opportunity, but shooting him, tying him to a tree and driving a spike through him? She was so Country-Life middle-class that I couldn't see her getting dirty enough to do the deed. Nor was she big enough or strong enough to manhandle a dead body. And no apparent motive for Amanda Peralta's death.

Which put me neatly back on square one.

### Chapter 20

I made sympathetic noises and tried to give Yvonne Garrett the impression I would hold everything in the strictest confidence, but I finished by telling her we might need to speak again. I let myself out. The old man had disappeared. Set off to spread the word, no doubt.

Garrett didn't fit the specification of Noris's murderer, regardless of how she felt about him. She could probably pull a trigger, but the rest looked to be well outside her ability.

I remembered the conversation with Jackie and Aunt Velma. Garrett had freaked out on her wedding night and had also done a stint in the loony bin, so, if she was still traumatized by the rape, that might fit. In which case, her husband almost certainly knew, and Garrett had lied. He might be in Paris on business, but how hard was it to get back and forth across the Channel? Maybe they created a tight little conspiracy to right an ancient wrong. But I couldn't get a grip on that theory without meeting the husband.

Peralta was a different story. Women rarely kill women, but when they do the reasons are often incomprehensible to a male. Suppose Peralta also, somehow, knew about the rape. But Bradley had ruined his sister's life. She was more likely to have helped Garrett than tried to protect her brother.

None of it felt right. Technically Garrett had to be a suspect, but unless we found some evidence, I couldn't put her in the frame.

But she'd made a conscious attempt to fit Knight-Ellis into there. Hard to tell if it was just malice or she knew more than she'd given me. One thing was clear - Knight-Ellis had motive and was far enough outside the confines of conventional behavior to make her a solid suspect. I hoped the rest of the team would turn up something useful.

But they were still out when I returned to the Incident Room. I grabbed a coffee and walked over to Arnie Prevakhan. "Any luck finding that report?"

"Yes sir. It's not on the system yet, but there was a notice that it was being processed for entry. I tracked back through DS Wentworth's cases and reports for the relevant time, and I got a file number. Then I ran a search on that. And there it was. I've already put the request in. Do you want the originals or just a copy?"

"Originals please, unless it will cause something to go boom."

He grinned. "No problem. The operators get these requests all the time."

The report was another bit of background that would probably make Knight-Ellis's character a little clearer, but it wouldn't help us with evidence of the crimes. I needed bloody clothes and bullets and fingerprints, and I didn't look like getting any of that.

The first enquiry team came in. One look at their mournful faces and slumped shoulders and I didn't need to ask what they'd come up with. Then Tellwright walked in. He looked puzzled, not an expression he normally carried. He flopped down in a chair and put his feet on the desk, earning a filthy look from Kerrigan's Sunday replacement.

"How did it go?"

"I'm not quite sure. I found Forrester all right, and he's sober for a wonder. Hung over mind you, but compos mentis as they say. I asked him about the fight. He had to think quite a while before he remembered it. Seems there used to be quite a few ructions outside the Kings Head. Anyway, he finally got on the track."

"And?"

"His version, and I stress that because I'm not sure he hasn't embellished it, is that Noris made a pass at Knight-Ellis that night. Forrester described her as stand-offish, no time for anyone, and so forth, but he didn't put it down to anything other than her being a contrary female. I reckon if he knew she's a lezzie, he'd have said so straight away."

"What happened?"

"There were eight or nine people in the pub, all men except Knight-Ellis, and they were pretty well away. Noris had been cozying up to Knight-Ellis for most of the evening. She ignored it, but the drunker he got, the more he pressed it. I asked Forrester why Noris was so insistent, and he figured it was because of the way she looked. That threw me for a minute, so I asked him what he meant. Apparently, when she was young, Knight-Ellis was a real stunner. All the lads had a go, but nobody scored. Noris took that as a challenge. Forrester reckons he had a bet on with someone, and that, plus the fact she wasn't having any, made him aggressive. Finally, she'd had enough. She gave Noris an elbow in the guts and walked out. Noris tried to laugh it off, but he went out to the toilet and didn't come back. A few minutes later they heard yelling in the car park, and everybody ran out to see what was going on. They found Knight-Ellis on the ground next to her car. As Wentworth said, someone had really thumped her, and she was a mess. Blood everywhere, and she was curled up on the ground holding her middle and moaning. That sobered everyone up sharpish, and the landlord called the emergency services."

"But no one saw who did it?"

"Forrester wasn't sure. He thought everyone except Noris stayed in the pub, but someone could have left, or been outside for a moment and seen what happened. But no one ever mentioned anything. And he could only remember the name of one other man who'd been there."

I ran over it, but it wasn't much help. If Noris had beaten up Knight-Ellis after being spurned, then she might have harbored a lethal grudge for a long time. Since we already suspected her, adding to the motive didn't advance things. But it meant we had a solid reason to get a warrant and search her place.

"She's now number one on the hit parade. But we won't have a prayer of a conviction unless we find enough forensic to tie her to the killings, 'cause she ain't gonna confess."

Tellwright nodded. "She fits everything right down the line. And I reckon she'd be exactly the type of killer who'd dress things up when she got her revenge."

The second enquiry team came in, Bailey again with Kippler in tow.

"Morning, Guv. We might have something."

"Excellent. Grab some coffee and let's go into the interview area."

Bailey took a slurp and made a face. He said, "We were supposed to contact the people at the Lampitt place. We followed the track from the Bateman farm again looking for anything we might have missed, but that washed out. While we're walking, Kippler tells me what he knows about the Lampitts." He turned to the Constable. "Tell them what you told me."

Kippler looked very solemn. "Well, sir, the Lampitts has always been considered a bit strange by folks hereabouts. Never mixed much, and that caused a lot of stories and wild tales. Harvey Lampitt was pretty normal until the war. He was called up early and didn't come back until he was de-mobbed at the end. I don't know what happened, but by all accounts, he wasn't the same man. Very secretive, shy of everyone."

He paused to wet his whistle. "He never married, just stayed on his farm all the time. Then, all of a sudden, there was a woman on the place. No one knew her. Name was Anna Something - never heard her last name. I don't know if they were married or not. Anyways, old Harvey was in his fifties at the time, but about a year later there was a daughter. Her name's Hazel and she's the one runs the farm now."

"And what happened to this ménage?"

Kippler's eyes widened, but he figured it out. "Well, they kept themselves to themselves just like before. This Anna would come into the village to shop, and Hazel started school, and things was fairly normal except none of them ever talked to anyone much, and no one saw Harvey except on market day. Anna died when Hazel was about ten. Not sure what of as she was quite a bit younger than Harvey. Anyway, things went along for a couple of years, then Harvey died in a storm. Hazel would have been about fourteen, fifteen, something like that."

"What happened with the farm? Surely a fourteen-year-old girl couldn't run it."

"No, but she did try - have to give her credit for that. But she got help from a man named Myron Dankowicz. Dankowicz had been a POW in a camp over by Cheltenham, and he stayed here after the war doing odd jobs. He helped Hazel keep the farm going. The other person who helped was Marjorie Knight-Ellis."

And there she was again, front and center.

"How did Knight-Ellis help? She didn't strike me as much of a farmer."

"Oh, you'd be surprised. Knows a lot about quite a few things, does Marjorie. She worked her own place off and on over the years. Anyways, she was over to the Lampitt's a fair amount."

Tellwright glanced at me and I was thinking the same thing.

"And how long did all this go on?"

"Five or six years. Hazel left school when she was about seventeen, and, as far as I know, worked the farm. She never married neither, but when she was about twenty-one, she had a baby. I don't think anyone knows who the father was. Never saw her out with a man, never saw one on the place, but she managed to get herself in the family way. The baby was a girl, and Hazel named her Elizabeth, but everyone calls her Libby. She'd be about eighteen now I reckon."

"OK, good background. Did you manage to see them?"

Bailey picked it up. "Yes and no. The house looked shut up when we got there and no answer to our knocking. We had a poke around but couldn't find anyone. I thought it was going to be a bust, then as we were leaving, we heard a gunshot. It came from the woods behind the barn. I was about to go charging up there, but Kippler said it was likely just someone shooting for the pot. But the shot was from a rifle or a pistol, I reckon. I was on Firearms Response for three years, and this didn't boom like a shotgun."

I looked at Kippler. "Don't know about the rifle or pistol part, sir. Most of the farmers have a shotgun for birds and vermin, and a few keep an air rifle, but Sergeant Bailey's right, the shot was more of a crack sound."

Back to Bailey. "We started up there. It was hard to tell exactly where the sound had come from, so we took it slow and stopped to listen. About fifty yards in, we could hear someone moving about, so we followed that. We got up to the edge of a clearing as quiet as we could and just stood there."

Kippler jutted in. "It was Hazel, sir. Haven't seen her in a while, but that's who it was."

Bailey said, "She had something in her hand wrapped in old cloth or burlap. Couldn't tell what it was, but she was putting it in a kind of lean-to that was dug into the ground. Kippler says 'Morning, Hazel', and she jumped a foot. She swung that parcel around, holding it like a gun, but she didn't quite point it at us."

He shook his head. "She settled down a bit when she recognized Kippler, and said "What are you doing here, John?" I pulled out my warrant card and told her who I was and what we needed to talk to her about. She just looked at us, so I asked her if she would like to accompany us back here for a formal interview, and she said no. I asked her if she was refusing to co-operate with us, and she nodded. The whole time she's holding that parcel, and I could swear it was a gun. Finally, I asked her if she owned a rifle or a pistol. She turned around and put the parcel in the lean-to, locked it, then said, no, she didn't. It was an out-and-out lie, Guv. But we were stumped. I couldn't force her to talk to us, I couldn't arrest her, and I didn't have a warrant to search the place. I advised her that we would have to come back, but she just walked off towards the farm."

"Any stories about Hazel Lampitt having a gun?" I asked our local informant.

Kippler shook his head. "No sir, and she's not on the firearms register either, even for a shotgun. I helped with the registry checks two years ago and she wasn't on it."

"Another woman who doesn't like the police, seems to have a gun, and lies up one side and down the other. This place is full of them. Any sign of the daughter?"

Both shook their heads. Kippler said, "I think Libby is still at school, but I don't know where she'd be on a Sunday. At a friend's maybe."

"Very well, we'll put them on the list for tomorrow, and go back with a warrant and some manpower, and see if we can't break through Ms. Lampitt's objections."

And that was the highlight of the morning's work. We had a debriefing, but it only took five minutes as there wasn't anything else to cover. Everyone wrote up their notes and went home for Sunday lunch.

### Chapter 21

There was enough going on in the morning that I hadn't worried about the afternoon. I sat in the Incident Room for a while turning the case over for the thousandth time and finding nothing new or startling. My big idea about digging around in the past had turned up several motives and at least one suspect, but we were dead in the water without some way to prove murder.

So, what to do on a Sunday afternoon? The weather was tolerable, meaning it wasn't raining pitchforks, but it was too cool to be outside for long. I could eat a good meal in a variety of places. I could get hammered and pass out. The possibilities were many and varied.

What I really wanted to do was call Jackie Kidde. But she might tell me to piss off, or words to that effect. The big decision - was I a man or a ninety-pound weakling? It called for a little teeth-gritting and internal argument along the lines of 'she can only say no', but in the end, I manned up.

I walked out to the car, extracted my mobile and thumbed the number. It rang four times and I was on the point of using that as an excuse to back out when she picked up.

"Good afternoon." Carefully neutral.

"Hello. How are you? I hope I'm not interrupting anything." Schoolboy stuff, but it was all I could manage.

"You're not and I'm fine. How's the case going?"

Plunge time. "I'd like to meet you for a drink or something, and we could discuss it." Whew - used up half a ration of guts on that one.

"That sounds nice. Where do you want to go?"

"I'm not particular. Do you have a favorite place that does food as well?"

"There's a family restaurant in Cheltenham that puts on a good lunch." She mentioned the name, and we arranged to meet there.

Did I need to change clothes, shower, shave, shine my shoes, get a haircut? I hadn't been this flustered since the school graduation dance. I figured the restaurant manager probably wouldn't throw me out if I showed up the way I was and headed into town.

The place specialized in typical Sunday roast dinners, and the dining room was nearly full. I looked at my watch \- fifteen minutes early. I was about to find a pub for a quick pint when I saw her coming up The Promenade.

She'd dressed casually in a skirt and sweater, but that head of hair lit up everything else. I stood there gawping like a rube. She walked up to me with a smile that hit me like one- part sunshine and two-parts delight.

"Hello. The place looks full. I hope we can get a table."

She grinned. "I made a reservation."

Why didn't I think of that? She took my arm and in we went. The maître d probably thought I was stoned when he escorted us to the table. It was in the back, and well away from the families with unruly kids.

I was operating on autopilot. When the waiter asked if we wanted a drink, I couldn't decide if I did or not. But I managed to look at Jackie and say, "Wine?"

She nodded, and I told the young fellow we'd take his recommendation. I caught him off guard because he looked confused and scurried off, probably to ask the maître d what he was supposed to recommend. Then I just looked at her.

She looked back and started to chuckle. "It's rather odd, isn't it?"

I nodded without having the least idea what she meant. "I'm sorry, but I'm totally flummoxed for some reason."

"Flummoxed - I like that. Something to do with the case?"

"No, nothing like that. It's just...I haven't been out with anything female except cops in a long time, and I've forgotten how to act."

Her faced dropped into concerned professional mode "Well, I am an experienced care-giver. Would you like me to talk you through it?"

"Please. And if I can ask questions along the way, where does the term care-giver come from?"

"Not the slightest idea. At a guess, from somebody running for office."

The maître d showed up with a long-necked bottle of white wine, which he displayed with a certain amount of pride. I glanced at the label, had no idea what it said, and nodded vigorously. "Of course, of course."

I was immediately established as a master of wine. He completed the ritual opening with a small flourish and poured a thimble-full in my glass. I remembered to swirl, sloshed some around in my mouth, and said, "Oh yes, that will do nicely."

He poured us both a glass, stuck the bottle into one of those plastic ice buckets with no ice, and departed. I raised my glass, she clinked hers and we drank.

"Quite nice," she said. "Now would you like to enter therapy at once, or after lunch?"

"I suppose it's bad form to do therapy on an empty stomach, isn't it? We'll wait. If I freeze up, you could just kick me under the table."

"Not medically sound, but it will probably work. You're showing improvement already."

At least I wasn't totally incoherent any more.

"Tell me about the case, that is if you're allowed to discuss it."

"There's not much to tell really. We had a report of someone seen walking near the Bateman farm on the night Bradley was killed, but it's vague and we haven't discovered who it was. I had a chat with Yvonne Garrett and she has bad history with both the Noris's and your cousin. But, so do quite a few other people, so that's no real distinction. And nothing else significant has turned up, with two exceptions."

"And what are those?"

"Your cousin was involved in something at a school a long time ago, and she was badly injured in an assault outside the Kings Head a few years later."

Jackie sat back in her chair looking grave. I waited. She stared at her glass for a few moments and made her decision. "The other day when we finished at Aunt Velma's, you asked me if there was anything wrong, and I said no."

"I remember. But, please. Don't tell me anything that will make you uncomfortable." A great statement from a homicide detective.

With impeccable timing, the waiter showed up with two enormous menus. We spent no more than two minutes making selections from the Sunday specials before she continued.

"I should have said something the other day. But I started to wonder if Marjorie could have had anything to do with these killings. And it startled me. I'm not used to considering people I know as murder suspects, and it threw me for a while."

She paused for a sip of wine.

"When Marjorie left school, she tried her hand at several jobs, but she wasn't interested in any of them and lasted only a few months in each. Then she somehow got a job as a teaching assistant at a girl's boarding school. Although she had no qualifications, she could make herself very presentable in those days, and such things were more important then. She worked there for several months, then was suddenly dismissed. We didn't see much of each other at the time, so I never heard the full story."

I nodded, curious as to what she might have heard.

"People said it was just another job that hadn't worked out. But about three years later, just after I'd started as District Nurse, I was called out to a house. A young woman about nineteen had been injured. She'd tried to commit suicide by cutting her wrists. I don't think it was a serious attempt as the cuts were superficial, but she obviously had problems. We are supposed to report such cases immediately, but her mother begged me not to."

I had an inkling where this was going, but I let her finish.

"I took the girl into another room to talk to her. There is a significant likelihood that anyone who has tried to kill themselves once will do it again unless their problem is dealt with. I'm not qualified in mental health, but nurses get lots of practical experience with people, and I wanted to evaluate her to see if she was still at risk."

The girl had been reluctant to talk, but Jackie eventually discovered that she'd been seduced by none other than Marjorie Knight-Ellis. But when the fling was discovered, and Knight-Ellis dismissed, she refused all further contact with the girl. The school said nothing to the parents, the girl was distraught because she thought it was love, and things went from bad to worse. Her mother had no idea what to do.

"I judged that the girl needed treatment. The problem was the mother. The girl was terrified of being disowned if her mother learned what had happened. I got the girl in to see a therapist, and basically lied to the mother. And it worked out all right in the end. But the more I thought about what happened, the angrier I got."

The food arrived, and we dropped the discussion. The meal was excellent, we got into a second bottle of wine, and for a while I forgot about the case.

We both had a light dessert, the waiter poured the final glass and we settled back. Jackie said, "I don't want to go over the top about Marjorie. The fact that she's gay doesn't bother me, but I got upset about the age of the girl."

I said, "Maybe it's confession time. We found out about the school incident via an old police report, but there were no details because the headmaster decided not to pursue it. We've also had indications that your cousin likes young girls. Technically, she might qualify as a pedophile because some of the girls were below the age of consent. But no one wants any of it out in the open, so there's virtually no chance of a prosecution. And everything we know is in the past, nothing recent."

She thought about that for a while, sipping her wine and staring at the table. "I occasionally run across sexual problems in my work, and we have standard ways of dealing with them. Somehow, it's different when it's someone you know. It seems uglier. When we were at Aunt Velma's, a lot of that came back, and I started to wonder if she was capable of even worse things."

"Why would her sexual peccadilloes have anything to do with the Noris murders?"

"I'm not sure they do. But there is another factor. Marjorie was quite good looking when she was in her late teens and early twenties. In our small community, she attracted boys like flies. But as far as I know she had nothing to do with them other than the odd date. Most of them decided she was just playing hard to get. I don't believe anyone knew she was gay, and I'm not sure they even knew what gay was. But Bradley chased her, and he wasn't accustomed to being turned down. They had a major falling out, but I don't know much about it."

"Could that be related to the injuries Knight-Ellis suffered outside the pub? Our information is that Bradley was there that night."

She shook her head. "I really don't know. It might. I never heard of Bradley doing anything physical to anyone although he could certainly be brutish enough in other ways."

I told her what we'd learned. "We'll never be sure of course, unless your cousin decides to tell us what happened, but it's a strong possibility that Noris assaulted her when she rejected him. If that's the case, she might have carried a grudge."

Jackie shook her head. "I understand you have to consider all the possibilities, but I can't see her as a murderer. And why would she kill Amanda?"

"We're working on the idea that both were killed by the same person because they were related. It stretches credibility to believe they would both be murdered within days of each other by two different people. But we've found no other connection. Even the methods differ."

"What about this figure that was seen. Have you found out anything else?"

"Very little. We're trying to contact people who live in the vicinity, and we've reached almost everyone. No obvious suspects. There is one anomaly - a woman named Hazel Lampitt. Know her?"

She grinned. "Oh, yes. Hazel and Libby, two of my more interesting patients."

"Interesting how?"

"You've been investigating them, no doubt. What have you found?"

I related the information from Kippler and the interview with the team. "I'm assuming she's just spiky about policemen, but we're going to have to pull her in if she doesn't co-operate."

"Might be a bit more than that. No one's ever known who Libby's father is. For a long time, Hazel was terrified that someone, Social Services or some other agency, would take her daughter away. She avoided everyone, and it seems to have become habitual. Libby is a bit odd as well, probably from too much concentrated mother love."

"Do you know if Hazel owns a rifle?"

Jackie shook her head. "No idea. It's all I can do to get Hazel to let me in the house. I've told her that if she doesn't, the health authorities will investigate, so she lets me come over once every six or seven weeks."

"We've speculated that Bradley Noris might be Libby's father."

Her eyes widened, and she stared into the distance. "I never considered that. I'm trying to remember some dates." She squinted for a while, lips moving slightly. Then she said, "No, I'm not sure about several things, so I can't say if that's a possibility or not."

"Don't unwed mothers have to name the father for the birth certificate?"

"Normally yes, but there are exceptions. For example, when the mother doesn't know who the father is, which might happen in a case of rape. Some refuse to name the father, and that's accepted if the mother is adamant."

"So, Libby's certificate might not tell us anything."

"No. But I think you're barking up the wrong tree. Even if Bradley was the father, why would Hazel want to kill him after all this time? She would lose Libby if she were found out, and that's the one thing that seems to scare her."

"No idea. I'm just flailing away hoping to strike a spark somewhere."

Her face softened. "I'm not helping a lot, am I? Tearing holes in all your theories."

"If you or anyone else can tear holes in them, they're not worth much. And better you than the defense counsel. Investigations usually go this way, at least if we don't know who the perpetrator is within the first few hours. We put up straw men and everyone takes a whack at knocking them down. Generally, it works. The only problem is, virtually every convicted murderer in a case like this was initially rejected as being a realistic suspect."

"Why is that?"

"Because we don't know enough in the beginning. When we first look at someone, our information is fragmentary. Even when we make an arrest, we sometimes don't know the whole story. We suspect Joe Bloggs and find out that maybe he had the means and opportunity, but we can't come up with any motive, so we move on. Later we find out the victim murdered Joe's mother, and it's a complete case. With the Noris's, we have quite a bit of potential motive, but little in the way of means and opportunity."

"Diagnosis is rather like that. We have a symptom, but no obvious cause, so we have to start testing and eliminating."

I nodded. "Same process. Changing the subject, the manager is giving me the fish eye. We'd better make a move, if you're ready."

She nodded. "Ready when you are."

I hoped that was true.

### Chapter 22

We split the check despite my attempt to be gallant and gentlemanly.

"Haven't you heard about women's lib or feminism or whatever they call it these days?" she asked.

"I've heard of it, but I don't have the slightest idea what the rules are. Everything momma taught me has gang agley."

She laughed. "You aren't alone. There's a vast conspiracy to wrong-foot males, and it's working a treat. Unfortunately, we don't know what the rules are either, other than the old standby - whatever a man does is wrong."

We walked a few steps, then she said, "I'm afraid I have to visit a patient. The old dear has just come home from hospital and I need to check on her. Thank you very much for a lovely lunch and all the inside information. Maybe we can do it again sometime."

She pressed my hand and I mumbled something and stood in the middle of the pavement like I'd been struck solid.

The afternoon dilemma reappeared. Nowhere to go and nothing to do. Wandering back to the car park, I cast about for something to occupy myself that didn't involve booze. Despite the large lunch, I wasn't tired or sleepy. My mind slid back to the case, and I ran through Jackie's additional background information. There wasn't a lot to help me, but I decided to scout the Lampitt and Knight-Ellis places to see what I could see. Not a great idea, but better than waiting for the walls to close in.

I drove home to change into my alter ego, Hawkeye the frontiersman, and dug out some old clothes, including a pair of hiking boots, stiff with age and disuse. If I was going to skulk, I needed to look non-descript, although I hoped that Sunday afternoon somnolence would limit the number of people who might see me.

Hazel Lampitt was first on the agenda. There was a lay-by not far from where Bradley Noris's car had been stashed, and I parked in there. It was screened from the road, and I put my police vehicle card in the window to spare any further inspection.

Using a map I kept in the car, I examined the area around the Lampitt farm to see if there were ways to get there without being obvious. It took a few minutes, but I picked out a path, stuffed the map in my pocket, and started off. The wind freshened, and clouds were building to the west. I turned up my collar and scuffed through leaves and dead twigs that had begun to swirl about the ground.

The lay-by was half a mile from the Lampitt's. I kept to the edge of fields and skirted around patches of forest, and I got close to the back of the farm without seeing anyone. The lean-to arrangement that Bailey had described was partially dug out and might once have been a root cellar. The door was a solid piece of heavy pine and fitted with a new padlock and hasp. Whatever was in there, Hazel meant to keep it out of sight. But a warrant would let us have a look, so I was only slightly tempted to break in.

The house and yard were quiet when I got close enough to see them. I made my way around the perimeter without spotting anything interesting. There was an ancient hedge about thirty yards to one side where I could stand without being seen. I waited for perhaps fifteen minutes, listening, but hearing nothing. My feet were starting to go to sleep when something banged inside the house. Someone was home.

Quiet settled in for a minute or two, then I heard voices and movement. The front door jumped open and a young woman stepped out onto the porch, who I guessed was Libby Lampitt.

She was supposed to be nineteen or twenty, but she looked more like twelve. An elfin face, no visible womanly curves, and she was so slightly built as to pass for a boy. She wore the universal uniform of jeans and a high-necked jumper, and had a coat slung over her shoulder. Her agitation was palpable, even at a distance.

She turned back to the open door and shouted, "I don't care. I'm old enough to do what I want. You're hateful." And she ran off down the farm lane that led to the main road.

I thought about following her, but then Hazel appeared. Her hair was a frizzled mop, and her face was almost as red as her daughter's was white. She wore faded blue overalls and black wellies.

Cupping a hand around her mouth, she shouted, "You stay away from there, you hear me!" I imagine Libby got it because Hazel had a bellow like a bull. She stood there for a minute, fists clenched and mouth working. Then she stormed back in, but the front door stayed open. It looked as though she might be coming out again.

When she reappeared, she wore a ratty-looking wax jacket and a man's old felt hat pulled low over her eyes. She slammed the door and strode out after her daughter. In the best detective tradition, I shadowed her.

Which wasn't easy. Trees and hedges in front of the farm offered much less cover than the back. The only thing I could do was drop back far enough so I was out of her sight most of the time. But she looked neither left nor right. She was angry and that will make a person oblivious to their surroundings.

I didn't see Libby, but Hazel knew where she was going. She followed a route over farm tracks and verges I wasn't familiar with. But after ten minutes I recognized the road. We were headed for Marjorie Knight-Ellis's ramshackle manse.

Hazel stopped in the road for a moment and searched, eyes and ears trying to catch a hurrying figure. I didn't see or hear anything, but she apparently did because she started up the lane to Knight-Ellis's place.

There wasn't much in the way of foliage to hide behind, but I wasn't about to give up. A confrontation was coming.

In the event, I missed most of it. Before I even started up the little hill to the house, screeching voices split the quiet. I picked up the pace, still trying to stay out of sight. If they saw me, I reckoned they'd quit yelling at each other and I'd learn nothing.

The volume increased, and the word 'bitch' came through clearly several times, but I couldn't get any more sense than that. Then a door slammed, and footsteps came my way. I just had time to duck behind a tree that was about half as wide as I needed, and Hazel strode down the drive. I let her go.

Sunday afternoon quiet settled over the landscape while I considered what to do. It was tempting to try to have a look in Knight-Ellis's house, but there was no easy way to do it. And if she spotted me, it would make things difficult. I gave it up and wandered down toward the village. I thought about getting one of the Incident Room people to take me back to my car, but the weather was holding, so I hoofed it.

Along the way, I had time to think about the actions of the three women. The most plausible scenario was that Knight-Ellis had acquired what they used to call an "ascendency" over Libby. Hazel's fury made sense if she knew about Marjorie's sexual preferences, and I had to assume she did. But she had a problem. Libby was of age, and legally Hazel couldn't stop her. Of course, legal methods were not the only ways to deal with problems. I had two bodies on my hands showing that someone was not averse to using other means. And I wondered if Hazel would try some other way to regain control of her child.

The car was undisturbed other than a coating of leaves. I drove home trying to not think about how I was going to spend my evening. But I kept seeing a crystal highball glass filled with ice and a nice gold scotch. I swore complicated oaths that I would not indulge no matter how much I thought I deserved it.

The light blinked on my answer phone and I stared at it for a minute. If it was the Incident Room, they knew to call my mobile. Maybe it was Jackie suggesting we meet for a romantic dinner, but I didn't think that was likely. More probably it was a wrong number, or my cousin with an update on her boyfriend, or something else equally enthralling. I decided to shower and change.

I had a glass of orange juice, resolutely not thinking about scotch, and pushed the playback on the machine. A male voice with a down-home twang said, "I hope I have the right number. I am trying to reach Mr. Thomas Quill. My name is Martin Traynor. I'm a lawyer and I live in Waco, Texas in the U.S. If this is the correct number for Mr. Quill, please contact me on one of the following as soon as it's convenient." The message gave three numbers, home, office and cell.

Curiouser and curiouser. I didn't know anyone in Waco, at least that I was aware of. And I wasn't wild about talking to a lawyer, a harbinger of bad news if ever there was one. I did a quick calculation on the time difference and figured it was late morning in Texas. He'd called me on a Sunday, so I guessed I could call him back, although he'd probably be in church if he was a real Texan. And it was a way to keep from thinking about the pleasant bite of alcohol.

I dialed the home number. It rang six times, then went to answer phone. I started to identify myself when someone picked up the receiver and said, "Traynor residence."

"Hello, my name is Thomas Quill. I had a message to call this number."

"One moment please." Very secretarial, but the voice sounded female and about ten years old.

"Mr. Quill, this is Martin Traynor. Thank you so much for calling back. I hope I haven't disturbed your Sunday."

"Not at all, just tying up some loose ends. Your message said you're a lawyer. What's this about?"

"Before I answer that, I need to ask you a couple of questions to verify your identity, as the matter is confidential. Would that be OK?"

"Fire away."

It was the usual stuff, birth place and date, parent's names, and so forth.

"Thank you, that's satisfactory. Are you aware you have an aunt who lives in Texas?"

Now that was a puzzler. My father had a sister, but I never met her and knew nothing about her. I told Traynor.

I could almost see him nodding. "That accords with my information. Your aunt's name is Teresa O'Neill. Ring any bells?"

"Not a one."

"Well, I'm sorry to inform you that Mrs. O'Neill passed away about six weeks ago."

That was a turn up. A relative I never met who is now dead. Some days it doesn't pay to get out of bed.

"What did she die of?"

"Cancer, unfortunately. If I give you some background, it might make things a little clearer. I should say upfront that I only became your aunt's legal advisor about two years ago when she moved to Waco, so there is a limit to what I know. Your aunt was seventy-four when she came here, and I gather she'd already been diagnosed with the cancer. Mrs. O'Neill was a widow, her husband having died about eight years ago, and they had no children. She wanted to get her affairs in order, so she asked me to draw up a will. Long story short, she's left everything to you as her only relative."

As soon as someone says those words, very odd things pass through your mind. Am I rich? Did she leave me her second-best bed? How come I never heard from her when she was alive? What's the catch?

Then reality kicks in and you think, well a few extra dollars would come in handy for something or other. But mainly I was trying to get my head around the fact that I had a newly dead aunt I'd never known.

Traynor said, "I'm sorry, I know this must be a lot to take in. I tried to convince your aunt to let me track you down while she was still alive, but she didn't want that. I couldn't understand it, but I later learned that your father had left her a sum of money which he apparently expected her to pass on to you. As she never did, I suppose she felt guilty about it. But she tried to make amends in her will."

Images swirled around in my head including memories of my father that I hadn't dusted off in a long time, so I almost missed his last remark. "How do you mean, amends?"

"The value of Mrs. O'Neill's estate is approximately one million, two hundred thousand dollars."

### Chapter 23

The sensation was precisely the same as a sucker punch to the solar plexus. Took the wind out of me completely. "You're kidding, right?"

Traynor chuckled. "Sounds incredible, doesn't it, like something from a storybook. But I assure you, it's absolutely true. I queried everything when your aunt laid down her requirements, but she was quite rational and specific about it."

If Dad gave her money to hold for me, it was the first I'd heard of it. My parents were comfortably off, but nowhere near wealthy. And they'd died without warning in the prime of their lives. So why would he leave money with my aunt rather than putting it into a trust fund? I put that to Traynor.

"I have no idea," he said. "It's what I would have advised anyone to do in setting up a will. But, as I never knew your father, I can't say. However, one thought occurs to me. Did your father work for the government outside of the U.S.?"

"He was in the diplomatic service."

"That might explain it. He could have given the money to Mrs. O'Neill simply because, at the time, he had no way to set up a trust fund. Normally foreign service people and members of the military get all that done before they go overseas. But for careerists who are away for years, their circumstances can change before they have the opportunity to re-jigger their estates."

It sounded plausible. Something niggled in the back of my mind, but I couldn't drag it out into the light.

"Now, I need to describe the legal process for probating the will."

Ah yes, the process. Meaning lawyers and the state, all with their grubby little fingers out. And here I was already thinking about 'my' money. It's a strange commodity. It'll warp your head faster than drugs. Traynor walked me through the 'process', and it was the usual tiresome rigmarole of forms and signatures and stamps and all that bushwa.

He said, "It would be quicker and easier if you could come to Texas for about a week. Is that possible?"

"I don't know. When are we talking about?"

"I think I can do most of the preliminary work in two to three weeks. The difficulty is that if you can't come here, then I would either need a Power of Attorney from you to act on your behalf, or we would have to transfer original documents back and forth via the mail, which would take some time. Now, I try to be an honest lawyer, so I would advise you that giving a Power of Attorney to someone who is no more than a voice on the phone is a bad idea. Being here in person is the best choice, but that may be difficult for you. By the way, I never asked what it is you do."

"I'm a homicide detective with the British Police."

"Interesting. I admit to being curious about you and your background. I hope that's not too brash, but I understand why your schedule is difficult to predict. Let me make a suggestion. I've put everything on hold pending my ability to track you down, so there's nothing critical now. Let me get a better handle on things and call you back with a definite time. How would that be?"

I told him it was just as well as I needed to let this settle in. We exchanged numbers and e-mail addresses and pleasantries, and he rang off. There was now something to think about for the rest of the evening instead of murder. I had a sensation of life expanding like a flower in the morning sun, with new possibilities waiting to be explored. I was pretty sure I would need scotch to make the exploration more enjoyable, so I made myself a large one and settled back to probe this new world.

Everyone who comes into money probably goes through the same reactions. First, I wondered if it would change my life. There were always stories of lottery winners who went completely off the rails, juxtaposed against those who said they'd be stocking shelves in the morning, same as yesterday. Since I'm not really freaked out about money, I doubted it would change me.

Then I started to make lists of things to spend it on. The usual garbage floated through; new car, big house, better wardrobe, art, travel. None of them rang any of my bells. In fact, I couldn't come up with anything I really wanted that cost more than a hundred quid.

Finally, I worked around to the big one. I'd been having doubts for some time about staying with the police. If I took the DCI promotion, I would be more involved in management and spend much less time on the street. And I loathed management. It was necessary, but it bored me into a coma. Spending the day in budget and manpower meetings would destroy my will to live. But there were few alternatives. Some jobs existed in specialized fields and departments, but most of those went to people who'd been doing them for a while. They seldom looked kindly on a rube copper from the sticks who hadn't had the training. So, money or not, I was at a professional crossroads.

But if I gave it up, what the hell would I do instead? I had no interest in partying, or going on cruises, or hanging out with the beautiful people. I had no hobbies, and my only abiding concern was avoiding alcoholism. It was a case of all dressed up and nowhere to go.

I tried to imagine other kinds of lives, but I was completely out of practice. What do other people do? Most of the ones I knew ate, slept and worked, and not much else. I was sure if asked them what they'd do with a pot-load of money, they'd think of forty things they wanted, but the reality was considerably different from the fantasy.

The first two scotches settled in nicely, and despite my bewilderment, I felt a sort of contentment that I hadn't experienced for a long time. Background pressure, which I was never even aware of, had been taken off. Whatever I decided, there were more options than there had been an hour before. And one of them was a large pepperoni pizza. I got on the phone and started spending some of my inheritance.

### Chapter 24

Money is the least important thing in the universe at four o'clock in the morning. The world is insubstantial and everything that drives us during daylight is meaningless in the dark. I woke up trying to put out the fire that engulfed Corporal Sanders, and I wasn't having any more success doing it in my bed than I'd had in the desert. Scotch flooded out of my pores about as fast as it had gone into my belly, and I smelled as bad as unwashed bodies that had been in an Abrams tank for three days.

I unwound myself from a duvet that had twisted into a rag and staggered into the kitchen for orange juice, the drunk's second favorite early morning beverage. My brain took a short break, waiting for hydration. When I finished the juice, I stripped down and showered in spray as cold as I could stand. It helped, but alcohol has a stubborn property. It will only process as fast as it will process, and all the cold showers and black coffee in the world won't speed it up. I sat on the couch feeling clean and fresh and hydrated and still half in the bag.

My body wanted more sleep, but I was afraid to sleep. I often convinced myself that alcohol caused the dreams, and that if I went to sleep sober, they'd stay away. But it seldom worked. Booze dreams are Hollywood extravaganzas. They wake me, but they fade quickly. The sober versions are newsreels. When they wake me, they stay right in front, running and re-running until I smear the film with scotch. The only option that offered any respite was moderate drinking, but I'd never figured out the formula for moderation.

I sat on the couch, not sleeping, but not dreaming. I tried to read, but my eyes wouldn't focus. Music irritated me. I made another trip to the kitchen and consumed more orange juice. The fridge always seemed well stocked, but I never remembered buying it.

After a few eons, during which I dozed, the sky lightened and objects in the yard became visible outlines. It was too early to go to work, and my belly threatened retaliation whenever I thought about breakfast. I decided on another shower. There are times in life when that's about all you can cope with.

But I felt no better. The depression came from a bad combination of hangover and no food, but that didn't make it any more palatable. I pulled on semi-clean clothes and dragged my carcass out to the car. A stiff breeze and spits of cold rain did little to improve my outlook. As I drove to Upper Turcote, I considered interviewing O'Donnell to get one of his pick-me-ups. But it was too early even for that.

The night staff showed less surprise to see their unpredictable boss than on previous days. I grabbed coffee and sat down to transcribe my notes about Knight-Ellis and the Lampitts. Lots of lovely conflict there, but no connection to either of the murders.

But the more I detailed the encounter, the more I felt there was something missing. There were several possible interpretations of what had gone on between the two women. I tried not to link one set of circumstances to another just because it would make my life easier, but that little nag in my head kept whispering. It was obvious that Hazel and Marjorie hated each other too much to murder Bradley together. Unless. What if Hazel was also one of Bradley's victims? Suppose the two of them did do the deed, and only fell out later when Hazel found out about Libby. But it was thin as paper and, as usual, there was not a scrap of evidence.

Fitzwalter would start tapping his foot if I didn't call him soon. I glanced at the schedule board and noticed that the investigation had run for only a few days, although it seemed like weeks. I figured he might be impressed that I was on the job so early, so I called his mobile.

"Good morning, Tom. I'm in the car - hang on. Right, what have you got?"

I told him about the encounter between the two women. "It's probably nothing more than the usual feuding you find in villages. But there's something odd, and I can't put my finger on it."

"Your gut talking again, I suspect. Anything else in the way of solid evidence?"

"Not a shred. But I need warrants to search both the Knight-Ellis and Lampitt properties. We are reasonably sure Lampitt has a weapon, and she's refusing to talk to us. It's not much, but we are rapidly approaching the bottom of the barrel. Knight-Ellis is easier because of the contretemps with the shotgun the other day."

"I'll see if I can get them approved. You should hear something by mid-morning. The other thing we need to talk about is the Special Branch connection. There's no decision yet, but the CC is supposed call me within the hour. If you have go to London, can Tellwright handle things?"

"No problem, but I hope someone else does it. If I go in there with my American accent and a push from the States, their backs will be so far up they won't even talk to me."

"I agree, but it's above our level. Let you know about the warrants as soon as I can."

I'd told a small fib about Tellwright. He could handle routine stuff and organizing a search of the properties was standard procedure. But he was not alive to nuances. He approached every situation with straight-ahead blunt force. If there was anything under the surface, he'd never spot it. I wanted to do those searches myself.

And I still couldn't see any connection between Bradley Noris's American activities and the murder of his sister. There was no way that a spook from Langley would knock off an agent's long-lost sister just because he was in the neighborhood. I began to wonder if Peralta had stabbed herself.

The teams drifted in, but my brain was not in any shape to organize anything. Time to dump on my trusty number two.

Unfortunately, Tellwright, when he finally came in, looked as bleary-eyed as I felt. The perfect start. If you want it done, Quill, do it yourself.

"Let's get started. We have two orders of business this morning. I've applied for search warrants for both the Knight-Ellis and Lampitt properties. With Lampitt, we will have to be cagey. She probably knows we're coming back, but I don't want to give her any more notice than necessary, so we'll search her place first. Since we can't make a legal move without warrants, we'll have to fake it until they're approved. Simon, you and Bailey go over there when we're finished, and take Kippler with you. Use anything you can think of to stay there and keep her under observation. When I get the word, I'll call you and bring the paperwork over."

He nodded. Whether he got it was anyone's guess.

"Once we're done there, we'll do Knight-Ellis. Driscoll, you and Thornberry go over to her place and keep it under observation but stay out of sight. Call me if she either appears to be out, or if she goes out, and we'll figure out what to do from there. Questions?"

Tellwright was about half a step behind. "What do we say to this Lampitt female, Guv? I mean, she could just tell us to buzz off."

"That's why you need to decide on an approach before you get there. Kippler, can you think of anything?"

The PC was squinting out the window, but he grinned. "Reckon so, sir. We had a report of sheep being killed at Bateman's place. Looked like it was a dog done it, so we're calling at all the farms. We could probably make up something around that."

"Sounds like a winner. And we need a statement from her about her movements around the time of the murders. Off you go then and keep me posted."

Kate Abbott, obviously amused about something, came in as the teams headed out. "Morning Tom. You have an important visitor. He wanted to come in, but I told him you wouldn't want to put him to that trouble and you'd come out."

"OK, I give up. Who is it?"

"Twerp Twomley. I thought about telling him you were making an arrest in Aberdeen, but he'd seen your car."

"Another morning to gladden the hearts of all. Did he say what he was after?"

"Just the usual - total access to all police information. But he looked pretty pleased with himself."

I contemplated making him wait while I had another coffee, but I didn't really want one. Best to get it over with. He was lounging by the gate looking nothing like an eager newshound.

"Ah, the non-gentleman of the press. What can I do for you, Twomley."

"Good morning to you Inspector. Glad to see you're trying to maintain good relations with the fourth estate, as you Yanks call it. As it happens, I'm here in my capacity as a citizen. I've dug up some information for you."

"Not by any chance the name of the murderer."

"You'll have to wait until next week for that. I should be on the police payroll for all I'm doing, as it is."

"Let's ramble and you can enlighten me."

We started down the lane. The incipient drizzle had faded away, but the breeze picked up in its place. The few remaining leaves swirled and danced.

Twomley said, "The first piece of news is about Marjorie Knight-Ellis."

I glanced at him, but he knew he'd scored and looked smug.

"What about her?"

"She's got rather a reputation, along with a most unsavory background. Not to put too fine a point on it, she's a dyke and notorious in the gay community."

"So what? This is a murder investigation. I don't give a damn who anybody sleeps with."

"Ah, but you do think she's a suspect, don't you?"

No point in trying to figure out how he knew. News people have ears everywhere. They'd be a great intelligence organization except at least half their information is always wrong.

"Come on Twomley, you know I'm not going to confirm that. Why don't you spit it out? You look like you're about to bust a gut."

He shrugged. "Happens there's a tart in Gloucester who services both men and women. She says Knight-Ellis was with her the night of the murder."

Now that interested me. "Well, that might interest me if Knight-Ellis was a suspect, and if I believed unsubstantiated statements from prostitutes. Since neither is the case, I don't think we'll pursue it." I could always get the tart's name from our vice people and cut Twomley out of the pattern completely.

"Is that it?"

He looked a tad less sure of himself. "Maybe. I know you've also talked to a nurse named Jacqueline Kidde, right?"

"We've talked to everybody with a pulse. What's your point?"

"A colleague, who shall remain nameless, tells me there was some irregularity about prescription medications several years ago. And someone died - an elderly man I believe."

"Jesus, Twomley. That's complete crap and you know it. If you've got something solid, with evidence to back it up, I'll be happy to listen and tell your editor you've been a good boy. But all this innuendo gets me nowhere. And if you think I will go haring off after people so you can tag along and get a story, think again. Ain't gonna happen."

He stopped and faced me. "Now look, I'm giving you good stuff. Every police investigation involves tracking down stories and fragments, just like we do. This is information you could act on. Maybe it's nothing to do with the murders, but you won't know until you check it, will you?"

I recognized the implied threat. He'd figure out a way to insinuate that the police were not following all leads. But it was not a game I was willing to play.

"As a matter of procedure, we check on all relevant information provided by members of the public. That formal enough for you?"

He started to snarl but thought better of it. "Well, I'm trying to be helpful. So how about you give me something, like the current state of the investigation."

"The police are pursuing all avenues of investigation into the brutal murders of Bradley and Amanda Noris. They expect that an arrest will be made."

"I'll write my own lead, thank you. An arrest when? Imminently?"

"Sorry, I'm not authorized to discuss that. Contact the police press office for more information and updates." I turned and walked back to the Incident Room. There would be a price to pay for jacking him up, but he'd picked the wrong morning to try me on.

### Chapter 25

Twomley, a typical muckraker, had come up with dirt. Should I pay attention to any of it? The man was astute enough to realize that we followed up on gossip and innuendo as assiduously as he did, albeit with different objectives. He would print almost anything that didn't send him to jail, but I had to err on the side of caution. An alibi for Knight-Ellis provided by a known prostitute didn't carry much weight. There was unlikely to be any corroboration, and hookers seldom cooperated with us voluntarily.

But his insinuation about Jackie worried me. It obviously hadn't been taken seriously at the time or she would have been cashiered. However, if we unearthed more than had been known originally, it might change the game. And I was not at all sure I wanted to face up to that one, particularly this morning.

My phone buzzed - Kippler. "Hazel Lampitt is home, sir, so we'll go talk to her."

"I'll call as soon as I get the word about the warrant."

Immediately followed by Sergeant Driscoll. "Can't tell if anyone's home or not, Guv. Do we know if she owns a car?"

"No, we don't, it's never come up. I'll check and let you know. Keep an eye peeled."

I told the Incident Room staff to check on Knight-Ellis's vehicle status, then I stared at the map for a while trying to look thoughtful rather than hung over. I heard Kerrigan on the phone.

"Sir, the warrants have been approved."

"Great, ask if we can execute our searches before the paperwork gets here."

"No, but they will fax copies through immediately."

I called Tellwright. "Got the warrant, but you'll need to wait until I bring it out to you. How's it going?"

"She's not being co-operative, but I'll tell her about the warrant and see if it makes any difference."

Back to Driscoll. "Any movement?"

"Not a jot, Guv."

"OK, hang on. I'll let you know as soon as we're finished at Lampitt's."

The fax machine hammered away and spit out half a ream of paper. Kerrigan grabbed them, sorted them and shoved them into plastic folders. I took both and headed for the door.

Lampitt was a hard case and likely to resist answering questions. If the search turned up a weapon or any other incriminating evidence, we could haul her in and sweat her. If it didn't, we were stuffed. So, before we got heavy-handed, I decided to try another technique.

But I never got the chance. Halfway to her farm, Fitzwalter called. "Pull over if you're driving." He did not sound happy.

"I've had a call from the CC. Someone decided that you're to go to London to talk to Special Branch."

"Someone?"

"The CC wouldn't say who, so I suspect it's the Home Office. However, that's neither here nor there. Drop what you're doing and go down straightaway."

"I'm just about to execute the warrant on Lampitt. Can't it wait until this afternoon?"

"Apparently not. They don't seem to regard a couple of local murders as much cop. Give the warrants to Tellwright, then head for London. Go to Scotland Yard and ask for a Superintendent Cranmer."

Very definite, so there was nothing to say but "Yes sir."

"And Tom? Best behavior, OK? Do not piss anybody off."

"Soul of discretion, boss."

He snorted and ended the call.

When I got to Lampitt's place, the cars were in front, but nobody in sight. I listened for a moment and heard voices round the back. It sounded like an argument.

They were grouped around a pile of stove wood, Tellwright and Bailey looking bored, and Kippler trying to sooth Hazel Lampitt who was red in the face and leaning towards the constable.

"For the last bloody time, I hain't killed no sheep nor nothing else. You've no right to come poking your long nose around my farm."

There was a sudden silence when they saw me. "Actually Ms. Lampitt, we do have the right. I have a warrant to search the whole place. Sergeant Tellwright, a word please."

We walked off a few paces and I handed him the paperwork. "You do the search," I said in a low voice. "I've been told to go to London on another matter, and I'm leaving now."

His eyes opened wide and so did his mouth. Before he could ask, I said, "Sorry, I can't tell you anything else. Make sure the search is thorough and keep pressuring her. Driscoll says they haven't seen anyone at the Knight-Ellis place. I'll get back as soon as I can, but you'll probably have to do her as well. Call Fitzwalter if you have any questions or come up with anything significant."

He managed a "Guv" but was too astonished to get anything else out. I headed back to the car, calculating the quickest route to London.

### Chapter 26

There is, of course, no quick route to London. Some are slower than others, but within fifty miles of the capital traffic crawls through treacle. It took me two hours to reach Westminster using every cut-through I could think of. Although it's tempting to haul out the blue light, it makes little difference.

Being too low on the organizational pyramid to get into the Metropolitan Police car parks, I searched with other frustrated drivers for that elusive spot in which to rest. The hassle of simply moving about in the city is one reason I've never been tempted to join the Met. As the door to New Scotland Yard reception buzzed, the sensation of being snared in a bureaucratic morass did not improve my outlook.

I shoved my Warrant Card through the glassed-in enclosure, staring at a receptionist equipped with a headset and blank smile. My jaw and my scratched-raw ego probably stuck out a foot. She said something to a woman seated behind her who rose and came out of the side of the cubicle, stopping me cold.

She was worth a look. Tall, slim and power-dressed, she looked more like the editor of Vogue than a receptionist. Dark skin, dark eyes and teeth produced by an orthodontist named Rembrandt. My mouth didn't fall open, but it wanted to.

He nametag said Sylvia Patel and her smile was more of a conspiratorial grin. She said, "Good Morning, sir. I believe you're here to see Superintendent Cranmer, is that correct?"

"Is he available? I don't have an appointment."

"He'll be with you in just a few minutes. As we were not sure when you would arrive, he had to continue with his duties. There's a waiting area over there. Can I get you a tea or coffee?"

"Coffee please, milk and sugar."

I stumped over to an alcove fitted with Chesterfield leather chairs and sofas and a long mahogany table. It didn't look like a waiting area in any police station I'd ever been in, but then I'd never been in a station this close to Buckingham Palace.

Sylvia, as I already thought of her, brought a tray over with the usual paraphernalia, but instead of heavy chipped-enamel cop mugs, the cups and saucers looked to be Royal Dalton. No expense spared.

Sylvia said, "The Superintendent will be available in ten minutes, Inspector. Can I help you with anything else?" She turned on that two-hundred-watt smile, but I held my tongue by biting it.

"Thank you, no."

The coffee was Columbian and fresh, the milk was cold, and I dropped my irritation from belligerent to uncomfortable. Scotland Yard always contrived to make me feel like a hick from the sticks. It was subtle and might have been my imagination, but condescension seemed to float through the hallways like cheap perfume.

I wallowed around in self-pity until I heard a voice say, "Inspector Quill?"

I got up and shoved my hand out. Cranmer, for it was obviously he, was the perfect complement to Sylvia. Tall, dressed in a gray three-piece suit that whispered Savile Row, and a smile that was one peg down from supercilious, the Superintendent looked less like a policeman than anyone I'd ever seen. My own clothes descended from reasonably clean to rumpled in half a second.

"Good morning, Sir."

He shook my hand with a grip that was just firm enough, and said, "Let's toddle along to my office and see what we have for you." Toys and a mug of cocoa, no doubt.

We meandered down hallways that were clean and bare of everything except motivational prints and portraits of former Commissioners on the walls. He opened a door and gestured me in.

His outer office was neat and functional. A uniformed Sergeant with a Dick Tracy nose stood up behind a desk as we walked in and said, "Sir."

Cranmer glanced at me. "Would you care for anything?"

"No, thanks."

He nodded and said, "James, would you fetch that file, please?"

I was surprised that Cranmer had a uniform as a secretary rather than a civilian. He caught my expression as the officer closed the door. "Not my regular factotum. James is on light duty for a few months." Cranmer's eyes narrowed for a second and his face went hard. "He took a bullet on a raid. His partner...didn't make it."

"Sorry to hear it. How did the raid go?"

The suave face returned. "Very well, all things considered. But it's one battle in a never-ending war, isn't it?"

He ushered me into his office. It combined professional utility with two antique bookcases, and the painting on the wall was not a copy. Cranmer gestured me to a deep armchair. As I sank into it, the officer returned with a thick black folder, handed it to the superintendent, and walked out closing the door behind him.

Cranmer sat at his desk and leaned over it, steepling his fingers and looking professorial. "So, to business. I apologize for the rigmarole. As you are doubtless aware, there have been high-level discussions about letting you have this information. Part of the concern is the classification level, part of it revolves around ongoing operations, and part of it is whether any of it can be used in your investigation. The latter, of course, only you can judge."

"Is that why you haven't extracted the applicable stuff and sent it on?"

Cranmer nodded. "We could guess as to what's relevant and what's not, but we could easily guess wrong and waste everyone's time. So, we decided to haul you down here. It would help if you gave me a brief overview of your investigation."

I reckoned that was a waste of time. He almost certainly knew everything I'd passed on to Fitzwalter. What I hadn't reported officially was all surmise and guesswork. But I gave it to him, and he nodded, looking thoughtful and evaluating it like a CEO considering a sales pitch.

When I finished, he said, "Thank you. Sounds like a difficult one to prove with the lack of forensic detail." He picked up the file. "Our information comes from intelligence sources about a variety of threats, many of which are drug-related. Until the request from Mr. Canizares, Bradley Noris was simply a footnote and of no interest to us. But we share a great deal of intelligence with our American counterparts. Normally we would decline to release such sensitive information." He pushed himself back into his executive chair and produced a small insincere smile, the same one the burglar gives you when he says he was out with friends on the night in question.

"I'll bite - why did you decide we could have it?"

"Not we - just you." He held up his hand as my mouth came open. "I'll get to that in a moment. Part of our decision was based on your dual citizenship and your former security clearances. And part of it was because we...I actually...owe Mr. Canizares a favor."

Wheels within wheels. The spook business makes the Gordian Knot look like a child's ball of string.

Cranmer opened the file. He extracted a small sheaf of papers that had been clipped together and passed them across to me. "I'm afraid you cannot use this information in court. If it helps you find your killer, and you can prove his guilt by other means, well and good. But you can't tell anyone else about what's in here. Your superiors already know that you will not be briefing them. They aren't happy about it, but that's the way it is. I'll leave you here to get on with it. If you need anything, Sergeant James will be in the outer office. I'll return in thirty minutes to answer any questions."

He got up and stalked out, a man who had been asked reveal sacred texts to the uninitiated.

I settled back, interested despite my self-protective nonchalance. The sheets were printouts from various reports, and the unusual formats indicated they had been entered on a system other than standard police computers. Much of the material had been carefully blacked out, particularly anything with names or locations that might compromise sources. But the basic information was clear.

Bradley Noris had been employed as an _agent provocateur_ by the CIA and FBI. As Cranmer said, most of the reports dealt with cartels, distributors, and other players in the international drug trade. His activities were low level, and the dates were widely spaced suggesting they had used him only on an occasional basis. Some reports were summaries of information he had supplied, others were descriptions of operations he'd been involved in.

I scanned all of it twice. The second time I looked for anyone who might fit the profile of Noris's killer. Most of it was too sparse to mark any definite suspects, but I pulled out four names from four different actions. Each was capable of doing violence to anyone they thought deserved it.

Noris had been recruited as a go-between, feeding false information to reputed bad guys who were being set up for stings. Recipients of such attention might well harbor ill feelings toward my victim. Criminals were not shy about exacting revenge, but they would usually do so only if it was quick and convenient. The only thing lacking was solid background on Noris. How had he come to the notice of the spook community, and why was he accepted by the criminal fraternity?

I stuck my head into the outer office and the Sergeant looked up. "Yes sir?"

"Have you got access to HOLMES?"

"Yes sir, but I would have to clear any search with the Super. HOLMES leaves a trail." Suggesting he'd know about it if I just did it on my own.

"Understood. Could you get him back here? I need to run four names."

He nodded and punched a number on his console. "He's on his way, sir." Very respectful in Special Branch.

Cranmer strode in a moment later and said, "That was quick."

"As you said, most of it has no bearing on Noris's death. However, I found four people he had contact with who were arrested in the States. I'd like to run the names through HOLMES and see if we've got anything on them."

He nodded, and I handed him the sheets. I pointed to the four individuals I'd picked out. He said, "Fine. If you'll wait in the outer office, I'll make sure there is no conflict from our side, then Sergeant James can run them for you."

James asked again if I wanted anything, but I shook my head. The secrecy was claustrophobic. Information and the exit were my only requirements.

It took five minutes for Cranmer to do his stuff. I noticed that James's console lit up once and figured Cranmer had had to check on something with someone. He finally came out with a single sheet of paper.

He handed it to James and said, "Run those through HOLMES for the Inspector."

The Sergeant nodded and turned to a large terminal on the left of his desk and began to type. After a moment, he shook his head, then typed again.

He turned and said, "Only got two hits. The first and fourth names do not appear in HOLMES. Want me to print the other two out, sir?"

"Let me check."

James got up and Cranmer sat down and scrolled through the data. Then he touched a button and the printer in the corner started to grumble and chatter. Four sheets slid into the tray.

"You could pull these up on your end, but we'll save you the trouble." It would also help them find out if I'd looked up anything else.

James put the sheets in a folder, then the folder in an envelope marked "POLICE - OFFICIAL", which I always thought was a sure way to get everyone to take an interest in the contents.

Cranmer shook my hand. "I wish you luck with your investigation. And tell your colleagues that dealing with Special Branch is not so fraught after all." The smile was as insincere as ever.

James escorted me back to reception. Sylvia was not there to wish me "Godspeed", so I left as grumpy as I came in.

### Chapter 27

As soon as I poked the car's nose out of the parking garage, my mobile buzzed. I stuck it in my ear while trying to move into heavy traffic.

"Quill."

"Oh Tom, I'm so sorry to bother you at work, but I'm afraid things have taken a rather nasty turn."

"I'm in the middle of London traffic, Aunt Dot. Can't it wait?"

"Oh dear, I'm just not sure. Barry has become aggressive, and Jennifer is frightened."

Jesus. "Wait till I pull over." I dropped the phone on the seat and snarled at a delivery van who decided to stop in my lane. I pulled in front of him and stopped.

Picking up the phone, I tried to keep my voice down. "OK, what has young Barry been up to?"

"Well, I don't know the details, but he's been calling Jen at all hours, and showing up at her work place, and sort of stalking her."

"Where's Jen now?"

"She's at work as far as I know. I'm just not sure what to do. He hasn't actually done anything or threatened her, but I'm worried."

"All right, I'll check into it as soon as I can, but this isn't a good time. Tell Jen to take this afternoon off if she needs to, and to stay with you until I find out what's going on."

"You're a lifesaver, dear. I'm so sorry to drag you into this."

"It's OK. Gotta go now."

The delivery van had pulled around me, giving me a filthy finger, and now I was the one blocking traffic. I started the interminable crawl out to the motorway.

There's a burger joint out by Ruislip, and I pulled in. I needed food, even if it was greasy, and I wanted to look at the printouts from Special Branch. The takeout window handed me a bag of something that smelled a lot better than it would taste, and I parked as far away from other cars as I could.

One of the names I'd picked out, who had a British record, had been involved in a cocaine transaction. The goodies were supposed to move from Jacksonville to Southampton on a cargo ship. Someone had gotten wind of the deal, and Bradley had been told to contact the courier. Noris's cover story was that the transport looked secure, and the smugglers wanted to add twenty kilos of heroin to the coke shipment. The runner, a man named Kelleher, took the bait. He would accompany the shipment rather than just put it on the boat, turn it over to receivers in England and get an extra $25,000 for his trouble.

He strolled off the ship and into the arms of the UK Drugs people with about two million quid's worth of powder. Unfortunately, while Customs and Immigration were getting their ducks in order, Mr. Kelleher lived up to his reputation and did another runner. He hadn't been seen since, but Special Branch believed he was still in England.

He probably believed that Noris had set him up. The question was, had he found out that Noris was England, and decided to whack his betrayer? I chewed mechanically while I ran through different ways it might have played out. It still left Peralta out of the picture unless Kelleher found her and pumped her for information about Bradley. That, however, was too far out in space to make any sense. Kelleher might be a possibility, but he was at the bottom of the list.

The second individual was a man named Michael Duggan. His specialty was illegal arms. Noris's handlers inserted him into a shipment scenario much the same as the drugs transaction. The facts differed, but the concept was the same: Run a sting and catch as many bad guys in the net as possible. However, the information in the Special Branch file was incomplete.

Duggan had been a go-between rather than a courier. An organization I'd never heard of illegally purchased arms piecemeal in the States and smuggled them into Europe. The recipients in this case were offshoots of the Provos in Ireland. Duggan handled the details and was the only man who knew the people on both sides of the pond. He therefore had to be on the 'inside' to garner that much trust.

The report from HOLMES gave few details about the sting operation. But it did describe a gun battle one night on the rugged coast of Donegal. The Garda intercepted the boat as it landed, but the Provos were not willing to give up their prize, and a fire fight broke out.

Several of the smugglers and two of the police officers were killed. Duggan was found dead in a ditch the next day. And the bullet that killed him came from an Armalite, the IRA's weapon of choice. He'd been shot in the back of the head so precisely that it looked like an execution. None of which was any use to me until I got to the last paragraph. It gave some biographical detail, mostly redacted, and said the name Duggan was one of several aliases the man used. His real name was Michael O'Donnell.

The lights on the board lit up like a Christmas tree. I stared out of the windscreen, oblivious, as bits of theory and conjecture slid into place like jigsaw puzzle parts.

Putting together a scenario in which Russell O'Donnell killed Bradley Noris was ridiculously easy. Motive and opportunity fit like gloves on both hands, and I was willing to bet we could find some forensic evidence without working up a sweat.

But Amanda Peralta was like a reef in front of a ship - she tore the bottom out of every theory. I'd fought the idea of there being two killers since the investigation started because such a coincidence seemed absurd. But I now had to give it houseroom. O'Donnell might have known or found out that Noris had a sister. But why would he kill her? She and Bradley had little or no contact for years, they apparently did not get on, and we'd found no evidence that Bradley contacted her when he returned to England. The logic was inescapable - someone else killed Amanda.

The question was how to handle O'Donnell. I could send in the cavalry, but if, despite my optimism, we found no weapon and no forensic, we'd never be able to prove anything. O'Donnell was not stupid, and if he was an IRA sleeper, he was not likely to be caught with a gun decorated with his fingerprints. I'd have to come up with something foolproof to have any chance of making a murder charge stick.

But the more I played with it, the more the ointment seemed full of flies. I didn't doubt that O'Donnell could kill a man he thought responsible for a relative's death. But did he know that it was probable his own comrades had killed Duggan, believing he had betrayed them? Or would he think that it was ultimately down to Noris anyway? Trying to get into the head of a man I barely knew did not produce anything like clarity.

There was no way to tell, given what I knew, how or why O'Donnell would kill Noris. But I couldn't ignore the probability that he'd done it either.

If I told Fitzwalter what I suspected, the whole thing would be taken out of my hands. Special Branch would ride in, and I'd never find out who killed Noris. And if word got out prematurely, O'Donnell would evaporate into the leaden sky, and we'd never find him.

He must believe his tracks were well enough covered that he could stay in the village and pull pints without undue risk. If I made no overt moves, there was no reason for him to think the game was up. I needed a plan to smoke the man out, to get him to confirm his guilt by running.

I checked in with Fitzwalter but made no mention of my new theory.

He said, "Have you talked to Tellwright?"

"Not yet. I told him to execute the warrant on Lampitt, and to do Knight-Ellis if I hadn't got back. I presume he hasn't come up with anything or he would have notified you."

"I've heard nothing. Get on to him and find out what's going on. Come straight to the CC's office as soon as you get back."

I should have realized they would want a briefing, even if they knew I couldn't reveal anything. For people in the upper echelons of any hierarchy, the idea that a grunt in the trenches knows something they don't is well-nigh unsupportable.

I hit the road, pushing my way out of the London conurbation and cranking up the speed as soon as I crossed the M25.

I punched the number for Tellwright, and he answered so quickly, he must have had the mobile in his fist.

"Guv, where are you?" His voice had a tiny edge of panic.

"On the motorway coming back. Be there in an hour. What have you got?"

"Knight-Ellis is dead - blown apart with a shotgun."

### Chapter 28

The drive up to Knight-Ellis's place was festooned with crime scene tape. The PC controlling entry looked a touch green around the gills.

"Hello, Parker. I presume you've seen the body."

"Yes sir. Seen uglier ones in traffic accidents, but there's something about this..."

I nodded. "Deliberate murder somehow makes it worse."

I signed in and plodded up the drive. SOCO vehicles and paraphernalia were spread about, and Driscoll and Bailey leaned against one of vans muttering into their mobiles. They straightened up when they saw me.

Tellwright came out the front door, and the relief on his face was not precisely what I wanted to see. He clumped down the steps. "Hello, Guv. You made good time."

"Tell me what you've got."

He picked up on my tone and looked flustered. "It's like I said, she's been shot. Splattered all over the sitting room."

I stared at him for a moment.

He pulled himself together. "We finished the search at Lampitt's place. Found nothing of any significance. Before we left, I got a call from Driscoll. He'd been scouting around the house, thinking Knight-Ellis was away, when he smelled blood. He decided something was wrong and he and Bailey went in and discovered her. I told him to secure the scene and notify the SOCOs and the Incident Room. Then we came over to take charge." His face was stiff, and he recited like a cadet.

I waited a beat. "And what did Superintendent Fitzwalter say when you called him?"

Tellwright's eyebrows climbed up to his scalp as he realized his screw-up. Before he could formulate an excuse, I said, "I've told him and covered for you. If he checks the details, your ass might still be in a vice."

He started to deflate like a ball with a slow leak.

"Has the doc looked at the body?"

Tellwright gulped and nodded. "Cause of death assumed to be the gunshot, but he said there's so much damage, something else could have killed her before she was shot. She's sort of on her back and it looks like she was lying down when the gun was fired, but it's hard to tell because there's blood everywhere. Doc says time of death is likely to be last night between nine and twelve, but he won't commit himself yet."

"Any sign of the weapon?"

He shook his head. "I looked out back in that shed, but there's nothing there and we've still got her shotgun."

"Morley's guys about finished?"

"I think so. They've been here an hour and a half."

"OK, I need to talk to Driscoll. You wait at the house."

He turned and trudged up the veranda steps.

Driscoll leaned forward, his report memorized and proofread.

"Hello, Sergeant. Tell me how it went down." Driscoll watched American cop shows and knew all the lingo.

"We'd been on obbo all morning as instructed, Guv. Nothing stirred, no sounds, no people. I decided to have a nose about. Bailey watched the front while I sneaked around the back. I took it slow and quiet, but I didn't see or hear anything. When I got to the window that looks out over the back garden, I noticed the curtain fluttering and the window sash was halfway up. I moved closer and that's when I smelled it - blood. You know what that's like, Guv, and it was really strong."

He stretched his neck and blinked. "I went back and talked to Bailey. We thought the blood smell might come from an animal she'd killed, but Bailey remembered we still had her shotgun. I tried to call Sergeant Tellwright for instructions, but he didn't answer, so we decided to go in."

He looked his question, and I nodded. "Under the circumstances, a good decision."

That firmed him up. "We knocked first and got no reply, then I called out, but still no answer. We put on gloves and went in, being as careful as we could. It's funny. I had nothing to go on but that smell, but I'd already decided we'd find a body. When we got to the sitting room, it looked like a slaughterhouse. She was obviously dead, so we backed out. Bailey tried the Sergeant again and told him. Uniform got here first, and we started the drill."

"OK, good job. You and Bailey take off and do your reports. I'll let you know if we've got anything else for you."

He threw a half salute and gathered up his colleague. I consulted my stomach, found it unworried, and headed up to the house. Tellwright moped by the front door, but I ignored him and walked in. One of the SOCOs stood just inside and handed me coveralls and booties. I dressed and pulled on some gloves from the pocket.

The foyer was full of ancient knick-knacks, most of them dusty and cracked. The varnish on the furniture was peeling, and tufts of horsehair poked through upholstery.

I walked to the inner door and said, "Morley? It's Quill. Can I come in yet?"

"Yes, come ahead, but mind the blood spatter. Best go around to your right."

I entered the doorway and stopped. Although I'd been prepped for what I saw, it didn't help much. The body lay slumped against an ancient wing armchair. The head and legs were recognizable, but the middle was just gore. I figured she'd been shot more than once and from a few feet away. A shotgun at close range will make a sizable hole, but the destruction of the entire torso would only happen if the pellets had time to spread out before they hit bone and tissue.

Two of the SOCOs kneeled behind a large table where the spatter had presumably failed to reach and bagged samples. The photographer was stowing his kit. Morley stood on the left peeling back his coverall hood.

He watched me for a moment, then said, "Been a while since I've seen one this messed up. There's not much I can tell you. Heard the TOD estimate?"

I nodded.

"She was shot twice, the first time standing, the second as she was on the floor. I'm guessing a twelve-bore based on the pellets we're finding. Looks like number eight shot. The dispersal and spatter pattern indicate the first shot was fired from about ten to twelve feet and probably from that doorway"

I let my eyes slide from the body to where I stood, but there was nothing to see except smears on the dirty floor.

"The second shot was closer, probably no more than eight feet away. The gun was pointed down about a forty-five-degree angle, and that increased the shot dispersal. One reason why there's so much damage."

"First one killed her?"

"I think so, but the pathologist will have to confirm it."

"And no cartridge casings."

"None. Either the gun didn't have an ejector, or the killer picked them up."

I reckoned it was the former. Ejectors can kick cartridges a long way, and the killer probably would not spend time hunting for them.

"Any other useable details?"

"There are several smears where the killer moved about, but they aren't clear enough to give any discernible tread pattern. Whoever it was didn't approach the body. The spatter close in was undisturbed. We've bagged everything we can find, and we'll go over it in the lab, but there's nothing obvious."

"OK, thanks. Want me to send the mortuary people in?"

"Tell them to give us five more minutes."

On the way out, I stopped to peel off the protective gear and search the inside of my head for emotion. There wasn't much. Too many dead bodies dull your sense of awe and revulsion. And death dehumanizes, at least with adults. With children, it's the other way. But the only thing I felt was a remote background anger at the human race's preferred method for solving its problems.

Tellwright was still on the veranda. I said, "Tell me about the search at Lampitt's."

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "She was pretty stroppy until we got the warrant. I told her we'd arrest her if she tried to obstruct us, and she finally backed off. We looked everywhere, but no sign of a firearm. That bundle in the lean-to was a spade, although Bailey still swears what he saw was a gun. There were no clothes with bloodstains, no nails that matched the one in Noris's chest, and no rope that matched the one at the scene. In short, no evidence of any kind."

Which made sense if my theory was correct and O'Donnell killed Bradley Noris. "Was the daughter there?"

"No, Kippler asked after her and Lampitt said she was in Cheltenham shopping."

"Did you ask her why she'd wrapped a spade up and put it in a locked enclosure?"

His face answered.

"Leave anyone there?"

His eyebrows climbed again. "No. Didn't seem to be any reason to. Should I have?"

"Hard to say but look at it this way. Three murders, all with a different MO. Our main suspect is the most recent victim. The only other person we've run across with a potential motive is Lampitt, and she is also the only one that might have a firearm."

"But we didn't find anything."

"Doesn't mean it's not there. There's a thousand places on an old farm to hide stuff. I need to talk to the boss. You stay here until the mortuary people take the body away, then go back to the Incident Room. I'll catch up with you there."

I had a word with the body bag detail, then returned to my car to call Fitzwalter.

"What does it look like, Tom?"

"Like an abattoir. Shot twice with a twelve bore, but no obvious evidence of the killer. Morley is about finished. We'll button up the crime scene when everybody's done and regroup at the Incident Room. What do you want me to do first?"

"Come back here and get the CC out of my hair. Turn the preliminaries over to Tellwright until you can get back."

I expected nothing else. I told Tellwright to start the teams on the usual house to house enquiries. He was still mystified about my extra-curricular activities, but I decided not to enlighten him. There are times with people like Tellwright when you should encourage team feelings, and times when you use a blunt instrument to drive a point home.

As I drove to the office, I tried to decide how much or little to tell the higher-ups, and how much trouble I could afford to get into. A million dollars coming my way did not make that decision any easier.

### Chapter 29

I drove as slow as possible to the Chief Constable's office. The case was turning into a bucket of worms and trying to keep each slippery strand of cause-and-effect separated from the others a near impossibility.

My phone buzzed, and I was tempted to ignore it. Nothing I heard today was going to be good news. But the human hand was never designed to leave a ringing phone alone, so I thumbed it on.

"Tom, it's Jackie Kidde. Can you talk?"

I knew it. "Just a moment." I pulled into someone's driveway and said, "What is it?"

My tone must have been rougher than I intended because she said, "I hate to bother you. I'm sure you're busy, but there is something I need to discuss with you, something I didn't tell you before because I didn't think it was relevant. But I realized it's not my business to decide what is and what isn't, so I thought I'd better tell you before things go any farther."

"Anything to do with a prescription?"

She didn't answer for a long time. "I've been naïve. Of course, you had to investigate me. Sorry to have bothered you."

"Stop right there. What I know is fragmentary and third hand, but I do need to know about it, and from you. But not now, I'm up to my eyes. I'll call you and we'll sort something out."

"Understood." The line went dead, as dead as the budding relationship.

But something in the call, some feeling that things couldn't get worse, made me decide to lower my head and bull things through. And being cautious didn't fit my instincts.

The Chief Constable is a man I know only slightly. He and I do not move in the same circles, but we see each other on a professional basis frequently because homicide is not just another crime for the statisticians to note. I believed him to be fair and not overtly ambitious because he had probably gone about as far as he could go. But he'd been a senior manager for a long time, and with the best will in the world, that takes you far away from street policing. I wondered if he'd push me on the Special Branch information.

Fitzwalter waited in the outer office. "Anything new on Knight-Ellis?"

"No, at least as far as having a suspect. The SOCOs are wrapping up the crime scene, but I don't think they're going to find anything exciting. We've started the house to house. As the news isn't widespread yet, we may catch someone off guard."

He nodded. "I briefed the CC over the phone, but he might have questions."

The secretary stuck her head out the door. "Superintendent, Inspector, you can come in now."

She held it open and we marched in like a couple of guilty schoolboys. Going to see the boss always makes you feel that way even if you're without sin. Chief Constable Marchmont was in his shirtsleeves with a mug of coffee in one hand and a file folder in the other. He wheeled around.

"Ian, Tom. Take a pew."

We sat in two very comfortable leather armchairs while Marchmont, who wore granny glasses perched halfway down a strong Roman nose, peered first at me then at Fitzwalter. "Anything new on this latest death?"

"Nothing, sir. Just getting started."

He sipped his coffee. "Tell me about the meeting with Special Branch. I've talked to Superintendent Cranmer, and he went over the bare bones, but obviously no important details. Don't reveal any secrets but tell me as much as you can."

"There was nothing spectacular. Noris worked as an occasional low-level operative for the CIA in the U.S., mostly as an agent provocateur. The majority of the stuff in their files has no bearing on the murders. But I pulled out some names of people that had associated with Noris and asked Cranmer to run them through HOLMES. He printed out what they had, and I left. That's pretty much it."

"And did the names help?"

"Possibly. One report dealt with an IRA sting a few years ago. There was a major battle in Northern Ireland, and a man named Michael Duggan, who was the go-between, was later found dead. It looked like an execution, which implies somebody thought he was a traitor. His real name was Michael O'Donnell. O'Donnell is also the name of the Irish landlord of the pub in Upper Turcote."

Both sets of eyebrows rose. Fitzwalter leaned forward, and Marchmont leaned back. Marchmont said, "Related?"

"I don't know yet. I was on my way back when I got the call about Knight-Ellis. But even if they are, it doesn't necessarily make things easier."

Marchmont nodded. "I see that. Give us your analysis."

It was hardly that, but I launched into what I'd come up with in the way of a theory. Assuming O'Donnell the landlord was related to O'Donnell the IRA contact, then the landlord had a motive to kill Noris. It depended on how much he knew or guessed. "He would either have to be a sleeper, or at least very close to the Provos to know about Noris's involvement."

If the publican _was_ an IRA sleeper, that added another dimension, one we might not be equipped to cope with, although I kept that thought to myself. And even if he killed Noris, I had no evidence to connect him with it. Finally, he didn't fit as the killer of either Amanda Peralta or Marjorie Knight-Ellis.

"So, bizarre as it sounds, I'm coming around to the idea that we've got at least two killers, and that the re-appearance of Bradley Noris in Upper Turcote triggered a sequence of three murders."

Marchmont grimaced. "Bloody hell. IRA involvement is all we need. By rights, I should dump this on Special Branch straight away. But, if I do, we'll never find out who killed Noris."

He shook his head and stared over our heads for a minute. "How do you propose to investigate O'Donnell? If he is a sleeper, he'll disappear the minute he thinks he's suspected."

"The Knight-Ellis death might work in our favor. If O'Donnell was not involved in that one and he has a solid alibi for the time, he might assume he's in the clear and we can reinforce that idea. I then have time to smoke him out. But if word leaks, all bets are off."

Marchmont frowned. "A full plate, as they say. All right, I don't like it, but we've little choice. Proceed in the normal way with the Knight-Ellis investigation. I suggest you personally interview O'Donnell to prevent anyone from inadvertently saying something to set him off. I'll call some of my contacts to see if I can find out anything about his background without giving the game away."

He turned to Fitzwalter who had been mute. "Ian, this is tricky. You'll have to deal with the press and some of the other departments without revealing what we're up to. Put together a plan and let me see it, and we'll bring in more resources if we need to. Speed is essential, but we must be careful. We could step on some very big toes if we screw this up."

Fitzwalter and I left together and headed to our offices. There were a few things I hadn't mentioned because I wasn't ready to put all my beans in the jar just yet. And I needed to figure out how to handle the stuff that overloaded my plate even more than Marchmont suspected.

My In-Tray had almost disappeared under paper, but for once I could safely ignore it. I grabbed a small voice recorder and slipped out without anyone being aware of my presence and drove home.

I left the house lights off because enough watery light trickled through the windows for my purpose. I took off my jacket, turned off my mobile, poured a good handful of scotch in a tumbler, and began to work my way through things. I used the voice recorder to talk to myself as I paced around in the gloom.

By the time the glass was empty, I'd roughed out a plan I hoped covered most possible disasters, but that might make O'Donnell run. Only forty-five minutes had passed, but I had that groggy feeling you get when you wake up from a long, deep nap.

I gargled mouthwash, grabbed my jacket and headed for the car. I turned on my mobile when I got in and it buzzed before I started the engine. It sounded like the bell for round one.

### Chapter 30

Jennifer's voice shrilled. I expected fear or panic, but this was more like frustration. "Tom, please, I need help."

"Help how, Jen? Is Barry threatening you, stalking you, or what? I'm in the middle of multiple investigations."

She faltered. "Well, he's calling me on my mobile every five minutes."

"Are you answering?"

"Of course not, I don't want to talk to him."

"Answer the next time and tell him to stop ringing. Maybe he will."

Her voice shifted to pout. "He came over to the office and tried to see me, but I told my girlfriend to say I was out."

"Jen, frankly none of this makes much sense, but I haven't got time to sort it out. If you think Barry is trying to do something to you, tell me and I'll send a uniform over to chat with him. But it sounds like he just wants to talk. Try that and see what happens. I've got to go now."

I thumbed off before she could think up any other reasons to get me involved. Her problem was so far down my priority list, it didn't even register. I punched in Tellwright's number as I hit the street.

"We've got six teams organized, Guv."

"I'm on the way - ten minutes. Everybody briefed?"

"Yes, but there's nothing new since you left. I called Morley on the off-chance they'd come up with something useful, but no go."

"OK, be there in a tick."

We needed to question people as soon as possible, although I was virtually certain we'd learn nothing helpful. But activity was good camouflage. If the news about Knight-Ellis had not yet saturated the village, we might scare something up. Sometimes if you fire a few shots in the air, the quarry breaks cover.

The Incident Room crackled, and the lethargy of previous days was gone. Most detectives knew that when a further homicide occurs during a major investigation, the killer is highlighting himself and likely to make a mistake. They were ready to pounce.

"Everybody got the full picture?"

They were sitting on the edges of desks, and the heads nodded as one.

"Some things to think about. One - we've got three related victims, but it does not automatically follow they were all killed by the same person." I held up my hand at the murmur of protest. "It sounds far-fetched but think about it. Three completely different MOs, three different weapons used, and other than blood relationships, no known links between the victims. Bradley Noris had been gone for a long time with no contact with his sister or cousin. We've no evidence that Amanda Peralta and Knight-Ellis had anything to do with each other recently. And despite all our digging and our knowledge about bad blood in the past, it was so many years ago there's no discernible common motive."

Driscoll was wide-eyed. "So, what are we talking about, Guv? Three killers in this little pothole?" His tone said he couldn't swallow that, and there were agreement noises from the others.

I shook my head. "Not three. But maybe two. Whoever killed Bradley went out of his way to make the killing look bizarre, made sure we'd find the body and the car by calling us, and had obviously planned it because he had to bring materials with him. Peralta and Knight-Ellis have none of those hallmarks. They're quick and dirty - go to the target's home, kill them and get out fast."

They got that faraway look as they absorbed a new slant. Before they went too deep, I added, "At this stage, we won't worry too much about motive on Knight-Ellis. Hit the village fast and hard looking for anyone with opportunity. Take the gloves off and don't give them any of the neighborhood bobby act. They may not know about her death, so catching them off guard might produce something. But press them. No evasions, and I don't want to revisit anyone. If you're suspicious, call the Incident Room straight away before you leave the person. They'll get me, and I'll tell you what to do."

I looked at Tellwright. "You and I will do our share. I'll see O'Donnell and Yvonne Garrett, you take the post office and that old soak, Forrester. Divide the village up as quick as you can, then get on it."

I turned to the rest. "When you've talked to someone, or they're not home, let the Incident Room know and go to the next. Questions?"

They were on their feet already moving around Tellwright. I told Abbott and Kerrigan, "If anyone has anything that fits, pass it to me immediately. Kate, make sure everything goes into the system as soon as received, even if it's fragmentary. We'll dot the eyes later. And if either of you gets an inkling of something that connects, tell me."

Teams were already on the way out the door. There was one last seed I needed to plant. I'd seen young Thornberry talking to Twomley in the lane. The DC was green enough to be flattered by the press's interest, and Twomley was seasoned enough to butter-up the youngster without being too obvious. I'd noticed Twomley hanging around the entrance to School Lane on my way in, so he would have seen the increased activity, and who better to ask about it than his potential inside informant?

Thornberry and Bailey were paired. I caught them going out the door. "I want the two of you to float a trial balloon. Whoever you talk to, let them know we are sure there is only one murderer. Phrase it as though the evidence was conclusive, but don't go into detail. We want to see if anyone does anything unusual with that information, something out of character. Make a note of who you mention it to, and we'll keep an eye on them."

They nodded and charged out. My attempt to use Twomley might not work, but there was no harm in trying. And if he did get anything out of Thornberry, it would be a good lesson for the youngster.

I wanted O'Donnell to have the impression we were focusing on anyone other than him. Only if he was off guard would I have any chance at trapping him. As I walked to the pub, I thought of things I could say to strengthen that feeling.

My phone buzzed - Fitzwalter. "Can anyone overhear?"

"No, we're starting the house to house and I'm in the village."

"The boss has made progress, but I don't have details. Call him as soon as you can, and he'll brief you."

"Got it."

I stopped for a moment. Would it be better to know Marchmont's info before my interview with the publican? On balance, I decided to wait. I needed to focus on creating the impression I wanted and extraneous stuff might hinder me. And I assumed that if O'Donnell was the head of the IRA War Cabinet, Fitzwalter would have said the cavalry was already on the way.

The wind had risen, and the temperature was dropping. A sniff of frost in the air made me shiver, but I figured it was late enough for the pub to have an evening fire going.

I pushed the door open. The lights over the bar were on, but there was no one around. I waited to see if O'Donnell would come out to check. After a moment, I realized there were two eyes staring at me through a slit under the serving hatch. I stared back. The eyes disappeared, and I heard movement in the kitchen. There had been something furtive in those eyes, something that was neither curiosity or welcome.

O'Donnell emerged, and he was not a comfortable man. His walked with exaggerated care and the smile on his face was out of a puppet show. "Evenin' Inspector. Need an early start, do you?"

I turned on the full force of my considerable personality. It was like adding a five-watt bulb to the room and made no impression on the Irishman. "I could just manage a half of bitter, thanks. How are you getting on with my chaps? Hope they're not putting your regulars off."

He moved toward the taps and pulled a glass from the overhead rack. "Nope. They're something of an attraction. Most of the fools come in here wouldn't think twice about spilling their guts to a policeman. Wouldn't even realize they'd done it."

"Reckon they've anything to spill?"

He topped the glass and put it on the bar in front of me. "How would I know?"

His face was blank, eyes narrowed - not good for what I had in mind. "I'm in a bit early because we've had a development, and you might be able to help."

That made him even stiffer. He gripped the edge of the bar and said, "What would that be, then?"

"There's been another killing."

I felt as sure as I had the first time that his shock was genuine, but I watched nevertheless for any other telling sign. His voice sank to a rasp. "The hell you say. Another one? Who's dead then?"

"Marjorie Knight-Ellis. Blown to pieces."

And he relaxed. Just the tiniest bit of tension went out of his shoulders, but he was a happier man.

"God a'mighty! What's this bloody village comin' to? What happened then?"

He'd become almost chatty. He knew he was in the clear, and that meant he figured he had an alibi even without knowing the specifics of time and place. That was just where I wanted him.

I gave him a brief description of the killing and said I was interested in who was in the pub about that time. "The more people we can clear with good alibi's, the faster we'll sort this out."

His grin teetered on the edge of triumph. "Don't look like you're gettin' anywhere fast up to now. But I'll see if I can remember."

After a show of looking at the ceiling and rubbing his chin, he gave me four names, none of which had ever been on our radar in the first place, but they would give him a rock-solid alibi. He asked me about the times again, and nodded thoughtfully, trying to impress me as a citizen doing his duty. It might have worked, but he overdid it. Being too pleased to be in the clear on Knight-Ellis, he wasn't thinking about Bradley Noris at all.

### Chapter 31

I made a show of writing down the names O'Donnell gave me and finished my beer. While he was talking, I figured a way to smoke him out, but I needed to think about details. I thanked him and left the pub.

I'd told Tellwright that I'd interview Yvonne Garrett, but I didn't want to waste the time because I couldn't see her using a shotgun to kill Knight-Ellis no matter how much she hated her. She was more the social poison type, willing to say anything to get someone in trouble, but strictly non-confrontational. And the same applied to sticking an ice pick in Amanda.

My mobile had not peeped since the teams went out, so I assumed no one was having any luck. I trudged back to the Incident Room in the teeth of a biting wind that had a touch of snow-smell in it.

The night shift people had come in, but Abbott and Kerrigan were still on the job, unwilling to leave when we might be close. Both were on phones, copying details. When they finished, they both looked at me and shook their heads.

"Anyone they haven't been able to talk to?" I asked.

Kerrigan said, "The husband of the woman where Noris stayed isn't back from work. They talked to the wife who swore he was home at the time of the murder. They all seem to be getting genuine shock reactions. Nothing suspicious yet."

Kate Abbott said, "Same here. We're up to date with everything, but nothing helpful."

"OK, here's what I got from O'Donnell." I dictated my interview and she put it straight onto the system. "Who's covering those four names?"

Kerrigan looked up the team assignments. I said, "Let them do the interviews and we'll see if we have any discrepancies."

I called Fitzwalter to give him an update. Then I drew a coffee and put my feet up on the desk to think through my trap for O'Donnell. It had gaps in it, but I hoped any information Marchmont gave me would flesh it out. It revolved around spooking him by making him think we'd come up with some solid forensic from Bradley Noris's body, something that would positively identify the killer, and we'd start testing people as soon as all the data was in. I assumed if O'Donnell was the killer, he'd run. But where? If he had IRA buddies, he might go to them. Or he might avoid them, to avoid highlighting the connection. Or he could have a bolt hole prepared.

Thriller novels always make it sound easy to track someone, but it's not. And we are a local police force without the resources and trained individuals available to the Met. If O'Donnell did a runner, we might lose him and blow the case. I needed a way to make sure that couldn't happen.

The big hole in the plan, as usual, was evidence. If he ran and we found nothing, he'd walk and that would be the end of it. If we arrested him and found nothing, same result. We could probably build up a circumstantial case, but the CPS would almost certainly throw it out. I needed something incontrovertible, but I'd no idea what it could be or how to get it.

The coffee tasted foul, and it was only lukewarm. I wanted a drink, but it was too dangerous. Calls were still coming in from the interviews, but no one was jumping up and down. Kerrigan answered a phone and straightened up.

"Sir, it's the Chief Constable."

She transferred it. Without preamble Marchmont said, "I've got a few items. Can you come to my office?"

"Yes sir, fifteen minutes."

I told Abbott and Kerrigan to hold my calls unless they got something hot. Both gave me that look that said they knew about my trip to London but were keeping the lid on any speculation. It's nice to work with old hands who mesh with all the twists and turns.

I stuck the blue light on my car and got to the office as fast as I could. I hadn't needed the light, but it added to the sense of urgency I wanted Upper Turcote to feel.

Marchmont was alone when the duty constable showed me in. He gestured me to a chair and looked at me for a moment. "Given the hour, I'd normally offer you a drink, but it probably wouldn't be a good idea, would it?"

He caught me square with that one. We stared at each other, and I wondered if he was just probing or knew something. "No sir, I don't think this would be a good time."

He looked thoughtful, then nodded. "I've gleaned a little information through strictly unofficial channels, so none of it can go any further."

"Understood."

"O'Donnell has popped up once or twice on the RUC's surveillance operations. It's not clear if he's connected to the people they're watching, or just happens to know them in a non-IRA context. That's one source. Another told me that the Garda is also aware of him. I asked specifically if he is related to this Michael Duggan or O'Donnell, but my source wouldn't confirm it. I deduce from that that he _is_ related, and there is either an ongoing operation or an intelligence source they are worried about compromising. And finally, the operation in which Duggan died was botched. There is a suspicion that someone on the inside compromised it."

As he talked, I was trying to make pieces fit in my plan. Marchmont let me chew on it for a while.

I said, "In one way, this might make it easier. But it also opens up some uglier possibilities."

He nodded. "Tell me."

If O'Donnell and Duggan were related, O'Donnell was a likely candidate for the Noris killing. The more certain we were of that, the more pressure we could put on if we arrested him.

The bad news was that if he managed to get in touch with his IRA friends, they could disappear him so effectively we might never find him. And almost anything we did would bring us to the attention of Special Branch, they would claim jurisdiction, and my case would go out the window.

Marchmont agreed. "Ideas?"

I ran my tentative plan by him. "I hope to spook him enough that he runs. Once we make an arrest, I've got more leverage, and the Specials have less. I also think O'Donnell is not a pro. He kills Noris, then calls us about the body and the car. He's an amateur out for revenge, and he's probably made mistakes. If we put the screws to him, we can almost certainly break his story, and with a warrant we stand a good chance of finding hard evidence the CPS will accept."

Marchmont grimaced. "I see where you're going, but it could be very messy, legally and politically."

"Yes sir." And I waited. Chief Constables get the big money to carry the big responsibilities. I wondered if he'd back my plan, or dodge, hoping that an unsolved murder would be less hassle than a potential terrorist connection.

He was almost entirely still for a minute, then nodded. "Go to it. Are you still of the opinion there are two killers?"

"Yes. I have zero connection between Bradley Noris and the other victims that could be explained by one killer. Something may come out of our interviews tonight, but I'm not banking on it. The killing of the two women is more complex because we haven't come across any credible motive."

"All right. Keep me informed, and under no circumstances let any of this IRA crap leak out. I'll have a word with Fitzwalter and tell him generally where we stand. Before you set up any operation against O'Donnell, we will need another meeting."

I nodded and left. I'd turned my mobile off while in the CC's office and I wondered if anyone had come up with anything. When I switched it on, I waited a moment, but there were no missed calls or messages. I called Kerrigan and told her I was on my way back.

The Incident Room was quiet. There were only two other officers on duty besides Abbott and Kerrigan. One was Prevakhan's night shift counterpart, a young DC named Gabby Norden. I told her I needed a search done, and she cranked up her terminal.

I leaned over her shoulder and dropped my voice. "Is there any way to tell if someone else on HOLMES is monitoring our enquiries?"

Her brown eyes went wide, and she hesitated. "Well, yes sir, sort of. The controllers who maintain the system can identify all the terminals that are in operation and will assist if we run into technical issues."

"I'm more interested in whether an operator at another terminal can see if we make an enquiry and either monitor the query, stop it, or interfere with it."

"But why...?" She saw my look and stopped. But she started to think. After a moment, she said, "I don't think it can be done in real time. Once a query is on the system, then it can be seen by anyone who is authorized to track case information. But operators are supposed to get special authorization to do that, and it has to be logged separately."

Unless, of course, your name is Special Branch. "Thank you. I want you to run a comprehensive search on the following people, using any and every source you can come up with. Pass me the printouts when you get them. And leave a note for Arnie. When he gets in, I want him to check and see if anyone is monitoring that query, and if so who. And I want both of you to keep this to yourselves."

She nodded, and I gave her the names O'Donnell had given me.

I had no interest in those names. But I wanted to find out if Special Branch was watching us, and I wanted to lead them down the garden path if they were. It might fool them long enough for me to lay O'Donnell by the heels.

### Chapter 32

The teams dragged themselves in, wet and tired, by nine o'clock. They'd come up empty. I felt a tinge of guilt at keeping my suspicions from them, but it had to be done. We buttoned everything up as fast as we could, and I turned them all loose except for the night shift.

By the time I got home, I was sagging. Cotton filled my head, and my eyes were dry and grainy. I lay down on the bed without even turning the light off.

Four hours later, I woke in the same position, feeling like I'd been hit by one of the All Blacks. I struggled out of my clothes and dropped them in a pile. My buddy, the refrigerator, let me down for the first time by being bereft of orange juice, but there was a half full bottle of sparkling water in there. It trickled it down my throat in one long, slow swallow, and I went back to bed.

I must have conked out instantly because the next thing I heard was a heavy slam, followed by repeated bangs. I struggled up, not even sure where I was. Then I heard the wind. It was whistling through the foliage outside and had probably wrenched a shutter open. It was still full dark. Another bang came from the other side of the house and forced me to my feet. I got lights on and tried to secure everything that had come loose.

Still ragged with fatigue, I drank two glasses of water and lay down again. But this time I couldn't drop off. The wind nagged at my ears, and the characters in the case kept chasing each other through unlikely scenarios. I thought about the scotch in the cupboard, but for once it had no appeal. So, I wrestled with night thoughts through that endless time it takes for day to come.

On the way to the Incident Room, I almost convinced myself things would break open with one more small push. But that was hubris. There were too many complications to know how anything would play out. But I was sure something would explode - maybe just cop instinct.

My phone buzzed, and I thought "This is it." But it wasn't. Aunt Dot said, "Good morning, Tom. How are you?"

Her diplomatic effort fell flat. "Busy. How's Jen?"

"Still upset. She spent the night here and she doesn't know what to do."

"All right. Give me an address and telephone number for this Barry, and I'll send a man over to check things out."

"Oh, thank you so much, dear. I'm sure that will put a stop to this business."

She passed the information via text. When I got to the Incident Room, I went straight to Kerrigan. "Sergeant, I have a personal problem. I wonder if you can help."

I laid it out for her and she said, "Leave it with me, sir." She made it sound simple, but we both knew it could be dangerous. There is a fine line between exercising our powers to protect the public and pulling family chestnuts out of the fire, even if they are members of the same public. But I asked Kerrigan because, if anyone knew how to get things done quietly, she was the leader in the clubhouse.

The teams drifted in and dayshift people relieved their counterparts. There was an undercurrent, a sense of restlessness. Despite finding nothing worthwhile yesterday, everyone still felt we were close.

When they settled, I said, "We're going to hammer it again today. We cover anyone we missed last evening, we talk to anyone whose story didn't quite convince, we go back over recent interviews. The killers are not going to be caught out easily, but there are a thousand details they can overlook, a thousand discrepancies they can't keep track of. It's down to you rooting those out."

It was standard fare from 'The DI's Pep Talk Manual', but they understood. "Who saw Lampitt last night?"

Driscoll raised his hand. "We tried, Guv, but nobody home. I mentioned it."

"I'm sure you did, but I was so fagged, it didn't stick. Let's change the procedure." I turned to Tellwright. "Simon, do a new list of anyone who didn't have a good story, then assign those people to different teams. We're looking for any significant differences between the two interviews."

I turned back to the group. "I did not get to Yvonne Garrett yesterday. Bailey, you talk to her, and take a WPC with you. Approach her as though you were ready to make an arrest and see if you can open her up. And if her husband is back, get his alibi nailed down if he's got one."

I considered for a moment. "I'll take Lampitt. Thornberry, you're with me. Let's get to it."

I'd been tempted to take Kippler since he knew the Lampitts, but I wanted to find out if Thornberry had talked to Twomley. It would be a good opportunity to see how he handled himself during an interview that would probably be acrimonious. And here I was, thinking like a personnel manager.

We took my car, but I let Thornberry drive. "Any feelings about the case?" I asked.

"Not really, Guv. I mean it still seems incredible to think there might be two murderers in such a small village. But I haven't gotten my head around any suspects yet. Is it just a feeling you get when you talk to them, or what?"

"It can be, but mostly it's an accumulation of small things, things that seem insignificant at the time, but become more important when added to the big picture. Often, you're not conscious of them, but if you're well stuck into a case, your subconscious is working away, adding and subtracting and trying to make a full picture. What did Twomley want?"

Thornberry gave the textbook reaction. The car wobbled, he changed color, and stuttered. "What...Twomley? He just...wanted to know if there was anything new. Information, I guess."

"Makes sense, he's a journalist. And what did you tell him?"

"Oh nothing, Guv. Told him see you. Said I wasn't authorized to talk about the case."

"Good." I had other ways to check that, but the point was to convince the young DC that the boss sees all and knows all. "When we get to Lampitt's, depending on what she says, we may do another search. The warrant is still in effect, and I want to have another go at finding a weapon."

The weather started to clear, the night's storm having blown itself out, and a watery sun filtered through the scudding clouds. But the temperature dropped into the low forties as autumn geared up for winter.

The lane to the Lampitt's place was rutted, and there was no way to make a quiet approach. But when we pulled up in front, there were no signs of activity.

When we reached the porch, I saw the front door was standing partially open, and there were no lights on. I froze and grabbed Thornberry's arm, startling him because he hadn't seen it.

I dropped my voice. "The front door is open. Go around the back. Be quiet and keep your eyes and ears open."

I glanced at him to make sure he understood the implications. He had. He'd dropped into a half crouch, a movement as involuntary as breathing to anyone in the business of conflict.

I waited until he was out of sight, then considered the porch. It was old wood and likely to be as creaky as it looked. There was no alternative, so I stepped up and went to the door. I pushed it gently and it swung inward with a tiny creak.

The inside was in semi-darkness. The light filtered through the curtains in two of the windows. Everything seemed to be in place, but there was no sign of anyone and it was dead silent. I backed off the porch to look at the upper story.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Thornberry edging backward around the corner of the house. I moved to the side of the porch and flattened myself on the wall. As the DC turned, he had to look twice to find me.

His face was pale. "Guv", he whispered, "Better come around back. It's the girl, and..."

He couldn't get any more out, but I filled in the blanks. It was Libby Lampitt, and something was badly wrong. I strode around the house, making as little noise as I could. When I turned the corner, I could see what spooked Thornberry. I reckoned he'd never forget it. Nor would I.

The last time I'd reconnoitered the house, I'd noticed an old horsehair-stuffed armchair next to the back door. It was overhung by a small roof and a naked light bulb. Libby Lampitt was sitting in the chair, trembling and blue with cold. She had a shotgun between her knees, the barrel pointed at her face and one hand grasping the stock just above the trigger guard. She was staring across the bare-earth yard at the gory remains of her mother.

Hazel was sprawled against a stump they used to chop kindling wood. I recognized her eyes and hair. Everything from her nose to her chest was a mass of congealed blood and shredded tissue. Her legs stuck straight out, and her hands were folded primly in her lap.

Libby's face and body were juddering. No telling how long she'd been sitting there, but Hazel had been dead for some time. I put my hand out to keep Thornberry back, and I knelt on one knee. As quietly as I could, I said, "Libby?"

She didn't move, and her eyes never left her mother. I stood up and took a step nearer, my eyes glued to her hands. If she went for the trigger, I'd have to make a dive for the gun, and I was too far away to be sure of getting there. But I took two more steps, and she still seemed unaware of me. I hoped hypothermia and horror had combined to slow her reactions.

Still focused on her hands, I lengthened my last two strides and grabbed the hand closest to the trigger. It was tiny and so cold, it was like grasping an ice cube. Nothing else moved except for her uncontrollable shivering.

I pulled the gun away and held it behind me. Thornberry was right there and took it out of my hand.

"Libby? It's Inspector Quill. Are you all right?" A stupid question because it was obvious she wasn't. I wanted a response, anything, but she was somewhere else, somewhere I couldn't reach.

I looked over my shoulder. Thornberry was holding the shotgun at port arms and staring at the corpse. To his credit, he'd put on gloves, not the regulation latex, but his leather ones. "Call it in," I said. "Ambulance first, then forensic, the lot."

He looked around for somewhere to put the gun and leaned it against the side of the house. While he was on his mobile, I used mine to call Jackie Kidde.

When she answered, her voice was stiff and formal. "Yes, Inspector?"

"I'm at the Lampitt place and I've got Libby in front of me. She's in deep shock, and severely hypothermic. Tell me what to do."

I could feel her surprise, but she handled it. "You have to get her warm fast. Put her on her back, feet as high as you can, and use anything you've got to warm her up. Blankets, hot water bottle, get her next to a heater if you can. What's her heart rate or pulse?"

I got a hand inside the girl's jacket knowing I'd never find a pulse in that thin wrist, but I had to press hard on her chest to get anything. "Very slow, but she is shivering."

"Do what I said. I'll be there in ten minutes."

### Chapter 33

Every cop receives first aid training, and I'd also had it in the Army. But the combination of shock and hypothermia was a new one for me. Thornberry finished his calls. "Ambulance on the way, Guv, and I called Sergeant Kerrigan with the rest."

"Let's get the girl inside."

Libby was unresisting, almost catatonic, and she weighed next to nothing. I pulled her up from the chair and held her while Thornberry opened the back door. We took her into the kitchen. The old Aga was still warm.

"Find a bedroom and get as many blankets as you can."

The girl was as limp as a rag doll, and her eyes were starting to close. I wondered if she might be sliding into a coma, so I slapped her lightly, but it only served to make her right eye wander off on its own. Thornberry came in with an armful of bedding. We made a thick pad and laid her on it. "Put the rest on top of her." While he started to cover her, I pulled a chair from the kitchen table and propped her feet up on it.

We wrapped her up as well as we could and shoved her over so she was against the Aga. "Go wait for the cavalry. Tell the ambulance people to come in through the front door. The district nurse, Ms. Kidde, is also on the way. Keep everyone away from the back until Forensics get here."

"Right, Guv."

I wanted to go out to that yard and look things over, but it probably wasn't necessary. Something ugly happened between Libby and Hazel, and Libby killed her mother. At least that's what it looked like. There were other possibilities, but they didn't seem to hold water. If someone else shot Hazel and Libby came home to find the body, why not call 999? Libby might have felt responsible for her mother's death, even if she hadn't pulled the trigger, but that didn't jive with her sitting there with the gun until she turned blue. Only severe shock and guilt would have caused that.

The sixty-four-dollar question was why? Marjorie Knight-Ellis figured in there somehow. I had a few ideas that would explain most of the carnage, but there was little point in speculation unless Libby was unable to answer questions. But there might finally be enough physical evidence to put the sequence of events together.

The girl's breathing was shallower, but I didn't know if that was good or bad. Her pinched little face was warming up, and the blue was fading.

A car came up the drive at speed and scrunched to a stop. There were high pitched voices, then the front door banged. Jackie Kidde charged into the kitchen with a large blue bag.

She was dressed casually, but her actions were all business. "How is she?"

"I don't know. She seems warmer and her color is not as bad, but her breathing isn't too good."

Jackie dropped the bag on the floor and yanked a stethoscope out of her jacket pocket. She got down on her knees and pulled the blankets away from the girl. Ripping open Libby's jacket and blouse, she started to move the scope over the chest area, listening intently. After a few moments, she straightened up.

"How long has she been like this?"

"No idea. We found her on the back porch just sitting. But she'd been there some time."

"Her heart rate is very irregular. I need to get a drip into her. Help me set it up."

She rummaged in the bag and pulled out an expanding tripod. I rigged it over the girl, and Jackie retrieved a clear plastic sack filled with thick fluid. She put it on the tripod hook, connected a long hose to a valve on the bag's underside, and screwed a needle onto the hose.

"Get one of her sleeves up so I can get the needle into a vein."

I unwrapped Libby and got one of her small arms free. Jackie whacked the inside of the elbow a few times, found a vein and jabbed the needle in. Then she reached up and squeezed the bag, and fluid started to slide down the hose. Jackie watched it intently for a moment, then stood up.

"Is an ambulance on the way?"

"Called them first, but I don't have an ETA. Shouldn't be long. Is she going to make it?"

"Can't tell. What is this all about?"

I looked at her for a moment, debating. "I think Libby shot Hazel and then was going to turn the gun on herself. But didn't."

Jackie's eyes went impossibly wide. "God in heaven!"

"Do you need to sit down?"

She stared at me, her fists clenched in front of her, fighting to assimilate something completely outside her experience. But she shook her head and looked down at Libby. "I have to watch her."

Sirens sounded, still a way off, but heading in our direction. "I need to move this stuff out of the way so the medics can get a gurney in here." Using my foot, I shoved furniture and boxes aside until I'd cleared a path to the door.

The ambulance skidded to a stop just short of Jackie's car. The driver jumped out and started toward me, the question obvious on his young/old face. "Got a young girl inside, severe shock and hypothermia. The district nurse is here and has her on a drip. Over to you." He grabbed his bag and headed for the house while his partner opened the back of the vehicle and dropped the tail lift. I left them to it and resumed my main occupation.

The uniforms started stringing crime scene tape, and more vehicles rumbled up the lane. I told Thornberry to make sure they didn't block the ambulance in, then waited. And I felt momentarily detached, as though seeing the activity from above in slow-motion, the same sensation you get after a punch in the jaw.

Tellwright struggled out of his car and the world snapped back into the here and now. "What the hell happened?"

"The way it looks, Hazel shot Knight-Ellis, then Libby shot Hazel with the same gun. I don't know why for certain, but there are a few explanations that will probably cover it. The first thing I want Forensics to do is to look at the shotgun and tell me if it fits as the murder weapon for Knight-Ellis. Hazel's around the back, and Libby's in deep shock. Get things organized as soon as the ambulance leaves while I call the boss."

For once the Sergeant seemed on his toes. I walked over to my car and punched Fitzwalter's number.

"Tom, you've got another one?"

"We do, but this is probably the last." I gave him a quick version of what I thought might have happened. "It's pure guesswork, but I think it covers all the circumstances. If Forensic can give me anything off the gun, like a powder match or blood from Knight-Ellis, that should do it. The girl is in a bad way physically, and I imagine, mentally. I don't know how much help she'll be if she lives, so I'm not banking on her testimony."

"All right, do you need any more resources to wrap it up?"

"We're OK for the moment. Which brings me to O'Donnell. If he doesn't have a good alibi for this murder, he might get the wind up and decide to take a holiday. It's not ideal, but I'm going to have to move on him straight away."

He asked no questions, though his tone hinted that he didn't like it. But we both knew it wasn't up to him. "You need to see the CC before taking any steps. When can you get loose from Lampitt's?"

"Thirty minutes, give or take."

"I'll call Marchmont and get a time. Tell me when you're leaving."

The front door to the house swung open, and the paramedics pushed the gurney through. Libby was wrapped up like a Christmas parcel in heavy insulated foil. Jackie brought up the rear holding the drip bag high. They slid the gurney into the ambulance, buttoned it up and headed for the hospital with lights and siren going full blast.

Jackie returned to the house and fetched her bag. When she came out, she walked towards me with an unreadable expression.

"How's she doing?" I asked.

"Better, but her core temperature is way down. They'll have to bring it up gradually. She's young, so she has a chance."

She stopped, and we stared at each other.

I had that nothing-to-lose feeling, so I said, "Still pissed off?"

The color came up in her cheeks for a moment, then her shoulders slumped. "No, not really. I don't know why that upset me. It was as though you were telling me I was a murder suspect, then I remembered I was."

"You're not on the list anymore."

Her eyes narrowed, and she looked the question.

"We've figured out most of it. I can't tell you much now, but I think we've seen the last killing. I don't care about the prescription business, it's irrelevant, but the information came from a reporter. He may try to get something from you."

Her head shake was definite. "No chance of that." She straightened up and squared her shoulders. "You're busy obviously, and I need to get on as well. "But," and I saw the hint of a smile, "You owe Aunt Velma an update, so call me."

She didn't wait for an answer, but my face probably gave it to her.

### Chapter 34

Fitzwalter was understandably nervous. He was out of the loop, even more than he realized. But he wanted to run everything past Marchmont to cover his own butt, and I had no problem with that. I didn't want to get into a long debate, nor did I want other departments involved. That was always a risk in an operation like this. Senior police officers are bureaucrats at heart. They feel better if there are lots of people and someone way up the chain is directing the action. In my experience, that's a recipe for a colossal screw-up, but it wasn't my call.

I had one other problem I hadn't solved. I needed someone watching O'Donnell who was expert at tailing people without the subject catching on, and on whom I could rely to handle the unexpected. There was no one of that description in our shop, but there was a man at Thames Valley who was perfect. For that, I needed Marchmont's help.

Fitzwalter called and told me to go to Marchmont's office as soon as I left Lampitt's house.

Morley and his merry men were swarming over everything while Tellwright and the rest of the team milled around. I gathered them up like a flock of chickens and herded them out of the way.

"Here's a synopsis. Lampitt killed Amanda Peralta. Not the slightest idea why although it's likely to be something in the past. Then Lampitt killed Knight-Ellis. My guess is that Knight-Ellis made a play for Libby Lampitt. Hazel couldn't get the woman to back off, so she killed her. Libby had a problem with that, fought with her mother about it, then killed her. She meant to shoot herself but didn't go through with it. And there you have it - young love's dream."

Bailey posed the first objection. "I can buy the second part, Guv, but why would Lampitt kill Peralta? We haven't come up with anything showing they had any contact, either now or in the past."

"True but remember how all this started. Bradley Noris floated back into everyone's lives like a bad smell. He literally poisoned the atmosphere, and he stirred up a lot of feelings that had been buried for years. There may be details that we'll never know, but I think we have, or will have, enough evidence to be sure there is no one else involved with those deaths."

"Which still leaves Bradley's death," said Tellwright.

"That it does. What I am about to tell you goes no further. And I mean no further. Not among yourselves, don't confess it to your priest, nada, nil, nothing. Anyone leaks, I will have your job and your pension. Clear?"

They were stunned, never having heard me say anything remotely threatening. I looked at each face, hoping the seriousness of the situation penetrated. They started to nod.

"I can't give you all of it, but the basics are this. Noris was used by American intelligence services as a go-between when they either wanted information or were setting up an operation against an organization or group. He was successful in this role because he had enough sleaze on his record to be acceptable to such people. However, one operation went sour, people died, and the bad guys reckoned Bradley was responsible."

No one breathed. "Whether Noris returned here because of this problem, we don't know. But when he got here, he was recognized. We still have no evidence against this man, so we're setting up an operation to smoke him out. I say him, because I hope you understand that Noris could not have been killed by a woman. At least not any woman in this case."

Driscoll said, "So what do we do, Guv?"

"Nothing." I held up my hand before the protests gathered steam. "This is out of our hands. If you think about what I've told you, you'll realize Noris's death was not a straightforward murder, and other organizations are involved, or will be."

"Special Branch." Tellwright's growl expressed the popular view.

I stared at him for a moment. "Don't speculate. Depending on outcomes, I'll tell you what I can afterwards. Do anything you need to do to wrap up here, then head back to Incident Room and clear away the paperwork. I should be back in an hour or two, and we'll have a post-mortem in the pub."

I hadn't thought about that beforehand, but it fit with the general idea of keeping O'Donnell off guard. And it might be a good opportunity to spook him.

Fitzwalter was waiting outside Marchmont's office, and we walked in together. The CC wore his full-dress uniform and looked out of sorts. He noticed our glances and muttered, "MPs and budgets, the twin banes of my existence."

We sat and they both looked at me. I took a breath and said, "I'm going to try to get O'Donnell to run, so that hasn't changed. If we arrest him and find no solid evidence linking him to the Noris murder, all we have left are theories which probably won't stand up in court. If he runs, we have leverage and we may be able to make the IRA link stick. To do that, we must turn him over to Special Branch. The only thing I need is a man who can be depended on not to lose O'Donnell if he does run."

Marchmont leaned back. "Got someone in mind?"

"Yes sir. His name's Colin Delaney. He's a DI at Thames Valley."

"And why is this Delaney the best man for the job?"

"Rather than try to explain that, sir, it might be easiest if you pulled his file."

Marchmont's eyebrows went up, but he buzzed the duty officer and gave him the instruction. We sat there in silence for a good five minutes before the officer returned with a thick printout. "That's not all of it, sir, there are six attachments. Do you want me to print those also?"

Marchmont stared at the stack of paper. He shook his head. "Let me look at this lot first."

The constable withdrew, and Marchmont started to read. He was fast, skimming through a lot of the standard personnel junk. When he got to the fifth page he slowed down. After five minutes, he threw the stack on his desk and said, "I can see why you want him. I'll have to call the Thames CC and see if he's available."

"He is. He texted me two days before this case started. Said he was back from Kabul and on holiday for a while."

Fitzwalter couldn't hold his water anymore. "Sir, what's so special about this man? We have excellent officers trained in surveillance and covert ops. Why go outside?"

Marchmont shook his head and said, "Trust me, Ian, Delaney is on a different level from any policeman you've ever met. He may be overkill, but better safe than sorry. Now, before we go any further, let's get down to details."

This was the sticky part of my so-called plan. "There aren't many. We'll have to make it up as we go along." And I waited for the inevitable disapproval.

Marchmont shook his head. "No plan, no operation."

I expected it. Planning is the god of management. If you have a plan, you know what to do and how things will turn out. Very few can accept that no plan survives contact with reality. But I tried.

"It works approximately like this. I let O'Donnell know that we're sure there's another killer who whacked Noris. And I tell him that we're just waiting for some forensic evidence to tell is who it is. If he's the guilty party, he'll take off. Delaney and I will follow. After that, it depends on what he does. If he just goes to visit his old mum, we're stuffed. But if he tries to make it out of the country, I'll arrest him. And I'll tell him we know about Duggan. If he cracks, great. If not, we search everything and hope to get solid evidence. I think there is a good chance we will find something because, in my estimation, O'Donnell is an amateur. But we have no idea what he will do or where he will go. So, we follow him and see what happens. Worst case, we're no farther away than we are now."

They chewed on it for almost an hour because it went against everything they believed in. To be honest, I still have no idea why Marchmont approved it. But I think it might have been his last chance to walk on the wild side.

I stopped at the canteen and stuffed something optimistically called a sandwich down my neck. My phone buzzed. "Is that DI Quill? Sir, it's PC Clayton. I was sent to see a Mr. Barry Waldron about a possible case of stalking or harassment. Then I was to call you."

"All correct Constable. How did you get on?"

"Well, frankly, I'm a bit confused sir. We spoke to Mr. Waldron and he seems to think he is the one being harassed. He claims a woman named Jennifer McDevitt won't leave him alone. Says they dated for a while, then she wanted to get married. He got divorced recently and has no intention of getting caught again, but this woman won't give up. No way to determine who's telling the truth without more investigation. What do you want us to do?"

"Does Waldron seem to be a physical threat? The type who might go off the rails because of your questions?"

"Anything but, sir. Very mild mannered. Got a young daughter who seems a real daddy's girl. My partner did a quick check with his employer and was told he's an excellent worker and quite reliable. And he's a bit small to cause much of a ruckus."

"Good work. Drop it for now, and I'll see to it myself as soon as I get five minutes."

Jennifer the stalker. In a way, it fit. She'd been man-hungry for years, but she'd always described herself as the pursued. Maybe she was at an age when she needed to do the running. But I had no time to mess around in her love life.

I called my aunt, and without going into detail, said I didn't think Barry was a threat. But I told her that Jennifer was to stay away from Barry. Aunt Dot was a little surprised, but she got the gist of it, and promised to keep an eye on her daughter.

I headed for Upper Turcote wondering how this day would pan out.

### Chapter 35

I stopped in a leaf-cluttered lay-by about a mile from the village to think. My plan, such as it was, looked like swiss cheese. Over the years, I've gotten out of the habit of professional uncertainty. Many cases are difficult to solve, but the process is always there. Follow it, and most of the time, success eventually arrives. What I was about to do was so far outside process, that I couldn't even guess at the probability of success. So, I reverted to the thing that got me through combat - fatalism. I would do the best I could, but it was out of my hands. Nothing for it but gritted teeth and acceptance.

In Upper Turcote, I parked at the end of School Lane. I wanted to take a long pull from that bottle in the glove box, but it was a form of giving in, and I wasn't ready to do that.

The Incident Room was packed, and they all looked up simultaneously when I shoved the door open. It was like the opening for Act 1, Scene 1 when you have the audience fully with you.

"Everything done?"

Abbott and Kerrigan stood. "We're up to speed, sir", said Kerrigan, "except for the forensic and medical stuff. Morley expects forensics to finish about four o'clock. The doctor is doing the PM now."

"Preliminary findings?"

Abbott took over. "The doc says one cartridge from the shotgun, range about twelve feet, centered just below the throat. No question about cause of death. Morley won't commit himself on whether the gun was the same one that killed Knight-Ellis. Same size pellets, and he thinks the same gauge, but he can't prove it. No indications that anyone else was involved, but the crime scene was a mess, so he won't rule anyone out."

It was what I expected, but it was still deflating. "How's the girl?"

Tellwright's turn. "The hospital called just before you came in. She'll be all right. They've got her warmed up and stable, and they reckon no permanent damage. But she's not conscious yet. I asked when we could talk to her, and they said probably two or three days."

"Did Morley get enough off her to confirm she's the shooter?"

Abbott took that one. "He says yes. She had blood spatter and gunpowder residue both on her clothes and hands."

"Anyone have any doubts about the scenario I laid out earlier with Hazel as the murderer of both Peralta and Knight-Ellis?"

Bailey said, "It makes sense, Guv, but we still have nothing concrete on Peralta. How do we clear that one?"

"We may not be able to. I doubt if Hazel would tell her daughter that she'd murdered someone, and we've had no luck with forensic. However, it's possible we may find something if we go back and do a very thorough search of the farm. Have we charged Libby yet?"

Kerrigan said, "No sir, haven't got enough details to make it formal. There's a uniform guarding the hospital room, and we're keeping her isolated."

"As soon as we charge her, she'll get legal counsel, and she might be reluctant to talk. We need to slide in there beforehand and see if we can get her to spill what she knows. Tricky, but we've got a bit of time to figure it out."

All of which was by the book but made everyone wriggle with impatience. They wanted to know what was happening with the mysterious killer of Bradley Noris.

"The next item on the agenda is our other suspect. For the moment, you do nothing. It will take time to get everything in place, and until we're completely ready, we make no moves. Annoying, but there's no help for it."

The Incident Room staff, who had no idea there was another suspect, were staring at me like I'd lost my mind. "My apologies to the rest of you, but I haven't had time to tell you this. I think someone else killed Bradley Noris. I can't give you any information about this person, or what we're going to do. It's no reflection on your integrity, but if anything leaked, the suspect might disappear, and we'd never make an arrest."

Telling your colleagues they can't keep a secret never goes down well. Their faces were strained, and I'd lost a bit of the trust they had in me. A dismal two-way street. "We'll pop over to the pub to unwind, and the first round is on me. Incident Room will have to stay in place until forensics and the PM results are in. Wind it down after that as I don't think we'll need it any more. I'll detail specific people for further duties, but I don't know when that will be. Questions?"

I could see there were some, but they stifled them. They started to mill around, picking up personal items and clearing away. I took Kerrigan and Abbott off into a corner and told them what I had in mind because I needed them to stamp out any speculation among the younger officers. Like good soldiers everywhere, they metaphorically saluted and carried out their orders.

The migration toward the pub began. I wanted the teams to relax and talk about Knight-Ellis and Lampitt, giving the locals the impression that the case was almost wrapped up. But I also expected that someone would have one pint too many and mention something about Bradley's murder being different. And that would reinforce what I would personally leak because I wanted O'Donnell to know we were still looking.

I stopped by my car and called the CC. Marchmont must have been expecting me because he answered the phone himself. I gave him the latest on the Lampitt murder, and he grunted.

"I've talked to the CC at Thames Valley and he's agreed to Delaney assisting us. You set up your operation, then let me know what's happening."

"Thanks, sir, I'll give him a bell now."

"I'm giving you a lot of rope on this, Tom. Be very careful how much information you give out, or this will get very muddy indeed. And remember, my neck is out as far as yours, and I'm not ready to retire."

"Understood. That's why I wanted Delaney. Once I've talked to him, I'll be ready to put everything in place."

Marchmont said he would put Fitzwalter in the picture, at least as much as he needed to know. Fitzwalter was not going to be happy about being side-lined, and it might mean blowback in the future, but I didn't have the time or inclination to worry about it.

Colin Delaney and I knew each other from Iraq. He was SAS. When the shit hit my personal fan, he and his team were the first to reach us, something which Canizares obviously didn't know. As is usual with special forces types, Colin never told me what they were doing in the area, but they showed up at the right time. There was some clearing up to do with the Revolutionary Guards and six people they were holding. He left his team with my guys, and we did what we had to do. And we never mentioned it again. Two months later when I got out of the hospital, he came to see me.

We had a beer and talked about this and that. And somehow, without it being our intention, we made a pact. If either of us needed something, the other would be there. Until now, although we kept in touch, neither of us had ever had to make the call.

Colin joined the police a year after I had, but it was a bit tame for him. So, he got into undercover work first, then clandestine operations which were often out of the country. I suspected his assignment to Thames Valley was a cover for something else, but it made no difference.

When he picked up his phone, I said, "Who'll carry the midnight mail?"

He yelled, "I will, you bloody bastard. Where are you?"

"Over the river and through the woods. You busy?"

"Damn right I am. I'm in a Jacuzzi with a cold one and one of the loveliest ladies you ever saw."

"I need someone adept at skulking. You any good at that?"

"None better, my boy, none better. Call you back in half a tick."

When he did, his voice had lost the levity. "What's on, old son?"

"I'm about to flush a bird, and I need to make sure he doesn't fly off into the sunset. Also, this particular bird has unpleasant friends who might not take kindly to him being incarcerated, so someone who doesn't mind a bit of rough work would be useful. And your name popped out of the hat."

"Well it would, wouldn't it? Sounds like fun. What about my boss?"

"Already cleared it with him. Can you meet me in an hour in Stow on the Wold? That hotel at the bottom of the hill."

"Can do. Heeled?"

"I think so. I will be."

"Jolly good. Just like old times."

I might have been overestimating Russ O'Donnell by a large margin. But he'd been quite efficient about dispatching Noris, and he hadn't hesitated to point out his handiwork, so I assumed he was an iceberg - nine-tenths of him under that village publican surface.

I walked over to the pub, and he was pulling the last pints as I got to the bar. "These people seem to think you're paying. I hope they're right. What'll you have?" He glanced up at the whiskey.

"Just a half of best, please."

He stared at me for a moment, then pulled a glass off the rack. "Is this by way of a celebration?"

"Not quite. We've had four murders, and we don't take much pleasure in that. But maybe they've come to an end."

"You've caught the killer then?"

"In a manner of speaking. Looks like Libby Lampitt."

His eyes popped wide. He started to laugh. "Libby Lampitt? That's daft, man. She couldn't kill a rabbit!" He almost dropped the glass.

Everyone had turned to look. There were five of the regular crowd as well as my people. The locals were stunned at first, then they started to laugh. I shrugged and took a pull from my beer.

My chaps now knew they could talk about it, and they'd fill everyone in on the gory details. But I couldn't be sure anyone would mention Noris's death as being unsolved. So, despite my impatience, I had to hang around and make small talk. O'Donnell seemed at ease, and I thought I'd been successful in making him believe he was out of the frame.

By the time I finished the beer, the rest were on their way through the second pint, but no one had mentioned Noris. O'Donnell picked up my glass and held it with an enquiring look.

"Thank you, no. Paperwork to do at the office, and my boss wouldn't appreciate me being half-cut. And I'm still waiting for our science people to give me the word on this other bugger that did Noris. Oh, well."

I put fifty quid on the bar, turned away without looking at him and went over to Tellwright who was slurping the last of his second pint and beginning to go a bit red in the face. The noise level in the pub picked up noticeably.

I leaned close to Tellwright's ear and said, "I'm going back to the station and brief the boss. I've put fifty into the kitty. After that, you're on your own."

"Thanks, Guv. You want me back at the office as well?"

"Don't think so. Make sure this lot don't get too far down the road."

I slapped his shoulder and left, but as I walked out the door, I turned just enough to see O'Donnell's face. He was two shades paler under those red whiskers.

### Chapter 36

Delaney and I had used the hotel twice before. It was quiet, had great food, and no one knew us. There was no real reason to be anonymous, but our instincts led that way.

He was in his car on the phone when I arrived. I parked two slots down and shut off the engine. A minute later, the passenger door opened, and he climbed in. He turned in the seat and held his hand up. I grasped it, and we looked at each other for a moment.

"Very decorative," I said. He had a bright pink scar running down the side of his neck about three inches long.

He laughed. "Pretty, isn't it? I was hoping for something in blue to match my eyes."

I looked the question.

"Motor bike IED in Mosul - a piece of the fuel tank caught me. Not too deep, but it was covered in oil, and by the time they pulled it out, it was a bit grungy."

"And here's all these unsolved shopliftings in Oxford. Sounds like dereliction of duty to me."

"I've put my best man on it. Arrest imminent."

I took the bottle out of the glove box along with two crystal highball glasses. He grinned. "Glad you haven't lost your taste for the finer things."

I poured a couple of fingers in each glass. I raised mine and said, "Heartbreak Ridge."

Colin laughed. "That's the dumbest movie I ever saw. But I'll drink to anything."

I filled him in. "I'm ninety percent certain O'Donnell is my man. Everything fits, but it's all surmise unless he runs. My info says he's probably hooked into the Provos, but I don't think they were involved in wasting Noris. Too flashy. And if any of them were sniffing around, the Specials would already be on to it. But, if I've managed to put the wind up him and if he contacts them, things could get complicated. I reckon it's one of those situations where fewer is better."

"Just you and me, then."

"Yup. I've hinted to my boss that I'll deploy some of my chaps, but this is out of their league. Someone might get hurt."

He looked at me for a while. "You miss it too, don't you?"

I thought about that. "Some of it. Being up to my eyes in guts holds few attractions, but yes. The rush I guess."

He nodded. "You're more alive than in any other situation. Anyway. What do you have in mind for little old me?"

"I have no sense of what he'll do. He acted quickly when he found out who Noris was, he managed to kill him without leaving any forensic, and he had the moxie to call us in to see his artwork. So, I assume he's not walking into the nearest cop shop with his hands up. That leaves only two real possibilities. He could sit tight. The fact that we haven't arrested him tells him we're not sure he did it. Or he decides it's too risky to hang around and this would be a good time to visit relatives in Ireland."

"Or elsewhere. The Provos have links to ETA and some of the others. They might be able to move him farther away."

"That's one of reasons I need you. If he does get offshore, we need some way to handle that while we continue the tail. Do you have contacts that could help?"

Colin took a few sips and stared out the window. "There are people, but it depends on where he goes. Want me to make some calls?"

My turn to think. "Too early. The more people we have in the loop, the more likely something is to go off the rails. Best we can do is play it as it lays and start making calls if it gets out of hand."

"Answer me this. If he does make a break, why don't we just nick him?"

"It's an option, but the timing could be difficult." Before I left to meet Colin, I'd made another call from a telephone box. Charlie Towson burgles houses for a living, at least when he isn't in the nick. And he owed me – about three years' worth. I told him what I wanted, and how I wanted it done. And we agreed a price.

"I'm hoping he'll come up with what I need for a conviction. He's got of list of what would work, and he can be in and out in a short time. Best case is, he tells me he's found something, then we can nick O'Donnell. If not, we'll see what happens."

Colin grinned. "Nice to see that promotion to DCI hasn't turned your head."

"There's one other thing. I think he's got at least one accomplice. The way Noris's body was set up probably took two people. And there could be more if O'Donnell calls in the heavy mob. If he does, we might need reinforcements."

"Don't you think we could deal with it?"

"Yes, but there might not be time to do a clean job. My boss doesn't know precisely what we're doing, and if I screw this up playing Wyatt Earp, he and I both get to look for other employment." Out of nowhere, I remembered the inheritance, but I shoved it out of the way.

"OK, mate, it's your call. When do we start?"

"He's got to stay in the pub for a while. Too obvious if he just bugs out. He closes at eleven, so I reckon if he goes, he'll do it soon after that."

"Should we wear disguises? I can be the little old lady this time if you want to be the postman."

"Cute, but six foot three is too big for a little old lady. Want to use your car, or get something from the pool?"

"I'll get something hot from the pool. Wouldn't want to be outrun by some git in a Ferrari. You?"

"I've got a mate's white van. He left it at my place when he went on holiday. It's got flowers on the side and "Blooming Wonderful" in green letters."

I described the village layout to him, but I knew he'd look it up and have the whole patch memorized like a photo in his head. One of the tricks they teach you in special ops. We agreed the time, and I headed home. It was anything but a fool proof plan, but I couldn't think of a better way.

I called Marchmont. He'd been having second thoughts. "There are too many ways for this to go wrong. I'm coming around to the idea of simply arresting this man and hoping we come up with evidence."

"Won't hold up, sir. The CPS would throw it out because we have nothing to justify nicking him. If we don't find anything incriminating, we're on the step for wrongful arrest. And if we move prematurely, we might expose links we have to keep under wraps."

He was silent for a while. "I suppose you're right, but it makes me nervous as hell. Have you talked to Delaney?"

"Yes, sir, we're all set."

At home, I changed into old clothes, put on glasses and an ugly tweed flat cap. Most people think disguises are ancient history, but it depends on what you're doing. O'Donnell knew me. If he even caught a glimpse, he'd be off like a hare. Delaney could be open because O'Donnell had never laid eyes on him. Besides, the outfit went with the van in case any of his friends took an interest.

I called Kerrigan. "How's it going?"

"Got the PM report. Nothing new. Forensics are finished, but there's no evidence of anyone else being involved. We're just finishing the updates."

"Do me a favor. Go over to the pub and quietly tell the lads to knock it in the head for the time being. I may need them later, and it would be nice to think a few of them were reasonably sober."

If I'd timed it right, all my chaps and the Incident Room would be cleared away well before O'Donnell closed. Colin and I would be in place. There were only two ways out of Upper Turcote, so we'd have both covered. Colin planned to go first and make a swing through the village to see if anything looked out of order. I'd park the van in the lay-by I'd used earlier. It was screened from the road, but I would see anyone coming in or out.

I settled into the lay-by at half past ten. Six cars came out of the village at intervals, all of them my people. The last one was Abbott's, so I reckoned the police presence had dwindled to the uniforms at the crime scenes.

Forty minutes later, Delaney called. "Coming your way in a black Rover 75. I'm a gray Audi estate."

I would take up the rear position, and with luck, O'Donnell wouldn't notice he had two vehicles behind him. Within a mile, he'd be on a main road, and we could blend in to the traffic.

It worked just like a movie script. O'Donnell performed perfectly, and our little convoy headed toward Cheltenham. I punched the speed-dial for Towson, and said, "Go," when he answered. The roads were almost deserted, so we had to hang back. Colin turned his lights off while we were in the brighter areas of the city, and it seemed to work.

O'Donnell headed for the M5 and turned south toward Bristol. He had to be making a run for it. But he held a steady sixty-five miles an hour and made almost no lane changes - the driving of a man taking no chances on being stopped for a traffic violation.

Colin and I switched positions a few times, but O'Donnell gave no indication he was aware of a tail. Then, about fifteen miles after he got on the motorway, he signaled to exit. It surprised me somehow. Although I had no idea where he might be going, I'd subconsciously decided he was heading for the airport at Bristol or the ferry ports in south Wales.

Colin was in front. There was small roundabout two miles from the junction. O'Donnell turned south again for a mile, then onto a single-track lane. And that almost screwed us. He'd have to be an idiot not to notice our lights on that little track, and there were few trees about to screen us. Colin stopped, and I pulled up behind him.

When I looked through his window, he was studying a map, a type I was not familiar with. It looked something like an Ordnance Survey, but the scale was better, and it had more topographical detail.

He said, "Pilot chart for low level nav. We may be OK. This lane ends at the Severn Estuary. There are only two houses or farms along it, and both are set back away from the road. I assume he must be stopping at one or the other. Let's take it slow and try to spot his car, then we'll figure out the next bit."

I pulled the van onto a nearby bus stop and left it there. We crept down the lane at ten miles an hour, straining to spot buildings. The first one showed as three lights on our right while we were still five hundred yards away.

We stopped again with the lights off. Although it was full dark, the night was fair and clear. I had a pair of 8X field glasses, and I steadied my arms on the top of the Audi while I looked the place over. Several large structures were visible, so I guessed it was a farm. For a minute or two, there were no signs of life. Then someone inside the house passed across one of the windows, but I couldn't make out a face. There was just enough light for me to see the area in front of the house, but no sign of the Rover.

Back in the car, I said, "Can't tell if he's there or not, and the Rover's not in sight. Let's try the other one."

Colin had studied the map again. "On the left about a mile. Just two buildings."

Lights showed again well before we got there, this time bright and flooding the frontage. There was a house and one large outbuilding. We parked behind the only sizable tree, and I got the field glasses out again. The building was painted white, and the Rover was nicely silhouetted against its side.

There was no movement anywhere. It was possible O'Donnell was here on legitimate business, but I doubted he'd have come this far this late at night just on a lark.

I watched for ten minutes, then turned the glasses over to Colin when my eyes got tired. Three minutes later he leaned forward and stiffened.

"See him?"

"Yes. There's two, one with a face full of whiskers. After a minute, he said, "The other git looks familiar, but I can't see his face clearly. Have a look."

I took the glasses and focused on the two distant figures. The unknown man was half a head taller than O'Donnell, and he was gesticulating and throwing his hands around. O'Donnell seemed to be taking it in but wasn't reacting. His friend was a dark-skinned chap sporting a moustache and goatee and a baseball cap pushed back on his head. The face brought nothing to mind. "Doesn't ring any bells. All I can see is a moustache and small beard. He looks to be pissed off about something."

The man finally ran out of steam and stopped, shaking his head. After a few moments, he went into the house, but came out almost immediately and handed a parcel to the publican. O'Donnell unwrapped it and held it up, pointing at the sky. It was a pistol with a long black barrel. "And they've got at least one weapon."

I handed the glasses back and Colin steadied himself on the top of the car again. He stared for a few moments. Then, quietly, "I do know that second chap." He lowered the glasses and I could just make out a grin in the dark. "Marcus Devlin Reilly aka 'Devil' Reilly. One of the nastiest beggars the IRA ever turned loose on an unsuspecting world."

### Chapter 37

Colin handed the glasses back as O'Donnell opened the car's boot and Reilly went into the house. They looked to be getting ready to leave. It struck me as odd that they'd be having an argument. If O'Donnell thought I was on to him and wanted to escape, Reilly could hardly object. I was about to move the glasses from the car to the house when I thought I saw something move in the back seat. The rear windows were tinted so it was hard to be sure, but I stared for the best part of a minute, and sure enough, someone was in there.

"We have another little problem," I told Colin. "There's someone else in the back seat. Can't see who it is."

"What we used to call a target-rich environment," Colin said. "That'll could make things messy."

Reilly came out of the house with two large hold-alls and tossed them into the boot. "They're loading the car. We better get the hell out of here before they spot us."

Colin managed to turn the Audi around without sticking it in a ditch, and we headed back down the track, still lights out. When I couldn't see the house anymore, Colin switched on the headlights and said, "We need to get behind them. We'll go back to that farm and lay up until they pass. It'll probably stir up the bloke who lives there, but it can't be helped. With luck, our friends will be so intent on getting out of here, they won't notice the activity."

He cut the lights again when we turned down the farm drive. There was nowhere to turn except in front of the house. A security light flooded the yard, and a dog cranked up somewhere off to the right. Colin slewed around, reversed and headed back toward the lane, stopping fifty yards from it. He shut off the engine and we sat tight. I got my window down and listened, but for a few minutes all I heard was the dog.

Colin glanced in the rearview mirror several times. "The farmer's come out the door, but he may not be able to see us."

I saw the Rover's lights before I heard the engine. They made no attempt to keep quiet and swept by us at a fair clip. Colin started up and we fell in behind. Their taillights made them easy to follow. "Want to pick up the van?" he asked.

"No point now, and we might lose them. I'll get it later."

The Rover retraced the same route O'Donnell had used coming in, and got back onto the M5 heading south, still taking care not to break any traffic regulations.

"You reckon the other chap was in on the murder?"

"Possible, but who the hell knows. Maybe O'Donnell just called his buddies and they took care of the dirty work."

My mobile buzzed – Towson. "Go ahead," I said.

"Nada. Checked everywhere. Nothing on your list."

"In and out clean?"

"Of course."

"Be a good boy, at least for a while. The Chequers at two o'clock on Friday."

"Will do."

Wonderful. "My boy had a good look. Couldn't find anything we can use, so I now have nothing for which I can legitimately nick the bugger."

Colin was quiet for a few minutes, staying well behind the Rover's lights. "Might be another way." He handed me his mobile. "Find a man named Nathan Jacoby in my contacts and punch the number." When the number started to ring I handed it back.

"Evening, Nat, how goes it?"

And then, "Good for you. I'm working tonight, and I need a favor."

Jacoby apparently acquiesced. Colin asked him to check on Reilly's status and call back.

"If Reilly is still on the shit list, we might be able to nick the lot. You could hold O'Donnell for conspiracy, at least."

"Better than nothing. And we might get lucky with forensic on the other two."

"Any idea where they're headed?"

"Out of the country still seems the most likely, particularly if this is an IRA hit. I don't think there are any flights out of Bristol tonight, so they're heading somewhere else."

"Private plane?"

"Too public, at least from any normal airport. And I doubt if they'll try Heathrow or one of the other big ones – too easy for us to bottle them up. Something quiet and anonymous I reckon. The ferries to Ireland would fit–they run about every four hours, and there won't be much security or many passengers."

It looked like I'd guessed right. The Rover turned off the M5 and headed for the Severn bridge.

And that's where my grand plan started to come unstuck. If we tried to arrest them either at the ferry port or on the boat, we risked getting into a shootout with civilians around. I couldn't think up a slick, easy way to stop them other than using the motorway police to box them in before they got to a terminal.

Just the other side of the Severn tollbooth, Colin's phone buzzed. "Hello Nat, what have you got." He listened for a couple of minutes, then said, "Thanks mate, one I owe you," and thumbed it off.

"Reilly is on a list of sorts, but it's not anything like an outstanding arrest warrant. The RUC want to ask him a few questions about some of the old bombings, but they don't have enough to hold him. However, there is another little group, well under the radar, who connected him to an arms operation. After the Good Friday agreement, the Provos decided to cash in by selling some of their weapons to the Mexican cartels. These chappies would love to chat with Reilly, but it would be more like an abduction than an arrest. We'd have to cosh Reilly and dump him in the boot. No help with O'Donnell, I'm afraid."

"Terrific. It would help to know who the guy in the back seat is, but we can't find that out unless we nick them."

I stared out the window, thinking furiously, but coming up with no good options. If I let them go, they'd literally be getting away with murder. If I arrested them without out good cause, I'd be in equally deep with the CPS and my own hierarchy. I rubbed my eyes.

Finally, I said, "Screw it. If they're heading for one of the ferry ports, we'll nick them when they get close and hope for the best. What sayeth the SAS?"

"Been thinking about that. Best to do it out here on the motorway. Fewer civilians about to get hurt or act as witnesses. If we force them off the road at the right spot, they'll have nowhere to go. But we need another car. Sign back there said Haverfordwest is ninety-eight miles, so there's not much time to set anything up."

"Armed response unit might be best, but they'd want to run it. We'll have to use one of the motorway patrols in a Land Rover." I got on my phone. But before I could get the ball rolling, the Rover took the exit heading into Cardiff.

Colin glanced at me. "Any connection here?"

"None we know about. There aren't any ferries to Ireland. Maybe a safe house until they can arrange something?"

Traffic was almost non-existent in the quiet city. O'Donnell, or whoever was behind the wheel, drove carefully, threading his way through narrow streets of terraced houses. After a few minutes, I got an idea.

"Could be they have a boat that can get them to Ireland. That would avoid a lot of complications."

"For them but not for us. No way to slap the bracelets on if they get out to sea."

"Yeah, I'm thinking about that. We wait until they stop, then figure something out."

O'Donnell paused occasionally as though not sure of his route. Fog descended, creating a mist around the street lights. It looked like a film set from the nineteen fifties.

Colin stayed well back due to the lack of traffic, and we almost stumbled over the Rover. O'Donnell had turned down one of the innumerable small streets not far from the waterfront and turned his lights off. When Colin rounded the corner, we were only about seventy yards behind them. Colin stopped, reversed and continued straight ahead until we were out of their sightline.

We parked and ran to the corner. O'Donnell stood by the car's rear door. The houses on both sides of the street were solid terraces dating from the nineteen twenties. A few showed lights in the windows, but most were dark and silent. Reilly knocked on the door of the house they'd parked in front of. It opened immediately, and yellow light washed onto the mist-dampened street. A short man stepped out and shook hands, then helped Reilly unload the hold-alls. O'Donnell was watching the street, and he started towards us, head forward and peering through the mist. Colin and I jerked back.

Colin dropped to his belly and inched his head around the brickwork. He froze there for a minute while I stayed out of sight. O'Donnell must have seen us when we reversed out of the street.

But after a moment, Colin eased back and stood. "They're all in the house. Whoever was in the back seat was just going through the door, but I couldn't see him. Recognize the man in the house?"

"No. Stubby, older looking, wears specs. You?"

"Not a clue. How's your phone battery?"

I checked. "No problem."

"I'm going down to the waterfront and see if I can spot a boat that looks like it's getting ready to leave. If they come out, call me."

I got the field glasses out of the car while he walked toward the next cross street. It was only a few yards and he turned the corner and disappeared. I peeped around the corner towards O'Donnell's car, but no activity. Fortunately, there were also no pedestrians. I pulled out my phone and punched the button for the Gloucestershire dispatcher. I kept my voice as low as possible while she he verified my warrant number, and I told her to hook me into the Cardiff police.

The man who answered spoke in a Welsh accent so pure, it might have come from a TV soap opera. I identified myself and explained the situation.

"We don't know if they have a boat or are switching cars. Any boats scheduled to leave tonight?"

"Standby." I risked another look around the corner, but it stayed quiet. "Not much of any size," he said after a minute. "A small container ship is just about to depart, but she's all buttoned up."

"How about private boats?"

"Could be, but they don't have to tell the harbor authorities until they're ready to leave. Are you looking for something sea-going size?"

"Probably. We think our suspects might be trying to get to Ireland."

"Nothing small then–the Irish Sea is no place for little boats. Let me check." I heard noises in the back ground. I took another quick look around the corner, but the Rover hadn't moved.

The controller came on again. "There's one boat that might fit the bill. It's an old motor cruiser, fifty-footer, and she's registered out of Bantry, Ireland. Arrived a week ago, but we've no notification that she's leaving."

"Thanks. If it looks like we need help to stop these folks, I'll call you."

My phone vibrated as soon as the call ended – Colin. "Nothing close by. Our chaps moved?"

"No." I passed on what I'd learned from the locals. "We'll have to wait it out. I don't want to bust into the house unless we have to, particularly if they've got fireworks in there."

I leaned against the brickwork of the building, my eyes drooping with fatigue as I stared at the Rover. Two minutes later, the house door opened fast and Reilly stuck his head out. He glanced up and down the street as I pulled back. I dropped low and peeked around. Reilly had both the Rover's curbside doors open and was staring in my direction. O'Donnell came out first and went around to the driver's door. Then the unknown man, who was bundled up and hooded against the cold, took one quick stride and slid into the back. The older man with the specs, who had a bundle under one arm, followed and shut the rear door. O'Donnell go behind the wheel while Reilly shut off the house lights and locked the door.

I thumbed Colin's number. "Car–fast! They're moving."

### Chapter 38

O'Donnell started the Rover, drove to the end of the street and turned right. Colin came around the opposite corner at a dead run. I got into the passenger side, he slid behind the wheel, and we tried to catch up.

"He turned right."

"I saw. We'll have to go around and hope to pick him up before he turns again."

The Audi made little noise, but leaped ahead, the tires squealing as we rounded two corners and out onto the frontage road that O'Donnell had taken. There was no sign of him.

Colin kept his foot down, but we had to check each of the small adjoining streets to see if he'd turned again. At the end of the frontage road, the street turned right and widened into two lanes separated by a grassy median. The fog thickened.

We made the next five hundred yards in nothing flat. And just as we had to slow again I caught sight of a taillight. It disappeared quickly in the murk, but I said, "Something straight ahead, but I couldn't tell if it's the Rover."

Colin pushed it up again, both of us straining, trying to catch another glimpse. If it wasn't the Rover, we were stuffed. I'd have no option but to start up all the machinery to close ports and check airlines.

But it was. As we continued along a straight thoroughfare, the street began to climb a bit and the fog thinned. And there a half a mile ahead were the distinctive taillights of O'Donnell's car. Both of us began to breathe again.

"What now?" Colin asked.

"Stay on him. We need to figure out where they're going first. Then I'll try to rig up a way to stop them. Where's that map?"

O'Donnell continued out of the city, pushing his speed up as they cleared the residential areas, following the signs to the motorway. He slowed suddenly, turned sharp onto the slip road, then accelerated down the ramp and onto the M4 hitting seventy-five miles an hour.

They'd obviously decided that speed was now more important than avoiding detection, because the Rover settled down to a steady eighty-five. Colin dropped us well back as the weather was clear and a sliver of bright moon brought everything into sharp relief.

"Looks like you we're right. They must be heading for a ferry port, probably Fishguard or Pembroke. Better nick 'em before they get there."

It took me five minutes to connect with the motorway patrol dispatcher. He told me he only had one car close to the area. I toyed with the idea of relaying instructions through the control center, but it was too slow and cumbersome. The controller gave me the mobile phone number of one of the patrol officers and I called him. He was more than a little surprised.

"I'll need to verify this – sir."

"Use your radio and be quick. We don't have a lot of time."

I could hear the radio crackle over my mobile. After a few moments, the officer came back on. "Right, sir, what do you want us to do?"

He gave me his location which was about twelve miles ahead of us and headed the same direction. We talked it back and forth for a minute or two and came up with a plan.

Many of the motorway police use big Range Rovers which are both fast and bulky, ideal for what I had in mind. The patrol would wait with lights out in a maintenance area about fifteen miles in front. When O'Donnell went by, the patrol would pull out, put his flashers on and give chase. I hoped O'Donnell and company would think they were just being pulled over for speeding. If they decided to make a run for it...well, we'd figure that out if we had to.

The patrol would stop behind O'Donnell, we'd pull in front to prevent escape, jump out and corral the whole lot. What could go wrong?

Motorway cops are not armed, and not trained for armed encounters, so I told them to stay in their vehicle while we dealt with the suspects. But I didn't tell them we were armed because I didn't want any second guessing.

We stayed on the phone and he told me when they were in place. Things seemed to be working. O'Donnell had slowed slightly but was still doing eighty and well over the speed limit. Colin had listened as I coordinated with the highway cops, so I didn't need to tell him the plan. And we saw the sign for the maintenance area a mile before we got there.

We were already a mile behind O'Donnell, so Colin only had to slow a little, and the Range Rover pulled out in front of us and hit his blue flashers. But O'Donnell had not read my script and failed to play his part correctly. He floored it and speeded up to almost a hundred.

"He's trying to get away." The patrol officer's volume went up, but he'd been in chases before.

"Can you outrun him?"

"Can do so long as he doesn't go too much faster."

"Get in front if you can and block him or force him to stop. We'll close up behind."

The Audi kept pace without breaking a sweat. It could easily outrun either of the Rovers, and Colin closed up to within a hundred yards of the patrol vehicle. It pulled into the fast lane, accelerated and began to overtake O'Donnell.

Plan B seemed to be working until the patrol pulled up beside O'Donnell and tried to signal him to pull over. They were ignored, and the publican put his foot to the floor. The Rover jumped but only added a few miles an hour to their speed. I told the patrol vehicle to pull ahead of O'Donnell and slow him down while we blocked from the side.

We moved into place and O'Donnell tried first to go around the patrol car on the hard shoulder. But the police driver knew his business and blocked easily, slowing all the while. Colin pulled up so that we were half alongside the Rover, but still had maneuvering room if they tried to crash through us.

And I'd pulled my Glock out. Either Reilly or the other men might be inclined to try to drive us off with a few shots and I wanted to discourage such behavior.

It took a few moments, but we managed to get O'Donnell slowed down and forced to the hard shoulder. He finally stopped when the patrol car did. Colin nosed the Audi in until the right front fender was against O'Donnell's door and effectively blocking the left rear door as well.

We both got out fast, Colin yelling, "Leave Reilly to me!"

He ran to the front of the Rover and dived across the bonnet while I squeezed out my door and circled around the back. I could see the front passenger door was already open and Reilly was half out, that long-barreled pistol looking for Colin. I pumped out two rounds without aiming, trying to distract him. Both hit the car and careened off into the dark, making loud satisfying bangs. He fired almost at the same time, shattering the window in his door. I flattened against the curved back of the car and tried to get my Glock up when Colin fired three quick ones. Reilly stumbled back against the car and slid down, firing one more round as he collapsed.

Nothing moved in the back seat and the door stayed closed. I dived forward landing in Reilly's lap. I levered myself up just enough to see that O'Donnell was trying to get away through the driver's window. All I could see was his fat backside, and he appeared to be stuck.

I yelled, "Stop!" and slithered up on to the passenger seat. I got my head on the center console and shoved the Glock through the split between the front seats. I heard O'Donnell scream, "Don't shoot fer Christ's sake!" but his voice seemed to come from far away.

In the back seat, Yvonne Garrett held a small pistol to the bald head of the short man who looked as terrified as anyone I ever saw. Her face was a venomous mask. "Get out or I'll shoot him."

I stayed put and pointed the Glock right between those marble eyes. "Three seconds. Then I kill you if you don't put it down. Shoot him or not. One...two...," and the little pistol wavered in her hand and sank into her lap as though pulled down by unbearable weight. I moved slowly up between the seats without taking my eyes off her. And as I twisted, my little steel buddy jabbed into my spine.

I screamed and the gun dropped from my dead fingers and there was a flash and that's the last I remember.

### Chapter 39

When I came to, I seemed to be encased in concrete. I opened my eyes and stared up into a velvet night sky, but I couldn't move my head. A face appeared over the top, disorienting me for a moment until my brain figured out it was upside down. It wore a police cap and a frown.

"How are you feeling, sir?"

I wet my lips. "OK, I think, but I can't move." In those few seconds, I remembered the shrapnel and assumed I was paralyzed.

"That's the immobilizer. We put you in it when your colleague told us about your back. Ambulance is on the way."

He moved around to one side and kneeled, and I realized I was on the ground. "What happened?" I asked.

He pushed his hat back and said, "Well, I'm not completely sure. We have two dead, two in custody and a small traffic jam. You'll have to ask your colleague for the details."

He stood, and Colin's face appeared on the other side. For the first and only time, it wore a worried expression. But his words were as nonchalant as ever. "Trust you to take a nap right in the middle of things."

"Old age and boredom," I said. "What happened?"

He glanced up. "Sounds like the ambulance." He squatted down. "Wriggle your toes."

"What the hell for?"

"See if you're paralyzed."

I knew what he meant, and I'd already done it. "They wriggle. Now get me out of this thing."

He shook his head. "Not till the medicos have a look. I assume it's that souvenir in your back."

"Probably. Are you going to tell me what happened?" The ambulance pulled up, its flashers adding to the others.

Colin looked at me for a moment and I couldn't read his expression. "Reilly's dead. So's the short chap in the back seat. When you yelled, I thought he'd plugged you, and I fired through the window. Took him in the throat. Wasn't till I looked through the hole that I saw the woman. Everything's under control."

He stood as the paramedics clattered up with a gurney. One of them kneeled and began to examine me, shining a flashlight in my eyes, and going over me with deft hands. "Any pain?" he asked.

"No, and I can wriggle my toes."

He grinned. "First sign of good health. I understand you have a metal fragment in your back. We're going to hoist you onto the gurney very slowly, then take you to the hospital for a full examination. Any pain, yell."

I'd already practiced that.

The surgeon wrinkled his nose as he stared at the clipboard. It had about ten printouts on it, the results of who knows how many tests they'd given me. He leafed through them. "You are extraordinarily lucky, Inspector."

"More than you'll ever know, Doctor, but what about my back?"

"That's what I'm talking about." He looked up. "Oh, levity was it? Your back is going to be fine after I take my chainsaw to it." He smiled. "Surgical joke."

The ambulance had taken me to the emergency room in Swansea, then they transferred me to a ward and started plugging wires and needles into me. Understandable, but I felt fine. What had happened to O'Donnell and Garrett? Had Marchmont been told? Medical questionnaires were not precisely what I was interested in.

The doctor rattled off a lot of jargon and descriptions of surgical techniques. What it meant was quite simple. The fragment had touched one of the major nerves in my back, and the effect was the same as if someone had jabbed a needled into it. The pain was bad enough for my brain to shut itself down momentarily.

"But it was lucky in a way," he said, "because it forced the fragment close to the surface. I've seen your original X-rays and it's obvious why they couldn't touch it. But I can remove it now under local anesthetic. There is some minor tissue damage, but it should heal easily. However, it's been moving around for a long time and will have created some scarring, so you can expect to have some back problems when you get older."

I reckoned I'd try to get old enough to experience them.

He took it out late that afternoon and kept me in the hospital overnight. And they dosed me to the eyeballs with muscle-relaxant and sleeping medication. I slept for fourteen hours.

Colin showed up in the morning after I pushed aside an inedible hospital breakfast. "It's not fair," he said. "I come to see you every time you get trashed, and you never visit me."

"It's a scheduling problem. Notify my secretary well in advance, and I'll bring you a bottle hidden in a bouquet."

"I picked up some new clothes for you. Yours were covered in Reilly's blood. The doc says if you can walk, you can go. I'll drive you home."

"Be ready in a tick." He left to move the car to the emergency entrance.

It took a bit of grunting and teeth-gritting, but I managed to dress myself. The surgeon showed up as I was trying to get the shoes on. When I finally stood up, he turned me around, pulled up my shirt and looked at the dressing. After a moment, he said, "You'll do."

I shrugged into a jacket, stuck out my hand, and he looked at me. "If I said 'liver', would you understand what I'm talking about?"

A lot of things flashed through my head, and for a minute I said nothing. Finally, I looked up. "Yes."

He nodded. "Come back in three days and we'll change the dressing. And don't get that incision wet." He shook my hand and left.

Colin came back. "You should use a wheelchair. I've always wanted to push someone down hospital corridors. I may never get another chance."

"Hang on a moment and I'll see if I can find an old lady."

On the drive back to my place, I finally heard the rest of the story. "I gave O'Donnell a tap on the head to shut him up," Colin said. "When I got to the other side of the car, all I could see of you was your feet sticking out of the door, and I reckoned you'd had it. I yanked the back door open, and the older man, whose name was Patrick Clery by the way, fell out. The woman was covered in blood, and I thought I'd hit her as well, but it was from Clery's artery. I was slightly het up, and when I realized she was alive, I was tempted to settle her troubles once and for all, but I didn't. Getting old, I suppose. And I almost missed the gun in her lap."

Had the positions been reversed, I'm not sure I would have shown the same restraint. I've not had many friends in my life. "You're one up on me, mate. Call me the next time you're off on your adventures and I'll oil my gun. And...thanks."

He didn't answer for a moment. "That might not be a bad idea, bucko. With that new back, you'll be able to take on more athletic endeavors."

It was something to think about, but not now. "Have you talked to Marchmont?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes. We've had several lovely chats. But I think I convinced him that it couldn't have been handled any other way. And there are a number of people who are happy to have Reilly and Clery out of action."

We had a quick drink at my house and he left. And I sat for most of the day trying to work my way through new sensations and come to terms with a perspective on my life that had somehow skewed in a different direction.

### Chapter 40

Velma McKendrick leaned forward and tapped me on the knee. "But why? Why would she do those things?"

"It all goes back to Bradley Noris," I said.

A week after Russell O'Donnell and Yvonne Garrett were arraigned on murder and conspiracy charges, Jackie Kidde called me and reminded me of my promise to keep her aunt informed about the case. Like a lot of other promises, I'd let that one slip.

As it was a miserable Sunday afternoon, tea in front of a fire seemed a desirable prospect, so I drove into Worcester. Jackie was already there. She answered the door and held me with her eyes for a moment before we walked into the drawing room. Aunt Velma was dressed in something floral and voluminous that might have been almost anything, but probably kept her warm.

The tea poured and the scones buttered, Velma began to question me with all the intensity of a rookie detective. I gave her an overview, but she wasn't satisfied.

"Well, I can certainly see that he must have been involved, but the whole thing seems a mare's nest."

I finished my tea and sat the delicate cup back in its saucer. "It is and that's the main reason we, or more accurately I, got off on the wrong track for so long. Although I was sure that the genesis of the murders came from something in the past, I was almost completely wrong about what actually happened."

It took repeated interrogations of O'Donnell and Garrett to piece everything together, and O'Donnell refused to give us any details about IRA involvement. Garrett spewed bile against everyone, and it took a long time to fit her story into a believable context. But we had the outlines.

"Bradley Noris was a reasonable facsimile of evil incarnate in his younger days. Much of what he did was either covered up by people who feared him or denied because of payoffs by his father. We'll probably never get all of it straight. Yvonne Garrett's part in it started when she went out with Bradley a few times. She was thrilled to be seen with the local squire's son and young enough to think it was romance. But Noris was only after the usual thing. On their third date, he raped Yvonne when she wouldn't consent to sex."

Velma paled a tiny bit and put her hand to her mouth. "Horrible," she murmured. Jackie shook her head and stared at her hands.

"Once he'd gotten what he wanted, Noris completely shunned Yvonne. Then she discovered she was pregnant. She went to Noris, but he refused to accept any responsibility. There was also no money as Noris Senior had gotten tired of paying for Bradley's sins. Yvonne was sent away to have her baby. She didn't want the child, so it was put up for adoption. The child is Libby Lampitt."

I wasn't trying for dramatic effect, but that's what I got. Velma stared, both hands to her mouth, and Jackie straightened up, gripping the arms of her chair. "Are you absolutely sure? I can't believe it."

"We've put together enough of a paper trail to satisfy the court."

Velma grimaced. "But that makes it worse. And how on earth does that lead to multiple murders?"

"It was like peeling an onion - we kept uncovering more layers. We have an approximation of the truth, although we are still trying to corroborate some of it."

Hazel Lampitt worked in the unwed mothers home where Yvonne had her baby. Hazel was desperate for a child, but she wasn't married, and the authorities would normally never consider her. But Yvonne was in the home for almost five months. During the interval Hazel managed to find a man and marry him.

"Who?" Jackie said.

"We've no idea. There is a record of the marriage in Bristol to someone named Henry Johnson. But we can't find a birth certificate that fits, or anyone by that name associated with Hazel or the village. We think it was simply a marriage of convenience with a forged birth certificate. Johnson took his money and disappeared. But it got Hazel into the prospective parent category. And because adoptions were not as tightly regulated then, particularly when the child was the product of a rape, Hazel got her wish."

"And poor Libby has known this all along," Velma said. "What a terrible burden."

"No, as a matter of fact, she didn't. Still doesn't."

Both women looked as bewildered as I was when this started to come together. "Hazel never told her. She made up a tale about Libby's father being in the army and killed in some far-off war and Libby didn't question it. There were only two people, other than Yvonne, who knew the full story-Marjorie Knight-Ellis and Amanda Noris. And they started the second train of events."

"As all this was playing out, Bradley Noris got his hands on what was left of the family fortune and absconded, leaving Amanda with an estate but no cash. Amanda sold the property, moved to Cheltenham, changed her last name, and, as far as we know, lived a quiet life. Marjorie, however, was a different story." I stopped for a moment and looked at my audience. "What we've discovered is a bit raw. You may not want to hear it."

Jackie and Velma stared at each other for a few moments, then both looked out the same window at the rain sleeting down and streaking the panes.

"What do you think, Aunt?"

Velma shook her head. "I may not like it, but I think we're in too deep now. You'd better give it all to us, Tom."

There was quite a lot they wouldn't hear, but I pressed on. "Marjorie, being gay, rejected Bradley's advances in no uncertain terms. We are reasonably sure he beat her up outside the Kings Head one night, and it's possible he also raped her a year or so before he attacked Yvonne. After Libby was born, Marjorie played on Yvonne's vulnerability and tried to seduce her. Yvonne was a mess. We don't know precisely what happened, but this time Marjorie got rejected. And she and Yvonne have hated each other since then."

"How was Amanda involved?"

"She knew about Yvonne and the baby although we aren't certain how she found out. But she apparently said nothing to anyone for a long time. Within a few months of Bradley's departure, things settled down. Marjorie moved her sexual predations out of the village, and Yvonne got married a few years later. Hazel ran the farm and raised Libby and life seemingly returned to normal. It probably would have stayed quiet, but Bradley came home, and the roof flew off."

The next part was tricky because I couldn't reveal much about O'Donnell. "Yvonne, of course, never went to the pub. But she and Russ O'Donnell started an affair about a year ago. They managed to keep it very quiet. Yvonne's husband was frequently away on business, and O'Donnell never went near the Garrett house until after the pub closed at night. But he told Yvonne about Noris without knowing who he was. Yvonne knew immediately. And she started to plot her revenge."

"But how did she get O'Donnell involved?" Jackie said. "It was nothing to do with him, and he never stuck me as a man who would stick his neck out for a woman."

"He had his own reasons. I'm afraid I can't tell you what they were."

"Can't or won't?" Velma didn't miss a trick.

"Both. Do you want me to go on?"

"Of course. It didn't occur to me that here might be aspects of the case that you couldn't discuss, but I should have known. Let us hear as much as you can tell."

I nodded. "Garrett and O'Donnell cooked up a plan to lure Noris out of the village and kill him. But they didn't think they could manage it by themselves, so O'Donnell brought in an old friend, a man named Reilly. It was dangerous, but they thought they could bring it off. However, Yvonne queered the pitch. She wanted as public a revenge as she could get. And it was she who concocted the posing of the body."

That last night in the pub, O'Donnell had begun spiking Noris's drinks. And he suggested to Noris that an old girlfriend was very interested in meeting him again. Noris being Noris, that was all it took to decoy him away from the village.

"The details are hazy, but we think O'Donnell got Bradley into the rental car and offered to drive him out to this assignation as he was too drunk to do so himself. When they got to the field, Noris apparently got out of the car and we think Yvonne was there, although she and O'Donnell both blame Reilly for the shooting. O'Donnell and Reilly dragged the body up to the field and posed it the way Yvonne wanted. Then Reilly stashed the rental car, while O'Donnell and Garrett walked back to the village. But Yvonne couldn't rest with just getting even, so she called the emergency dispatcher, disguising her voice, and reported the death."

Jackie shook her head again. "I'm having trouble getting my head around this. I've known Yvonne Garrett most of my life, and I can't connect her with this murderess you're describing."

"I understand. Until we arrested her, she was at the bottom of my suspect list. Since then, however, we've uncovered a few other things. Yvonne likes money. Her husband makes a decent living, but not enough to keep his lady wife in the style she wanted. So, she engaged in a bit of fraud, and managed to supplement her income in various ways by using the internet. But she was careful, never got in over her head, and kept herself as anonymous as possible."

"How does all this connect to Amanda?" Velma asked.

"It doesn't, directly. That's why it confused us when we investigated Bradley's death. We could never find any connection other than the facts that they were brother and sister and had been murdered at roughly the same time. Once again, however, Bradley is the link."

Two days after we arrested O'Donnell and Garrett, a bank manager in Oxford contacted us and told us that he recognized Amanda's picture from a television news story. He knew her as a customer named Amanda Noris rather than Peralta. She'd opened an account a year ago and made regular small deposits, seldom drawing more than a few pounds out at any time.

"We checked the statements. Amanda had an account in a Cheltenham building society for years under the Peralta name. So why open a new one? And where were the deposits coming from? We noticed that they were entered on the same day each month, and the amounts never varied by more than ten pounds. It added up to blackmail."

Velma held her hand up, poured herself half a cup of tea with no lemon or sugar, and drained the cup. She smiled. "I needed fortifying. Please continue."

"Once we had the blackmail idea, a few things fell into place. Amanda had been stabbed a single time with something very long and pointed, then placed on her back in her bed. Minimum violence, no noise, very little blood. That suggested a woman, but a woman of some strength. When we found out about Libby's adoption, Hazel instantly fit the bill. If Amanda knew about Libby and started to blackmail Hazel, it made all the pieces fit. Hazel had very little money, so she probably realized she couldn't afford to pay for very long. But she killed Amanda before Bradley ever showed up, so in that sense the killings were not related."

Jackie stared at the far wall for a moment, then said, "I think I know what happened to Hazel. Marjorie seduced Libby, probably trying to get even with Yvonne, Hazel tried to break it up, and Libby killed her mother. Is that it?"

"You've just been promoted to Detective Constable. We think that's exactly what happened. I'd seen Libby go to Marjorie's house, and Hazel's reaction. I think she confronted Libby, grabbed the shotgun and told her daughter she was going to end the relationship once and for all. Somehow Libby got the gun and shot her mother, probably without meaning to. She went into shock, had some idea of killing herself, but froze up. Literally."

After a few moments, the old house rattled in the wind. Velma was silent, perhaps trying to think of some thread of corruption running through her family that resulted in carnage. But she finally shook her head impatiently. "There were more good ones than bad. But, my word, when they were bad, they were very bad."

Jackie had been watching me. "You've not said anything about this Mr. Reilly, or how you made the arrest. There was something in the paper about a shooting, but it was vague."

I'd hoped the story of the murders would keep them away from the final act, but I had to give them something. "There isn't much to tell. I hinted to O'Donnell that we were getting close to the murderer. He panicked. He and Garrett collected Reilly and they headed for south Wales to catch the ferry to Ireland. When we pulled them over, Reilly came out shooting, and was in turn shot. End of story."

I glanced at Velma who was watching Jackie who was staring at me. Jackie smiled. "I've believed every word until now. I'm sure there was more to it."

She had good instincts, but there was nothing else I could reveal. Reilly died on the side of the road from the three shots Colin fired. One of Reilly's shots had gone through the soft flesh just under my armpit, but I never noticed it until the paramedics checked me in the ambulance. The surgeon put a few stiches in me and pulled them out a week later when they took the stiches out of my back.

Patrick Clery had been on the fringe of the IRA since he was a boy. He was a fixer, arranging safe houses, setting up logistics for bomber cells and accomplishing other odd jobs his friends needed doing. But he'd never been involved in the rough stuff. That night in Wales was his first and last foray into armed struggle.

Velma said, "I want to thank you for sharing that, but it's cured me of reading detective novels and watching crime shows on the telly. It's not quite so exciting when it happens to one's family. Now I have a small surprise." She glanced at her watch, and I followed suit. It had just gone five o'clock. "Jackie, would you tell Sally that we are ready?"

Jackie looked completely mystified. "Ready for what?"

Velma just grinned and nodded towards the door.

Jackie went out, came back in and sat down, staring hard at her aunt.

A few moments later, Sally, the young cousin, pushed open the door and led a parade of young men and women into the room. They were all smartly dressed in black and white serving outfits, and each carried an item of tableware and various containers. They removed the cloth from the huge dining room table, laid down a new one, and began to set out a banquet with all the trimmings.

It took about ten minutes. They lit candles, popped the corks on two bottles of champagne, then stood at attention on one side.

Velma held a hand out. "Tom, if you would be so kind."

I stumbled to my feet, throwing one confused glance at Jackie, and went to Velma holding my arm out. She took it and I escorted her to the table, Jackie following in our wake. The waiters leaped into action, pulled out our chairs, and poured the champagne into crystal glasses.

Velma raised her glass and smiled at both of us. "I pass the torch to the next generation. I have no doubt you will carry it high and far."

There was nothing to do but pick it up.

The End
About the Author

Having retired after twenty-five years in the military and fifteen years in the IT industry, I finally had the chance to write. Making that happen involved moving my family, three dogs and seven horses to a small farm in Austria that is as far from civilization as we could manage. And we have loved every minute.

Thank you for reading my book. I hope you enjoyed it. I would very much appreciate it if you could leave a review with your favorite book retailer.

You might also like:

Shroud of Deceit (Book One of the Heimo Kapeller Series)

Odyssey Into Darkness (Book Two of the Heimo Kapeller Series)

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