COPYRIGHT

Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1992 by Collins Crime

Copyright © Emma Page 1992

Emma Page asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780008171780

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780008171797

Version [2016-02-19]

DEDICATION

For B.D., G.G., J.C., et al,

For all the happy hours

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

About the Author

By Emma Page

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

All summer long the local children played on Whitethorn Common, a sizeable tract of land on the edge of Cannonbridge. The common didn’t present a flat, exposed terrain but a landscape of diversity and unexpectedness, swelling into hillocks, dipping into hollows; secluded spots, open spaces, trees and shrubs, smooth stretches of turf.

Now, in the caressing warmth of this golden Tuesday evening in September, the shadows had lengthened by eight o’clock. The blackberrying youngsters were departing with their pickings, the pensioners heading for home and television.

A young couple still strolled over the emerald slopes, their arms around each other. The girl, Jill Lingard, was nineteen years old, pretty enough in an everyday fashion, an air of robust common sense. Her boyfriend, Norman Griffin, seven years older, was a virile-looking young man with a stubborn set to his jaw.

They paused from time to time to survey one or other of the half-dozen houses, of varying sizes, dates and styles, dotted about the common, each in its own garden. They climbed a grass-covered eminence and stood looking down. ‘That’s the kind of house I’d like one day.’ Jill nodded in the direction of a substantial late-Victorian dwelling standing on gently rising ground a little distance ahead. The name on one of the tall gate pillars read: Fairbourne.

The house fronted the common, its large garden screened on three sides and a good part of the fourth by trees and shrubs.

‘That’s the sort of place to bring a family up,’ Jill added. ‘It’s got character. And space.’

‘We could never afford anything like that on what I earn,’ Norman said. He was a driver for Mansell’s, a local building firm. ‘There’s only one way it might be possible and that would take luck and years of hard work. Start off small and trade up. Find some run-down property dirt-cheap, work on it, sell it. Find another, work on it, sell it. The same again. And again. The real difficulty would be getting the money to buy the first property. We’d be lucky to get any mortgage at all on something like that. And we’d need cash for materials, all the way along.’

She looked earnestly up at him. ‘If we did find an old place cheap, do you think Tom Mansell might lend us the money to buy it?’ Tom Mansell was his boss. ‘You’ve always got on well with him. We’d pay him back every month, exactly the same as a building society, we’d have it all properly drawn up.’

He shook his head. ‘Mansell would never put up good money for us to buy some clapped-out property, he’d tell us to buy one of his starter homes. That would make a lot more sense. We could get the maximum mortgage on one of those, with both of us working.’

She pulled a face. ‘I’d hate one of those poky little boxes.’

He gave her a considering look. ‘I notice you don’t mention your grandfather. If we were trying to borrow from anyone, surely he’d be the obvious person. I wouldn’t mind betting he’s worth a lot more than he ever lets on.’

It was Jill’s turn to shake her head. ‘We’d be wasting our time. Granddad wouldn’t lend Gareth a penny when he was starting up.’ Gareth was her brother, several years older, married, with two small children; he lived some distance away. In spite of the age difference he and Jill had always been close. A few years ago Gareth had set up with another young man in the business of contract gardening. In the event he had managed without help from his grandfather; his wife’s parents had come up with the necessary backing.

‘Wouldn’t do any harm to ask the old man,’ Norman persisted. ‘He’s very fond of you. Catch him in a good mood, he might surprise you.’

She shook her head with finality. ‘He’d never do it. You know what he’d say: “If you want something you must work for it, save for it, the same as I had to do.”’ But she wasn’t defeated yet. ‘What about your mother? Has she got anything she might lend us?’

He laughed. ‘You can forget my mother. She’s got a few pounds in the post office and that’s about it.’

Jill’s face broke into a rapturous smile. It had just dawned on her that here they were, discussing properties, loans, mortgages, as if they were definitely intending to get married. They had been going out together for some months – on a strictly so far and no farther basis, by Jill’s express diktat. Norman had never mentioned marriage and with Jill it would have to be marriage, she could never settle for the casual arrangement of simply setting up house together, seeing how things went from there. Only the full commitment, the traditional set-up, would do for her: a settled home for children, security, stability. Norman was well aware of her views; if he was talking about buying a house together, then he was talking marriage.

As she savoured her moment of realization a girl of about ten years old came running up the grassy incline, a spaniel frisking at her heels. She was a rosy-cheeked child, chubby-faced and bright-eyed, her long fair hair taken back in a plait tied with red ribbon. She gave Jill a warm smile.

‘Not another dog!’ Jill exclaimed, laughing. ‘It’s a different animal pretty well every time I see you.’ She often came across the girl about the common, exercising a pet belonging to some relative or neighbour. Jill reached down to pat the spaniel; she began to chat idly to the girl.

A bus turned into the road running alongside the common and ground to a halt. Norman stood watching as a woman alighted and crossed over on to the common, towards Fairbourne. Not very tall, a slim, supple figure. A wealth of naturally curly hair, golden chestnut, beautifully arranged. Delicate features, a face lovely enough to arrest the eye. She was dressed with casual elegance in a light summer suit. She wore a shoulder-bag, carried a number of books. Norman’s gaze remained fixed as she let herself in through the wrought-iron gates of the dwelling.

As Jill straightened up from playing with the spaniel she caught sight of the woman turning to close the gates. Norman’s intent expression vanished abruptly.

‘There’s Mrs Holroyd,’ Jill exclaimed with lively admiration. She watched the graceful figure move away along the path. ‘She always looks so smart, she has such marvellous taste.’ There was a note of professional assessment in her tone, she worked as a sales assistant at York House, the high-class department store in Cannonbridge where Mrs Holroyd bought many of her clothes. ‘And she always wears such gorgeous perfume,’ she added without a trace of envy. ‘It must cost a fortune.’

Inside Fairbourne, ten minutes later, Claire Holroyd came downstairs and went along to the spacious sitting room, attractively furnished, immaculately kept. Some handsome old pieces, part of the original furnishings; an atmosphere of solid comfort. Petit-point cushion covers Claire had embroidered, fresh flowers she had skilfully arranged. The walls were hung with Victorian watercolours – one of her husband’s hobbies was restoring neglected paintings he picked up at sales.

She paused by a table to glance through the books she had earlier set down, then she crossed to the fireplace and rested her hands on the mantelshelf, staring down into the hearth with its summer screen of garden blooms.

Through the open window came the chirruping of birds, the murmur of traffic. She raised her head and contemplated herself in the mirror above the hearth. A look of glowing happiness shone from her eyes, a smile curved her lips. After a moment she leaned forward and gazed searchingly at her image. Her smile faded.

She raised a hand and passed the tips of her fingers lightly over her mouth, cheeks, brow. Surely the scars were almost gone now? In this evening light she could scarcely make them out. As she tilted her head this way and that a look of anxiety crept into her blue-grey eyes.

The sound of the side door opening and closing pierced her absorption – her husband coming in after his evening stint in the garden. He managed the garden himself, large as it was.

She left the mirror and dropped into her chair. She switched on a table lamp, picked up one of her books and opened it at random. By the time Edgar had changed his shoes and washed his hands, had come along the passage and opened the sitting room door, she was leaning comfortably back, reading with an air of studious attention. She glanced up at him with a smile of calm friendliness.

Edgar was tall, strongly built and fit-looking, ten years older than his wife. Dark hair already thinning, gaze level and controlled. A narrow, ascetic face, deeply carved lines running from nose to mouth. He was a local government official, number two in the department of housing and the environment.

He went up to her chair. Her perfume rose up at him as he stooped to give her a kiss. She turned her head slightly so that the kiss landed on her cheek.

‘How was your class?’ he asked as he crossed the room to switch on the television.

‘Very interesting,’ she told him with animation. ‘Some of the students are very bright.’ She smiled. ‘I shall have to watch out they don’t leave me behind.’ It was the beginning of the autumn term at the Cannonbridge College of Further Education; Claire had just attended the first class in her local history course.

She had made a start at the college shortly after her marriage four years ago, choosing, that first year, a single afternoon class. She had added a second afternoon class the following year. In the third year she had in addition signed on for one evening class. This year she had dropped her afternoon classes and enrolled for three evening courses, the other two being in literature and drama. ‘The lecturer is very good,’ she added. ‘Enthusiastic and lively.’

‘Sounds promising,’ Edgar commented as he sat down and gave his attention to the television.

Shortly after half past nine Claire said she was tired, she would have a bath and go to bed. She went slowly up the wide staircase with its ornamental balustrade. The house had been built by Edgar’s great-grandfather, a prosperous merchant; it had been modernized over the years.

Outside the door of the large bedroom she shared with Edgar, Claire paused with her hand on the knob. She turned her head and looked along the landing to where a narrower flight of stairs rose to the next floor. Up there were the nurseries with their barred windows, silent now for many a year. Her face fell into melancholy lines, then she gave her head a brisk little shake and went into the bedroom.

Left alone in the sitting room, Edgar switched off the television. The evening paper lay on a table beside him but he didn’t pick it up. He sat staring ahead, then he got to his feet and went to the bureau. He took out an old leather-bound album and returned to his chair. He opened the album and sat studying the photographs, remembering, reflecting.

His mother, fair-haired and pretty, delicate-looking, gently smiling; Edgar, her first-born, her treasure, had greatly loved her. She had died at the birth of her second child, his brother Lester, born after a gap of twelve years. Their father, dark-haired, an austere cast of countenance; he had died ten years after his beloved wife. Edgar was then twenty-two years old; the task of rearing his young brother to manhood had fallen to him. He had gladly embraced it, seeing it as a service rendered to the mother he had so dearly loved and never ceased to mourn.

He turned the pages of the album: Lester as a baby, a toddler, a schoolboy. Lester in his first long trousers. Lester as a young man.

He turned another page: Lester as a bridegroom, smiling confidently into the camera – five years ago, now. Beside him his bride, a striking brunette, radiant with health and vitality, twelve months younger than her groom: Diane Mansell, only daughter of Tom Mansell, the local builder, the apple of her father’s eye. She had been the star of the Cannonbridge tennis club in her teens, renowned for her mighty smash. She and Lester had met at the club when they were both still at school.

Edgar looked down without affection at Diane in her bridal finery, her hair looped up under a filmy veil, her handsome face with its strongly moulded features, her habitual expression of self-will plain even then, on her wedding-day. Edgar had wanted Lester to take some further course of study or professional articling after leaving school but Lester would have none of it. He had walked out through the school gates for the last time on a Friday afternoon. On the following Monday morning he started work at Mansell’s. Three years later he and Diane were married.

Edgar gave a sigh as he contemplated the bridal couple. He had been against the marriage, had considered them both too young. But it had been more than that: in his official capacity he hadn’t welcomed the Mansell connection. He had never been able to put a positive finger on it but he had long had the feeling that Tom Mansell sailed close to the wind in his business dealings. Mansell for his part had heartily approved the match, had done all he could to encourage it. Edgar couldn’t help thinking this was at least partly because Mansell believed it could do him no harm to have an in-law high up in the local housing department, it could set a seal of respectability on his activities.

But Lester had needed neither Edgar’s approval for the match nor his financial assistance. As soon as he reached the age of twenty-one he came into a substantial legacy, his share of their father’s estate; he could do exactly as he pleased.

In a secluded rural spot four miles from Fairbourne, Lester Holroyd put his car away in the garage and walked towards his house, well designed and soundly constructed, built by Tom Mansell as a wedding present for his darling daughter and her bridegroom.

Lester was as tall as his brother, somewhat better-looking than Edgar. He had a rangy, athletic figure, a fine head of fair hair. Where Edgar closely resembled their father, Lester in some respects took after the other side of the family, inheriting his mother’s colouring, her eyes and smile.

Whatever Tom Mansell’s motives had been for encouraging the match, he had come increasingly over the last few years to value his son-in-law’s services, to rely on him as an able assistant and deputy. Lester was now indisputably Mansell’s right-hand man; he had hopes of more formal promotion before long. He had a shrewd notion changes were in the wind; he was certain they would be to his own advantage. Mansell always kept his cards close to his chest until the last possible moment but Lester believed he knew the next objective Mansell was contemplating: the opening of a second yard.

He let himself into the house. Diane would soon be home. She was a trained nurse, employed in that capacity at a large factory in Cannonbridge. She was currently working the second shift, two till ten, she had done so for a few months and had found it suited her, she liked the long, free mornings.

Lester went into the sitting room and settled himself down to watch the news. But it had been a long day, his eyes began to close. Before long he was asleep, slipping shortly into a spell of vivid dreaming.

He was driving an open sports car in sparkling sunshine, at tremendous speed and with great exhilaration, along a steeply twisting road, the wind whistling through his hair. He shouted in exuberance as he rounded a bend with a swooping roar. All at once he saw before him a precipitous drop, down on to jagged rocks, into a boiling sea. He slammed on the brakes. There was no response.

The car whirled off the road, hurtling out through the brilliant air, describing a soaring arc before it began to fall. Down, down, faster and faster, towards the vicious rocks, the churning waves.

He started up in his chair, wide awake, his face running with sweat, his heart pounding. As he strove to steady himself he heard Diane drive up.

She came into the room a few minutes later, smiling cheerfully. She wasn’t unduly fatigued after her stint at the factory, she found it far less demanding than hospital work.

They greeted each other with affection. A little later, over coffee, Lester remembered something he had to tell her. ‘I ran into one of the Acorn committee today. He said the tickets for the dinner-dance will be ready tomorrow.’ The Acorn Club was a prestigious association, founded one hundred years ago by a group of local businessmen – among them Lester’s great-grandfather – with the aim of raising money for charity. The annual dinner-dance, always held on the last Friday in October, was the outstanding event in the Cannonbridge social calendar, a fundraiser on an impressive scale. There was always a rush for tickets; this year, because of the centenary, it was likely to prove a mad scramble.

‘I’ll get the tickets in the morning,’ Diane promised. They always looked forward to the event, they both enjoyed the big local social occasions. Diane had arranged some time ago to have the evening off work.

Her expression suddenly changed to a frown. ‘I suppose Edgar and Claire will be there?’

‘Yes, of course they will,’ Lester responded. ‘Edgar’s expected to go, in his job. And Claire’s gone with him every year since they’ve been married.’

Her frown deepened. She was three years younger than Claire, no small gap during the years of growing up; they hadn’t known each other in those days. Claire had married Edgar – much to everyone’s surprise, not least that of Edgar himself – twelve months after Lester’s marriage to Diane. The two women had never taken to each other. Relations between the households had teetered along on a shaky footing, finally petering out altogether a few months ago.

Diane’s tone was sulky. ‘If Claire’s going to be there, then I’m not going.’ Ill humour gave her face a tigerish look.

Lester was astounded. ‘Of course you’re going! Your father’s making a big donation this year. His evening will be ruined if you’re not there to see it.’ The donation ceremony, with its formal announcing of names and amounts, punctuated with drum rolls and storms of applause, was always the highlight of the evening. ‘If you don’t go, I can’t go. It would look very odd if I went without you.’

Her face remained mutinous.

He tried another tack. ‘Stuart will be there this year, now he’s old enough to go.’ Stuart was Diane’s younger brother, they had always been close. And Lester had always got on well with Stuart. ‘It would spoil all his pleasure in going if you stayed away.’

He detected a faint softening of her expression, his tone grew cajoling. ‘I honestly can’t see why it should bother you in the least if Claire’s there. The hall’s big enough in all conscience, there isn’t the slightest need for you to go anywhere near either of them all evening.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ Diane grudgingly acknowledged.

He delivered his masterstroke. ‘You go out and get yourself something really stunning to wear, guaranteed to knock Claire’s eye out. Never mind what it costs, I’ll pay.’ Diane had always envied Claire her style of looks, her easy elegance.

She began to smile. ‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘You win.’

He jumped up, went over and flung an arm round her. He gave her shoulders a squeeze, bent his head and planted a jubilant kiss on her cheek. ‘That’s my girl! We’ll have a great evening! You’ll see!’

CHAPTER 2

A mile or so from the dwelling he had built for his daughter and son-in-law, Tom Mansell’s splendid modern residence stood on the brow of a hill in a superb situation with magnificent views.

On Wednesday morning Mansell woke even earlier than usual. His brain, ever active with plans and enterprises, even during sleep, roused him to full wakefulness before five. He knew the moment he opened his eyes it was all settled, his mind was definitely made up.

He pulled on a dressing-gown and made his way silently from the room, along the corridor, past the bedroom of his son Stuart, eighteen years old now, learning the ropes at the yard – under his own careful supervision – since leaving school over twelve months ago. Past the flight of stairs leading up to the suite of rooms set aside for his housekeeper, a highly respectable widow, good-natured and motherly, in her sixties now. She had kept house for him for the past fifteen years, had ably and cheerfully assisted in the upbringing of his two children. The last ten of those years had been spent in this house, the house he had built for himself and his children, the kind of house he had always dreamed of.

He went down the stairs, towards the kitchen. He was a muscular man, forty-eight years old, a little over medium height, very striking in appearance. His hair was already snow-white, though still thick and wavy, but his heavy eyebrows had remained jet black. His skin was deeply tanned, his eyes a piercing sapphire blue. He exuded a feeling of raw power.

In the kitchen he made himself a pot of tea and carried it along to his study. He sat down at his desk and addressed himself to the matter that had been occupying his thoughts for some time now: the desirability of opening a second yard. Wychford, yes, that was definitely the place; he was getting more and more work these days over in that direction.

He smiled as he drank his tea. He would deeply relish the challenge of setting about cutting himself a second slice of the cake. He would move Lester over to take charge of the new branch. Lester would do well there, he had a good head on his shoulders. He had never traded on his position as the boss’s son-in-law, had always pulled his full weight, he had more than earned his promotion. And he might very well find a spot in the new set-up for Norman Griffin. A useful and loyal henchman, the right stuff in him, the backbone to start taking on a bit of responsibility.

He stood up and went to a wall map. Pins and flags marked current developments, projects still under discussion, sites of possible future interest, and, most mouthwatering of all, likely locations for the second yard. He studied the map closely, then he moved on to consult the calendar – his own trade calendar, expensively produced, beautifully photographed, portraying the best of the firm’s work over the previous year. It bore the correct name of the firm, Dobie and Mansell, though the business was known everywhere these days simply as Mansell‘s.

Dobie was now retired, living abroad. The firm had been started by Dobie’s father after the First World War, Tom Mansell had come in fifteen years ago. Dobie had taken no active part in the management since his retirement. As long as his share of the steadily increasing profits kept rolling in, he didn’t bother his head about what went on in the business.

Mansell fingered back the glossy pages, considering dates: September . . . October . . . November . . . His face broke into a smile, he jabbed a finger down. ‘That’s it!’ he said aloud. Sunday, November 11. He’d have them all here together for a slap-up lunch, Lester, Diane, Stuart, he’d make his announcement then.

It pleased his fancy to choose the anniversary of the day he had taken over sole active control of the firm. Dobie had left the yard for the last time thirteen years ago, on November 10, at the end of the working day. Early next morning, before anyone was about, Mansell had driven into the yard. He had walked about the entire place with a great grin on his face, knowing it was all before him, tasting the powerful sweetness of the moment.

He picked up one of the framed photographs ranged along a shelf, one he particularly liked: Diane and Lester, strolling in the rose garden here, holding hands, smiling at each other. He’d taken the photograph himself one Sunday afternoon when they’d come to tea, not long after they’d got back from their honeymoon.

He gazed fondly down at the smiling pair. How right he had been to encourage the match – in spite of the opposition from that brother of Lester’s. Edgar always struck Mansell as a dry stick, though still a couple of years away from forty. His thoughts were briefly side-tracked by a vision of Claire, beautiful and elegant. The question rose in his mind, by no means for the first time: Whatever could have persuaded a woman like that to marry such a man?

He dragged his thoughts back to Diane and Lester. No sign yet of starting a family. He drew a deep sigh. Time enough, Diane always told him whenever he raised the matter with her. Another year or two, she’d said the last time he’d brought it up, then I really will settle down to it.

He replaced the photograph and picked up another, more recent, more formally posed: Stuart on his eighteenth birthday. It was like looking at a portrait of himself as a young man. I suppose it might not be all that many years before we have Stuart thinking about getting married, he told himself with a lightening of his spirits. Not that Stuart had any steady girlfriend as yet. Mansell fervently hoped that when the time came his son would have the sense to find himself a girl with old-fashioned ideas of a home and babies, not some hard-nosed modern female with her sights set chiefly on a career.

He put the photograph back and returned to his desk. He sat staring ahead, lost in thought.

Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, they were what gave life and substance to it all, made the whole shooting-match more than a dance of shadows on a flickering screen. The unbroken line of one’s own flesh and blood stretching into the misty centuries ahead, that was what took away the sting from the stabbing thought of one’s own mortality, that must in the end prevail, struggle against it as one might.

Over in Fairbourne, Edgar Holroyd’s day didn’t begin quite so early. At six-thirty precisely he opened his eyes in the spacious front bedroom looking out over the common. Never any need for an alarm, he always woke at the same hour, winter and summer; he had trained himself to that useful habit long ago, as a lad.

A still morning, little sound of traffic as yet. Pale streaks of light stole in around the edges of the curtains. From the trees screening the garden the collared doves murmured their ceaseless calculation: Thirteen six, thirteen six.

He glanced across at the other bed. Claire lay with her back to him, curled in a posture of deep sleep. He moved his covers gently back, eased himself noiselessly out, silently drew on slippers and dressing-gown.

With barely a whisper of sound he let himself out of the room and went stealthily along the landing, into the small bedroom he had used as a dressing room since his marriage. He got into jogging gear and went down to the kitchen where he drank a glass of orange juice and ate the single piece of rye crispbread he allowed himself before setting out.

He went for his early-morning jog in all but the worst weather. Every evening, if at all possible, he took a brisk walk. He had begun these habits years ago, they were by now deeply ingrained. Claire never accompanied him on either sally, it had never occurred to either of them to suggest it.

His watch showed his customary time as he let himself out of the house and set off at his customary pace to cover his customary route.

Upstairs in the front bedroom Claire caught the sound of the side door opening and closing. She had surfaced to full consciousness before Edgar left his bed but she had lain motionless and kept her eyes closed while he was still in the room.

She switched on the light, flung back the covers and sprang out of bed. She pulled on a robe and slippers, darted across to a mirror. This morning it was her hair that occupied her attention. Time for a new style – making her third in as many months. Before that, she hadn’t changed her hairstyle since her marriage; she smiled now at the thought.

She lifted her shining tresses, pinned, unpinned, pursued a fresh inspiration; another and another, arriving at last at an effect that satisfied her. She gave a decisive nod; at her next hair appointment she would definitely suggest something along those lines.

She turned from the mirror and went to the wardrobe, she ran her hand along the rail, appraising. The first day of autumn was only a little over a week away. Some new clothes for the new season. Her blue-grey eyes sparkled. She began to hum a tune.

The area immediately to the north of Whitethorn Common contained a variety of dwellings: terrace houses, red-brick semis, large Victorian and Edwardian residences turned into flats; here and there an old cottage clinging to its original garden, reminding the district of its rural past.

A little further out, a fair-sized council estate had sprung up after the First World War. It had seen several changes; many of the houses had passed into private hands.

In one of the more attractive parts of the estate a small grove of trees separated a group of dwellings from their neighbours. One of these dwellings, a semi occupying a corner plot in a pleasant cul-de-sac, was the home of Harry Lingard, Jill Lingard’s grandfather. It had been his home since boyhood, he had lived there alone since the death of his wife three years ago. They had had one child, a son, father of Gareth and Jill; he had been carried off in his thirties by a virulent form of pneumonia. His widow had married again two years ago and lived now with her second husband in a northern city.

Harry had been up since five-thirty, endlessly busy as always, every moment of his time structured and purposeful. A wiry little man, nimble and vigorous for his seventy-two years, a teetotaller and non-smoker, with an alert eye, a weathered face, a fringe of sparse, iron-grey hair surrounding a gleaming pate.

He had been a regular soldier, a driver, never rising above the rank of private but never disgracing himself either; he had served throughout the Second World War. When his army days were over he found himself a job as a driver-porter with Calthrop’s, an old-established firm of auctioneers and estate agents in Cannonbridge; he stayed there until he retired at sixty-five. He had immediately found himself another, lighter job as a yardman at Mansell’s, where he was still working.

During his time at Calthrop’s he had always done a bit of dealing – perfectly legitimate – on the side, mainly buying in the saleroom old items of furniture in a dilapidated condition at knockdown prices, working on them at home, putting them back in the saleroom later; he had always shown a worthwhile profit. He still kept up this practice, nipping along in his dinner-hour on viewing day, leaving his bids with a porter.

He owned his council house, he had been the first tenant on the estate to exercise the right to buy, exercising it in the teeth of entrenched opposition from the forces of local bureaucracy. The house was his pride and joy. Since the purchase he had modernized and extended, refurbished every inch, carrying out all the work himself.

On this calm September morning he ate his customary sparing breakfast while listening with keen attention to the business news on the radio. It was broad daylight by the time he set off a little later to fetch his morning paper. He glanced ceaselessly about as he strode along, keeping a citizen’s eye open for broken paving-slabs, blocked road drains, overflowing litter bins, overgrown hedges, graffiti, acts of vandalism. He halted now and then to jot down anything worthy of attention in the notebook he always carried.

As he rounded a corner he caught sight of someone he recognized going into the paper shop: Edgar Holroyd. He quickened his pace, he wanted a word with Holroyd and he intended to have it here and now. Repairs to tenants’ houses on the estate were falling behind again. Though no longer a tenant himself, Harry still fought the tenants’ battles for them, orchestrating every campaign. He was a well-known figure at the local library, thumbing through legal tomes and consumer manuals in the reference room.

Inside the shop, Edgar turned from the counter with his newspaper and saw with annoyance that Harry Lingard had stationed himself in the doorway, blocking his exit. Harry’s expression told him plainly he was about to be tackled.

Harry wasted no time in greeting or preamble but launched at once into a spirited attack on the council’s procrastination and penny-pinching. He pulled out his notebook and embarked on a rapid recital of individual cases.

Edgar was humiliatingly aware of the shopkeeper, the other customers, cocking sharply interested ears. He kept his expression, his voice, civil and detached. ‘This is hardly the time or place,’ he began.

‘It’s never the time or place for you jacks-in-office,’ Harry broke in.

A ripple of amusement travelled over the watching faces.

Edgar’s jaw tightened. ‘If you’d care to make an appointment,’ he said, still deliberately courteous, ‘I’ll be happy to see you in my office.’

Harry gave a snort of disdain. ‘You’ll dodge it again,’ he averred with conviction. ‘I’ll be fobbed off with that assistant of yours.’

All commerce in the shop had now ceased. Around him Edgar felt the intently listening silence. He strove to lighten his tone. ‘I’ll make it my business to deal with you myself,’ he promised.

Harry waved the assurance aside and plunged into a fresh chapter of complaints.

Would-be customers appeared behind him in the doorway. ‘We’re holding up traffic,’ Edgar pointed out, polite to the last.

Harry stood reluctantly aside and Edgar was able to make his escape. As he took himself swiftly off to the shelter of Fairbourne, Harry’s parting shot winged after him: ‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’

In a cottage not far from the council estate, Norman Griffin, Jill Lingard’s young man, lived with his mother, a widow in her fifties. Norman was an only child. His father had also worked in the building trade, in a casual fashion; he had been a good enough workman when he was sober and not engaged in picking fights. He had died not long after his son started school. For the greater part of Norman’s existence he had been accustomed to being king of the castle.

No early-morning jogging for Norman, he got all the exercise he wanted in the course of a day’s work. And he certainly didn’t start his day with a paltry piece of rye crispbread, he tucked into a substantial breakfast every morning, set before him without fail, eaten and enjoyed without haste.

This morning, as he reached the half-way point of his meal, his mother ceased her bustling about and poured herself a companionable cup of tea. She sat down opposite him to drink it.

He looked across at her. ‘Jill and me, we seem to have decided something last night. We’re getting engaged on her birthday, the first of December.’

A smile of genuine pleasure flashed across his mother’s face. ‘That is good news! She’ll make you a good wife, she’s got her head well screwed on. When are you thinking of getting married?’

He shrugged. ‘When we can settle on somewhere to live.’

She jumped in at once. ‘No reason why the pair of you can’t live here with me, to start with, at any rate. Your bedroom’s a decent size and you could have the front room to yourselves.’

By way of reply he gave an indeterminate grunt. There was no mistaking his meaning but she wasn’t offended, her suggestion had merely been a spur-of-the-moment notion. She took another drink of her tea. ‘Harry Lingard’s house,’ she said reflectively as she set her cup down. ‘Who gets that after he’s gone?’

‘Half to Jill and half to Gareth,’ Norman replied at once.

‘It could be many a long day before Jill gets her share,’ his mother commented. ‘Harry’s as fit as a flea, he could live to be a hundred.’ Another thought struck her. ‘What are you doing about a ring? Anything decent’s sure to cost a fortune. And Jill’s not a girl to wear any kind of cheap rubbish.’

He laughed. ‘I wasn’t thinking of giving her cheap rubbish. She likes old things. I thought I might find her a nice old ring, something with a bit of quality. There’s an antiques market in Wychford every Friday, I can try there.’ He was often over that way in the course of his work.

On Wednesday evening Jill Lingard came out of York House, the Cannonbridge department store where she worked, to catch her bus. She stayed on the bus past her usual stop – she shared a rented terrace house, a few minutes’ walk from Whitethorn Common, with two other working girls. She alighted by the council estate where her grandfather lived, she frequently dropped in on him in this way and he always made her welcome. He hadn’t long got in from work himself when she knocked at his door; he gave her a cup of tea as they talked.

‘Norman and I decided last night we’re going to get engaged on my birthday,’ she told him as she drank her tea.

He looked anything but pleased. ‘You know my opinion of that young man,’ he said flatly. ‘Up to no good when he was a lad. I wouldn’t go bail for his honesty now.’

‘You’re not fair to him,’ she protested. ‘He’s never in any kind of trouble these days.’

He thrust out his lips. ‘He’s got bad blood in him, his father was no good.’

‘Tom Mansell thinks well of him,’ she pointed out.

He gave a snorting laugh. ‘That’s because they’re cut out of the same cloth.’

She gave him back a look as stubborn as his own. ‘I’m going to marry Norman, you may as well make up your mind to it.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Give him a chance, Granddad. For my sake.’

He made no response to that but demanded with an air of challenge, ‘Where are you thinking of living if you marry him? You needn’t imagine I’ll have the pair of you here with me.’

She jumped up. ‘We’ve no intention of asking you. We’ll find somewhere to suit us.’

He looked up at her. ‘You really are set on marrying him? He’ll take some managing.’

She gave him a smile full of confidence. ‘I wouldn’t want a man that didn’t take some managing.’ She stooped to drop a kiss on his bald pate. ‘We’re not going to fall out about it, are we, Granddad?’

He reached out and touched her hand. ‘That’s the last thing I’d want.’ He got to his feet, picked up her coat from the back of a chair. Something that had been bobbing about in his brain for the last few days surfaced again as he walked with her to the door.

‘I intend tackling Mansell about more money,’ he told her. ‘The tradesmen have all had a rise but nothing’s been said about me.’

She saw the familiar light of battle in his eye. ‘Don’t be too hasty,’ she cautioned. ‘It’s probably just an oversight. If you try laying down the law to Mansell you’re liable to find yourself out on your ear.’

Shortly before ten next morning Harry Lingard, busy in his duties about the yard, spotted the unmistakable figure of Tom Mansell getting out of his car. Beside him, as usual, the equally unmistakable figure of his son, Stuart.

Harry at once abandoned what he was doing and set off smartly to intercept Mansell. A few yards away, Norman Griffin was standing by his van, running his eye down the list of materials he had to pick up from the builders’ merchant, deliver out to various sites. He saw Harry stride purposefully up to Mansell, he caught the expression on Harry’s face. Norman lifted the bonnet of his van, stooped to peer inside, a position which enabled him to cock an unobtrusive ear in Mansell’s direction. Through the medley of sounds in the yard he could just about make out the gist of what Harry was saying. Silly old fool, he thought as he caught the drift, what does he imagine he can gain, tackling Mansell like that in the open yard, with other men about? The rawest apprentice lad could have told him all he’d be likely to get out of that would be a flea in the ear.

There could be no mistaking the cutting tones of Mansell’s brief response, even if his actual words couldn’t be distinguished. Mansell turned on his heel and went rapidly off towards the office, with Stuart tagging along. Harry remained where he was, his back to Norman. Judging by his stance, the angle of his head, the rebuff had by no means vanquished him.

Norman lowered the bonnet into place, climbed into his van and drove out of the yard. His route took him along Whitethorn Road. As he approached the common he saw, a little way ahead, Claire Holroyd standing alone at the bus stop, turning the pages of a book. She glanced up as he came to a halt beside her. He leaned across and opened the passenger door. ‘Hello, there.’ He gave her a cheerful smile. ‘Hop in, I’ll give you a lift into town.’

She hesitated. He picked up a duster from the dashboard shelf, whisked it over the passenger seat with a flourish. ‘Not a speck of dust, milady, clean as a whistle. Come on, hop in.’

She smiled suddenly, closed her book and stepped into the van.

In the hushed atmosphere of the Ladies’ Coat Salon at York House, Claire stood before a long mirror, contemplating with an air of profound concentration the coat she had almost decided on. Jill Lingard, who was attending to her, stood near by without speaking; she knew better than to interrupt with some comment of her own when matters had reached this critical stage.

Claire turned this way and that, studying the slender, classic cut of the coat. Of supple, lightweight tweed, a subtle blend of soft greys and misty blues, with a touch of dark chestnut; suède-covered buttons in the same dark chestnut, an elegant suède trim edging the pockets.

She tilted her head in thought. The coat was undeniably expensive, but not, she finally judged, too expensive; she could just about get away with it. Edgar wasn’t a man to throw his money around, nor to stand silently by while others threw it around on his behalf, but neither could he be described as close-fisted. Any purchase within reason and she would hear no complaint when he studied the monthly statement from their joint bank account.

She gave Jill a smiling nod of decision. ‘I’ll take it.’

‘I’m sure you’ve made the right choice,’ Jill assured her with total sincerity. It was always a pleasure to attend to Mrs Holroyd. She helped her off with the coat. ‘Would you like us to deliver it?’

‘Yes, please.’ Claire stood pondering. ‘A suède beret might be an idea for windy days, it might go well with the coat.’

‘They’ve got some beautiful suède berets in the millinery department,’ Jill told her. ‘They’ve just come in. I’m sure you couldn’t do better than one of those.’

A few minutes later, when Claire had gone off in search of her beret and there was a temporary lull in the department, another assistant, a woman who had recently joined the staff, middle-aged, with a sharp, knowing face, came over to where Jill was replacing coats on a rail.

‘I saw you serving Claire Holroyd,’ she said. Claire Holroyd, Jill registered, not Mrs Holroyd. ‘Do you know her?’ Jill asked.

‘I can’t exactly say I know her,’ the assistant answered with a movement of her shoulders. ‘I worked with her at Hartley’s a few years back.’ Hartley’s was a high-class establishment not far from York House, combining the functions of stationer, newsagent, bookstore and gift-shop. ‘I suppose I knew her as well as anyone there – and that’s not saying much. She was never one to stand around chatting, she was always reserved. She came to Hartley’s straight from school, she worked there until her accident.’

‘What accident was that?’

‘She was in a car crash. Eight years ago now, that must be. She never went back to Hartley’s after she was better, she got herself a job with the council, in the housing department.’

‘She must have been really beautiful as a girl.’ Jill felt not the faintest twinge of envy, securely content with her own ordinary share of looks; Norman thought her pretty and that was enough.

‘The accident took the bloom off her all right,’ the assistant said on a note of satisfaction. She leaned forward confidentially. ‘I saw a piece in the local paper a couple of weeks back, about Claire’s old boyfriend. He’s back in Cannonbridge, got himself a senior job in Calthrop’s, the estate agents, that’s where he worked before. Ashworth, his name is, Robert Ashworth, he’s a qualified surveyor.’

‘Ashworth,’ Jill repeated. ‘My grandfather read me that piece out of the paper. He worked at Calthrop’s till he retired, he’s always interested in anything to do with the firm.’

‘Claire was never actually engaged to Robert Ashworth,’ the assistant enlarged. ‘But we all took it for granted they’d get married. Then she was in the car crash and that seemed to be the end of it – don’t ask me why, I never did know the ins and outs of it. Ashworth left Cannonbridge and got a job somewhere else. I heard he got married not long afterwards – on the rebound, I shouldn’t wonder. The daughter of some businessman, so they said, pretty well-heeled.’ She slanted at Jill a look full of meaning. ‘Robert Ashworth’s a good-looking man, a lot better looking than Edgar Holroyd.’ Her smile was laced with malice. ‘I wonder if Edgar knows Ashworth is back.’

A few minutes later Diane Holroyd drove into the York House car park. Her own little car was in for a service, she was temporarily using one of her father’s vehicles. She got out of the car and walked round towards the front of the store. As she turned the corner of the building she saw her sister-in-law come out through the swing doors. Claire didn’t see her, she set off in the opposite direction. Diane walked slowly on, looking fixedly after the elegant figure moving gracefully away into the distance.

At a quarter past twelve Claire left the public library. Her face wore a look of satisfaction; she had managed to pick up no fewer than four books on her college reading list.

The weather was fine, pleasantly warm. She strolled without haste towards the bus stop. Never any rush to get back to Fairbourne in the middle of the day, Edgar was never at home for lunch during the week.

Ahead of her on the other side of the road lay the imposing premises of Calthrop’s, auctioneers and estate agents. She glanced over at the frontage, ran her eye along the windows, as she had done lately whenever she went by, ever since the day towards the end of August when she had come across the paragraph about Robert Ashworth in the local paper.

She came to an abrupt halt, her heart thumping. She stared across at the middle window on the first floor. A tall man, thirty-five or so, stood with his head half turned away, talking to someone behind him. He moved his head and she saw his face: Robert Ashworth, almost exactly as she remembered him. Her heart beat so fiercely she feared she might faint.

Robert glanced down, his eye lighted on her. He froze. She stood looking up at him, incapable of movement.

He leaned forward, smiled down at her, raised a hand in greeting. She felt a great rush of release. She smiled, waved back.

A young man carrying a sheaf of papers came up to Robert, spoke to him. Robert turned from the window, casting a final look in her direction.

On the bus home she sat lost in thought. The moment she closed the front door of Fairbourne behind her she dumped her things in the hall and went down to the basement, kept in immaculate order by her husband. She went to the shelves where he stacked old newspapers and magazines until he took them along to the recycling depot. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for: the local weekly paper from the end of August.

She knew precisely where to find the item about Robert’s appointment: halfway down the third right-hand page. She gazed intently at Ashworth’s image, sharp and clear for a newspaper photograph. She scanned the paragraph with close attention but it yielded nothing fresh, no forgotten detail. Only the same facts implacably confronting her: Ashworth was married with two young children, his family would be joining him later.

She restored the paper to the pile and went slowly back up the stairs. She changed her clothes, made herself a snack lunch before setting diligently about household chores. She was busy in the sitting room when the phone rang. Her face lit up. She ran into the hall, snatched up the receiver, spoke her number.

‘Claire?’ asked a male voice at the other end.

CHAPTER 3

Summer gave way to autumn, the leaves turned gold. Dusk and dawn were veiled in mist, the pungent smoke of garden bonfires rose blue on the weekend air.

The Acorn dinner-dance marking the centenary of the club took place on the last Friday in October. A glittering occasion, much talked over before and after, fully written up and photographed for the local press.

On the evening of the second Thursday in November Harry Lingard left work and drove home in his little van. He liked to leave promptly, there was always some pressing chore or urgent piece of business awaiting him.

The bulk of his spare time during the latter part of every week was taken up delivering copies of the Bazaar, a local freesheet, long established; he had been one of the earliest recruits to the distribution team. His territory had grown over the years as distributors in adjoining districts fell by the wayside, and his round was currently the largest and certainly the best conducted; it earned him a very useful sum. He liked to vary the way in which he covered his territory, it helped to keep his interest alive. He prided himself on getting his deliveries finished by Saturday evening. Some distributors were still shouldering their satchels on Sunday morning; Harry considered that a slack way of going on.

The bundles of papers were dropped off at his house around two o’clock on Thursday afternoon, they were stacked on the bench in the front porch, which he left unlocked for the purpose. Before he set off on his first delivery he always glanced swiftly through the For Sale columns, in order to be the first, if possible, to snap up some bargain he could work on, re-sell privately or through the auction rooms. He had often struck lucky in this way.

At six-thirty on this nippy Thursday evening he was ready to leave on his first foray, the official satchel – scarlet, with the Bazaar logo in black and white – slung over his shoulder. He never carried too heavy a load, always took time between trips, if he felt the need, to sit down in his kitchen for a hot drink or a snack. He took care to dress sensibly against the weather. This evening he wore woollen mittens and woollen cap nattily striped in brown and white; his feet were in black trainers, comfortably padded. The collar of his quilted grey jacket was turned up round his ears. In one lapel he sported an outsize red poppy – next Sunday was Remembrance Day, a notable point in Harry’s year.

As he went out, locking the door behind him, he gave his customary good-neighbour glance over at the adjoining semi, checking all was in order. The house was in darkness, it had stood empty since the last tenants had left two weeks ago, to move to another town.

He was halfway through his second trip when he ran into his granddaughter and her boyfriend on their way to a cinema. ‘I’ve just been to tea at Norman’s,’ Jill told him. ‘Mrs Griffin invited me. She went to a lot of trouble, she laid on a marvellous spread.’ She eyed him teasingly. ‘Isn’t it about time you thought of inviting Norman to tea?’

Harry gave her a quelling look. Norman stood by in silence, his expression tinged with amusement. ‘What about next Sunday?’ Jill’s tone was light but Harry saw by her eye that she meant business.

‘Next Sunday’s no good.’ He couldn’t repress a note of satisfaction. ‘I’m going over to see Cyril Shearman in the afternoon, he’ll be expecting me.’ He had served in the army with Shearman, now a widower a few years older than Harry, no longer in good health; he lived in a retirement home in pleasant rural surroundings a few miles from Cannonbridge. Harry went over to see him every couple of months, he certainly wouldn’t miss seeing him on Remembrance Sunday.

‘No problem,’ Jill batted back at once. ‘We’ll come to supper instead.’ Her eyes sparkled with good-humoured determination. You’ll accept Norman one day, her look told him, I’ll make sure you do.

All at once he caved in. ‘All right then,’ he agreed. An engagement, after all, was very far from being the same thing as a marriage. Young women had been known to change their minds. In the meantime he had no intention of falling out with his only granddaughter over such a trifle as Sunday supper.

He plastered a smile on his face. ‘Next Sunday it is. I’ll see you both around seven-thirty.’

Remembrance Sunday dawned bright and clear, perfect weather for the annual parades. Harry would be marching to a special church service alongside other veterans, banners held proudly aloft, brass bands in stirring attendance.

He gave his shoes an extra shine, put on his best dark suit, a spotless white shirt freshly laundered by himself. He pinned his campaign medals to his chest, his poppy on one lapel, the gold regimental badge he always wore, on the other. On his little finger the gold signet ring with his entwined initials that his wife had given him the day they were married; on his wrist the gold watch bought for him two years ago on his seventieth birthday, engraved on the back with name and date, a joint present from Gareth and Jill.

When he was ready he surveyed himself with satisfaction in the long mirror of his wardrobe, then he let himself out of the house and set off for the rallying-point at a briskly military pace.

Tom Mansell’s housekeeper had taken particular pains with today’s lunch. Only the family, Mansell had told her, but a very special occasion. It wasn’t till the coffee stage that Mansell rose to his feet with an air of ceremony.

‘Thirteen years ago today,’ he said, ‘I took control of Dobie and Mansell’s. I give you a toast.’ He lifted his coffee-cup. He allowed nothing stronger than coffee in his house, he had been raised in a strictly teetotal household. ‘To the next thirteen years!’ The others echoed the toast, raised their cups, smiling.

Mansell remained on his feet. ‘I give you another toast. To the new yard, in Wychford!’ He saw the quick movement of all three heads, the look of surprise on the face of Diane and Stuart. But not on Lester’s face. Lester’s expression showed satisfaction, confirmation of something already guessed. Smart lad, Mansell thought with approval, no flies on Lester. ‘We’ll be starting the ball rolling any day now.’ Mansell raised his cup again. ‘To the future!’

Before setting off to see Cyril Shearman Harry checked that all was ready for supper. Traffic was light and he reached the home shortly after three. Shearman was, as always, pleased to see him, they sat in the almost deserted lounge, talking over old times. At half past four several residents came down from their rooms for tea and cake, dispensed from a trolley by a member of staff.

Shearman nodded over in the direction of one of the residents, an old woman with a weatherbeaten face, a countrified look, making her uncertain way into the lounge, leaning on a stick. ‘That’s Mrs Vaile,’ Shearman told Harry. ‘She came here a few weeks back from one of the company’s other homes.’ There were a number of homes under the same management, scattered over a wide area; residents could move, within reason, between one home and another. Mrs Vaile had sold her own house in the summer and had gone initially to a company home by the sea.

‘She’s been a widow for some years,’ Shearman added. ‘Her husband served in the army during the war.’ He mentioned the name of Vaile’s regiment which had fought more than once alongside their own.

Harry was immediately interested, he would like a word with Mrs Vaile. Shearman took him over to where she sat alone, drinking tea. She was pleased to see them. Harry sat down beside her and began to chat in a friendly fashion. He asked about her late husband, told her he would be delighted to do anything he could for her, as the widow of a man who had been – more or less – an old comrade-in-arms.

Before long she was telling him the saga of the last few difficult years, how she had at last decided to sell her house and move into a home. As she talked Harry grew even more interested. He began to ask questions; she answered freely. A gleam appeared in his eye. His questions became more inquisitorial, the gleam in his eye brighter.

Over supper Jill inquired how her grandfather had found Cyril Shearman.

‘He’s in pretty good spirits,’ Harry told her. ‘He introduced me to a new resident, I had a long talk with her.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘A very interesting talk.’

‘Oh?’ Jill said idly. ‘What was so interesting about it?’

Harry looked knowing. ‘That’s what Tom Mansell’s going to find out.’

‘Mansell?’ Jill echoed. ‘What has this old woman got to do with Tom Mansell?’

He didn’t answer that. ‘I’m going to tackle Mansell about it in the morning,’ he declared with relish. ‘I’ll sort him out properly this time.’

Jill laughed. ‘It’s a wonder you haven’t put the world to rights by now, you’ve been sorting folk out for long enough.’

He pushed his cup towards her for a refill. ‘I’d better make some fresh tea,’ she decided. ‘This isn’t too hot.’ She went along to the kitchen.

‘I’ve got Mansell well and truly by the tail this time,’ Harry couldn’t resist saying to Norman. ‘He’s not going to find it so easy to wriggle out of this one. I’ve had my suspicions once or twice before that there was something going on, a nice little band of brothers operating. I’ve a pretty good notion of the kind of tricks some of these johnnies get up to, given half a chance. But I could never get my teeth into anything solid.’ He thrust out his lips. ‘I’ve got hold of something good and solid this time and I’m not letting go.’

‘What is it you fancy you’re on to?’ Norman asked with interest.

Harry tapped the side of his nose. ‘Never you mind. I’m hardly likely to give you the details, you’re Mansell’s man.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Mansell still hasn’t given me the rise I’m entitled to. We’ll see how he likes what I’ve got to say tomorrow.’

‘Is that what all this is about?’ Norman asked in amusement. ‘Some ploy to get your rise? You want to have a word with Lester Holroyd, he’ll see you right. That’s what you should have done in the first place instead of shouting the odds at Mansell. You could hardly expect him to take kindly to that. What boss would?’

Among Lester Holroyd’s varied responsibilities was the general oversight of the yard office, though its day-to-day running lay in the capable hands of a middle-aged woman who had worked for Mansell for a number of years; she had the help of two part-timers, young married women.

On Monday morning Lester reached the office earlier than usual. He had woken well before the alarm was due to ring, his head buzzing with ideas churned up by his father-in-law’s announcement at the end of Sunday lunch. He was sorting through the mail when Mansell drove into the yard with Stuart beside him. A minute or two later Mansell put his head round the office door.

‘I want to catch Norman before he goes off out.’ He broke off at the sound of an incoming vehicle and glanced over his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, that’s Norman now.’ He went off to where Norman was getting out of his van; Stuart followed. ‘I want a word with you,’ Mansell told Norman.

And I want a word with you, Norman answered in his mind.

‘You’re not on the carpet,’ Mansell assured him with a grin. ‘You’re going to like what I’ve got to say unless I’m very much mistaken.’

I very much doubt you’re going to like what I’ve got to say to you, Norman responded inside his head.

Mansell began to tell him about his plans for the new yard, the likelihood of a place in the new set-up for Norman, carrying some responsibility.

Over in the office Lester glanced out of the window and saw the trio standing by the van: Mansell smiling, talking, gesticulating; Norman looking pleased and stimulated, nodding his head; Stuart close by, not joining in but listening, observing.

As Lester watched he saw Harry Lingard’s little van drive into the yard. Harry got out but he didn’t go off about his duties, he remained where he was, his vehicle screening him from the other three. He stood looking intently across at them.

Lester went on watching. Mansell stopped talking, he clapped Norman on the arm in a gesture of friendly encouragement and turned to go. Norman’s pleased expression vanished. He began to talk rapidly, with a serious look. Mansell’s face changed. He stood arrested, half-turned away, frowning down at the ground; Stuart listened with keen interest.

Norman’s flow ceased, Mansell turned to face him. He appeared to fire a series of questions, some of which Norman seemed to deal with at once, others he met with a movement of his shoulders or a slow shake of his head, as if signifying he didn’t know the answer to that one.

The exchange ended. Men were moving about the yard. As Mansell went striding off with Stuart following, Harry Lingard stepped out from the shelter of his van to intercept them. Mansell halted, regarding Harry with a face of steel. Norman Griffin, on his way across the yard, glanced back and saw the two men in fierce altercation, with Stuart a silent onlooker. Norman halted for a moment, then continued on his way.

The office door opened and one of the female clerks came in. She greeted Lester and at once raised a query about an office matter. As Lester turned from the window to speak to her the phone rang. The day had begun in earnest, there was no more looking out of windows.

It was Jill Lingard’s intention to call in on her grandfather on her way home from work on Thursday evening. In the event she left York House a little later than usual, missing the bus she normally caught. It was a raw evening, with a stiff breeze. She decided not to stand waiting in the cold for the next bus but to walk along to the stop by the college, where there was a shelter.

As she approached the college she saw a bus pull up at the other side of the road and passengers alight. Several crossed over towards the college; among them she spotted Mrs Holroyd carrying some books. She was wearing the grey-blue tweed coat Jill had sold her – and a suède beret, she noted with professional interest. I was right about the beret, Jill thought with satisfaction, it goes beautifully with the coat.

Mrs Holroyd saw her, they smiled, exchanged a word of greeting. How well she looks, Jill thought, better than she ever remembered seeing her. Under the street lights she seemed to wear a bloom of health and happiness.

When Jill arrived at her grandfather’s she found him despatching a hasty meal before starting out on the first of his freesheet trips. ‘I’m glad I caught you,’ she told him. ‘I won’t delay you. I’m going over to Gareth’s tomorrow evening, straight from work, I’m staying with them for a few days.’ She was using up what was left of her annual leave. ‘I rang Gareth and fixed it.’ She was going by train, Gareth would run her back on Tuesday evening. ‘He said he’d like to look in on you for an hour or so after he’s dropped me,’ she added. Gareth worked long hours, it was some time since Harry had seen him. ‘He wants to know if you’ll be in around eight o’clock on Tuesday.’

‘I’ll make it my business to be in,’ Harry responded with energy. ‘Tell him I’ll be delighted to see him. Give my love to Anne and the children.’

She let herself out into the chill air. She wouldn’t be seeing Norman this evening; she was staying in to wash her hair, pack her bag, get an early night.

Friday evening was overcast and blustery, and though the rain held off it was cold enough to keep the strollers from the common.

Mrs Griffin had a good hot meal prepared for Norman, as she had every evening. By the time he had washed and changed she had it ready for him on the table in the kitchen, cosy from the warmth of the stove. She wore a housecoat, her hair was in rollers. She had just had a bath, and would be dolling herself up to go out as soon as she had cleared the table after Norman finished eating. Friday was one of her social club evenings; she went along to the club two or three evenings a week. She always went by bus but could usually rely on getting a lift home. She enjoyed every visit to the club but Friday nights were special, that was when they had the olde-tyme dancing. Tonight she must get there early, there was going to be a little ceremony before the dancing started, the presentation of a retirement gift to the club secretary.

Norman sat down before his piled-up plate and attacked it with a hearty appetite. His mother hovered about, cutting bread, pouring tea. She ran an eye over what he was wearing: his new trousers, good jacket, smartest shirt. ‘You going out?’ she asked.

‘Might go along to the pub,’ he said between mouthfuls. She gave a little nod. He liked a glass of beer with his mates, more to be sociable than anything else, no harm in that; she never ceased to be thankful he didn’t drink the way his father had done.

By seven she was dressed, ready for the evening. She stuck her head round the door of the little workroom opening off the kitchen where Norman was fiddling with his old radios – they had been his hobby since schooldays. ‘I thought you were going out,’ she said.

He didn’t look up. ‘I’ve decided not to bother. Might as well make use of the time while Jill’s away, it’s a chance to get on with this.’

‘You should change out of your good clothes, ’ she advised. When he made no response she let it go. She very rarely pressed a point with Norman, she had learned long ago that it didn’t pay.

He glanced at his watch. ‘You’ll miss your bus,’ he warned.

She was galvanized into motion. ‘Right, then, I’m off. I’ll be back around half-twelve or one.’

In the early hours of Saturday morning the force of the wind greatly increased. It blew strongly all day, driving clouds before it, tossing branches of trees on the common. Late on Saturday night it began to slacken in strength. By breakfast time on Sunday it had fallen calm again.

The day was bright and sunny. Householders emerged to wash their cars, tidy their gardens. In the ground-floor flat of a converted Victorian house on Whitethorn Road, Miss Tarrant, a middle-aged spinster, supervisor of the typing pool in a Cannonbridge firm, woke late: gone half past nine, she saw by the clock.

She got out of bed and drew back the curtains. She wouldn’t bother with lunch today, she’d have a good breakfast and then get on with the hundred and one jobs awaiting her. She had recently bought the flat and was currently in the process of doing it up, furnishing it, tackling the garden.

In the kitchen a little later she discovered to her annoyance that she’d forgotten to buy bread yesterday. Fortunately the corner shop across the common was open on Sunday mornings, she could nip out and get a loaf.

She put on her coat and went out into the sparkling sunshine. She walked briskly up the road, crossed over on to the common. As she drew near Fairbourne she heard the sound of shears. She glanced in as she passed the front gate and saw Mr Holroyd at work a few feet away. She had some slight acquaintance with him in his official capacity; before she bought her flat she had been a council tenant. She called out a friendly greeting. ‘Much better weather today,’ she added. He looked up, gave her a few words in reply.

She halted as a thought struck her. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance have finished with your copy of the Bazaar? Mine doesn’t seem to have been delivered. I like to read the small ads, I’m still on the lookout for things for the flat.’

Edgar shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. My copy hasn’t been delivered either.’

It occurred to her as she resumed her quick pace that she could ask at the corner shop, they might have a copy to spare.

A few yards ahead, young lads, eight or nine years old, were kicking a football around with more enthusiasm than skill. The ball suddenly came straight at her; if she hadn’t jumped aside it would have struck her in the face. ‘Watch what you’re doing!’ she called out sharply.

One of the lads came racing after the ball, throwing her a grin of apology as he darted by. A few moments later another random shot sent the ball soaring over the gate of the last house on this part of the common. Some of the boys snatched open the gate and ran in after the ball. They began to search about in the long grass bordering the drive, the drifts of dead leaves. One agile lad climbed nimbly up into a tall tree and directed his gaze over the ground below.

Miss Tarrant strode over to the gateway. She clicked her tongue at the sight of the youngsters ferreting about; they had no business in there at all, roaming over a private garden. She said as much in ringing tones.

‘It’s all right,’ a lad assured her. ‘There’s no one at home, there never is this time of year. It’s an old couple live there, they always go to Spain for the winter.’

She wasn’t in the least mollified. ‘That doesn’t give you the right to trespass on their property.’

Another lad suddenly spied the football in a tangle of undergrowth and fell upon it with a cry of triumph.

‘Come along!’ Miss Tarrant ordered. ‘Out of here, all of you!’ They ran shouting and laughing out on to the common again. All except the lad up the tree. He was right at the top now, his feet securely lodged, glancing with lively interest.

Miss Tarrant marched in through the gate and positioned herself at the foot of the tree. ‘You too,’ she called up to him. ‘Come along down. At once.’

He seemed not to hear. He craned forward, staring down into the shrubbery. She called up to him again, loudly and forcefully. He made no reply but suddenly began to descend the tree, scrambling swiftly down, dropping to the ground at her feet. He scarcely glanced at her but darted off at once towards the shrubbery. She set her jaw and went after him.

He came to a halt, stooped and peered under the drooping branches. Her gaze travelled after his, to a heap of bracken fronds. She uttered a gasping cry. A pair of legs was sticking out from the bracken, legs clad in dark trousers, the feet shod in black trainers. Her heart lurched in her chest, and she reached out to steady herself against a tree.

The lad swept aside the bracken, revealing the rest of the body, face down in the undergrowth, clad in a grey quilted jacket, a woollen cap striped in brown and white, darkly stained with blood.

CHAPTER 4

Mrs Griffin liked to dish up Sunday dinner promptly at one-thirty. At a quarter past twelve, Norman, who had spent the morning tinkering with his radios, washed and changed, ready for his usual pint of beer in the pub up the road.

The moment he walked in through the pub door he knew something was up, there was none of the customary laughter and badinage, only serious looks, hushed voices. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked one of the regulars.

‘Old Harry Lingard,’ the man told him. ‘They’ve found his body on Whitethorn Common.’

‘His body?’ Norman echoed with a look of stupefaction. ‘You don’t mean he’s dead?’

‘He’s dead all right,’ the man responded with energy. ‘Back of his head bashed in. The common’s crawling with police, they’ve got it all cordoned off.’ A thought struck him. ‘That girlfriend of yours, Harry’s granddaughter, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she is. She’s not here just now, she’s over at her brother’s for the weekend. I’d better let the police know.’ He left the pub at once. To reach the common he had to pass his own house again. He went inside for a moment to tell his mother the grim news and where he was bound; he had no idea how long he’d be.

She was thunderstruck. ‘It’ll be one of those muggers,’ she declared with conviction as soon as she’d got her breath back. ‘I can’t believe it, I’ve known Harry all my life.’ She began to cry.

He put an arm round her shoulders. ‘I can’t stop,’ he told her. ‘I’ve got to get along to the common.’

Police in gumboots and overalls were carrying out a fingertip search; scattered knots of onlookers watched from a permitted distance. The police photographers had finished their work, the body had gone to the mortuary. Pressmen from the local papers were in evidence; the local radio station had put out a newsflash.

The police doctor had put the time of death, at a rough estimate, at between six o’clock and midnight on Friday evening. The back of the skull had been shattered with a blunt instrument; minor scratches and abrasions to the face would seem to have been caused by the body being dragged by the feet, face down, over the last yard or two before being dumped under the trees.

The body was fully clothed but there was nothing in any of the pockets, no personal possessions of any kind on the body. There was no sign of any weapon, nor any sign of the scarlet satchel of freesheets Harry must surely have been carrying.

When Norman reached the common Detective Chief Inspector Kelsey was talking to the coroner in the driveway of the property where the body had been discovered. The coroner, a local doctor of long experience, always made a point of viewing the body in the spot where it was found, if at all possible.

Norman spoke to a constable, saying he wished to speak to the officer in charge. He was directed to the driveway and stood waiting till the two men had finished their conversation. He saw the Chief Inspector register his presence. A big, solidly built man, Chief Inspector Kelsey, with massive shoulders. He had a head of thickly springing carroty hair, a freckled face dominated by a large, squashy nose.

At last the two men shook hands and the coroner went off to his car. Kelsey gave Norman an inquiring glance.

Norman introduced himself and explained about Jill and Gareth. Kelsey’s shrewd green eyes ranged over him as he talked. A constable had already been despatched to Harry Lingard’s house but had got no response there or at the adjoining semi. A neighbour further along had seen Harry leaving his house with his satchel of papers at around six-fifteen on Friday evening.

‘Jill’s not due back till Tuesday evening,’ Norman told the Chief.

‘We’ll get over there and break the news,’ the Chief said. But he had one or two matters to attend to first.

‘All right if I come along?’ Norman asked. ‘Jill will be very upset, I’d like to be with her.’

‘I don’t see why not.’ Kelsey consulted his watch. ‘You can get off home now. Meet us at Harry Lingard’s house at two-thirty sharp, you can ride with us.’

Five minutes before the appointed time Norman reached the house and stationed himself by the police car. Chief Inspector Kelsey, accompanied by Detective Sergeant Lambert, was talking to the constable on guard. In the absence of any keys to the house the Chief had felt no necessity to force an entry; it was possible one of the two grandchildren might have a key. He had contented himself for the present with an external tour of the property.

Every door and window in the house had been carefully secured, the curtains were all closed; nowhere any sign of disturbance. Through the porch window the Chief could see copies of the Bazaar stacked in bundles on the bench.

The garage was locked, windows fastened; a small van was visible inside. The garden shed was not locked, though its windows were closed.

At two-thirty Kelsey strode out to the car. Norman was to ride in front beside the sergeant. The Chief took his seat in the rear where he immediately leaned back and closed his eyes, uttering not one syllable during the journey. It took three-quarters of an hour to reach Gareth Lingard’s cottage which stood on the outskirts of a town; it had a sizeable piece of land attached.

An estate car was drawn up near the open front door when the police vehicle pulled up. A boy about four years old, wearing outdoor clothes, was jumping on and off the doorstep, counting his jumps in a clear treble. As Sergeant Lambert put his hand on the gate Gareth and his wife came out of the house, deep in conversation. Anne was leading a toddler by the hand; they were all dressed in outdoor clothes. They made to turn towards the estate car and caught sight of the trio at the gate. They halted; Gareth looked over at them with inquiry. He spotted Norman, his face took on a look of puzzlement.

The three men walked up the path. As the Chief was introducing himself Jill Lingard came out of the house to join the others. She gave a little cry of surprise at the sight of Norman. In the same moment her ears caught what the Chief was saying. Norman locked eyes with her but he said nothing, he made no move in her direction.

‘I’m afraid we bring bad news,’ Kelsey said gently, now including Jill in his gaze. ‘Very bad news. I think it’s best if we all go inside.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Gareth led the way into the sitting room where Norman took up his position at Jill’s side.

‘It’s about your grandfather, Mr Harold Lingard,’

Kelsey began. Jill gave a gasp and put a hand up to her face. Norman slid an arm around her shoulders.

‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you he’s dead,’ Kelsey went on. Jill lowered her head and began to cry.

‘Dead?’ Gareth echoed in shocked astonishment. ‘Has there been an accident?’

The Chief shook his head. He began to explain the circumstances in which Harry had been found. His bleak recital was punctuated by Jill’s sobs, questions from Gareth. Anne sat in silence, her face full of concern and sympathy; the two children stared at the visitors.

Anne appeared to be a sensible and practical young woman. She produced a tray of tea and then busied herself packing Jill’s suitcase. On the journey back to Cannonbridge Norman and Jill travelled with Gareth behind the police vehicle; their first stop was at the hospital mortuary. Gareth went inside with the two policemen to make the formal identification. When they came out again he looked white and shaken; he said nothing as he got back into the car. Norman offered to drive and Gareth made no resistance; Norman followed the police car to the council estate.

Gareth had no keys to his grandfather’s house; neither he nor Jill had ever had any. But Jill knew of a key to the back door, kept in the garden shed. ‘Granddad put it there for me,’ she explained in unsteady tones, ‘in case I ever needed it. I hardly ever used it.’

They went along to the shed and Jill indicated a pair of secateurs lying on a corner shelf. The Chief took a pen from his pocket and with the tip raised the end of the secateurs, revealing the key; he left it where it was. Both key and secateurs were of old, dull metal, far from smooth. Neither could be touched before being tested, although there was little hope of useful prints.

With Gareth’s permission they broke a pane in the kitchen window to gain entry. Inside, all was scrupulously neat and tidy, the whole house spotlessly clean. Harry’s private papers were kept in a bureau in the sitting room but the bureau was locked. Gareth was able to supply the name of his grandfather’s bank and the solicitor who had drawn up his will two years ago.

At the Chief’s request Gareth and Jill set about compiling a list of what their grandfather might be expected to have on him. Watch, ring, regimental badge. Pigskin wallet – a present from Jill last Christmas. Zipped coin purse, oldish, of brown leather. Notebook, ballpoint pen, van keys, house keys – including the key to the bureau. A white handkerchief.

When the list was as complete as they could make it, Jill looked up at the Chief, her eyes bright with tears. ‘Is that what Granddad’s life was valued at?’ she demanded fiercely. ‘Is that what some thug thought it worth killing him for?’

CHAPTER 5

The Chief was at the police station early on Monday morning to assess the first results of the house-to-house inquiries before going along to the General Hospital where the postmortem on Harry Lingard was shortly due to begin.

As always with a case of this nature there was no shortage of reports, once the news of the crime had been made public, of unsavoury-looking characters having recently been seen in the area. Vehicles, too; the public could always be relied on to recall strange vehicles parked in out-of-the-way spots, appearing abruptly, vanishing equally suddenly. None of these reports struck the Chief’s practised eye as having any real significance, though all must be scrupulously followed up, however much valuable time and effort was wasted in the process.

One report did briefly arrest the Chief’s attention, that of a householder, a young single mother living in a street off Whitethorn Road. She had got up during Friday night to attend to her crying infant. After she put the baby back in its cot she went down to the kitchen to make herself a hot drink. On her way downstairs she heard screeching sounds from the direction of the common, sufficiently loud and sudden to halt her on the stairs. She stood listening for a minute or so but there were no more screeches. Some freak of the wind, she told herself; it was certainly blowing strongly at the time, with fierce intermittent gusts. Or a fox, perhaps; they were not unknown at night around the common, they were capable of the most eerie, heart-stopping cries. She was able to give the time she had heard the sounds. When she entered the kitchen she had glanced up at the clock, a reliable timekeeper; it had shown twenty minutes past two.

It was when his eye fell upon this statement of the time that the Chief lost interest in the report. However variable the way in which Harry set about his round from one week to the next, it was scarcely conceivable that he could have been crossing the common at twenty past two in the morning. No other householder, the Chief noted, had reported hearing these screeching cries – but then, maybe, none of them had a two-month-old baby to get them out of bed at that time of night.

So far they hadn’t come up with anyone who had actually spotted Harry putting a copy of the Bazaar through a letterbox that evening, nor had they discovered any householder on Harry’s round who could tell them at what precise moment his own copy had dropped on to the mat.

The search of the common was not yet completed. It had yielded a variety of items; none appeared to have any connection with the murder. Nothing approximating to the blunt instrument they were seeking had so far turned up.

In one of the drawers of Harry’s bureau, which had now been opened by a locksmith, they had found Harry’s chequebook and bank card but they had come across nothing that seemed to offer any clue to the crime.

Shortly after eleven the pathologist came out of the mortuary with Chief Inspector Kelsey; they stood talking in the corridor.

Harry Lingard had been in exceptionally good physical condition for his age, he could well have been expected to live an active life into his late eighties.

Four savage blows had been dealt to the back of his head. The blows appeared to have been struck by a right-handed person, with both assailant and victim in an upright position; whether one or both were in motion at the time it was not possible to say. There had been little bleeding; the second blow had in all probability killed him. The assault had not required exceptional strength; it was not, for instance, beyond the power of a fit, strong female.

It wasn’t possible to be more specific about the kind of blunt instrument used; some kind of heavy tool seemed most likely. Nor was it possible to fix the time of death with any certainty; the pathologist put it on Friday evening, between seven and midnight.

Gareth Lingard was not in a position to spend more time away from his business than was absolutely essential. He drove over to Cannonbridge in his lunch-hour to look in at the police station, learn the results of the post-mortem.

In the afternoon the Chief called in at Mansell’s yard. Mansell was expecting them; Sergeant Lambert had phoned in the morning to make an appointment. The moment the police car drove in Mansell came out of the office with Stuart at his side. The Chief had some slight acquaintance with Mansell but he had never met Stuart. His father all over again, the Chief thought as the pair crossed the yard towards him.

‘An appalling business,’ Mansell said as they shook hands; he took them into the inner office. The Chief asked routine questions about the dead man and Mansell answered readily. Lingard had been an excellent worker, willing and obliging, unfailingly punctual, very honest. He had been well liked, had never been in any kind of trouble. Mansell knew of no personal or other difficulties. He seemed to take it for granted that Lingard had been the victim of a mugging.

His manner throughout was helpful and friendly, but from time to time the Chief received a fleeting impression of wariness and tension. Stuart was at no point called upon to speak nor did he volunteer any observation; he held himself alertly interested throughout.

The conversation didn’t take long. As they were about to leave, Lester Holroyd drove into the yard; he walked across to the office, encountering the policemen in the doorway. There was a further brief exchange but Lester could add nothing to what Mansell had told them.

Later in the day the local evening paper came out with a four-page spread on the crime. Photographs of police activities, interviews with residents of the council estate, recounting Harry’s many endeavours on their behalf. Tributes from fellow members of the British Legion.

Mention was made of the fact that it was Harry’s evidence which had been largely responsible on three separate occasions over the past few years for the arrest and sentencing of local youths on charges of vandalism and thefts from cars. What the paper didn’t mention was that Harry had reported yet another such case, lads breaking into cars, only a matter of weeks back; he would have been giving evidence when the case came up. The lads concerned were at present out on bail.

A sizeable section of local opinion laid the murder firmly at the door of some one or more of these tearaway youths, either bent on revenge or maybe disturbed in the course of committing some further misdemeanour. Possibly, such opinion had it, there had been no serious intention of actually killing the old man, the wish had more probably been merely to rough him up, teach him a lesson. Easy enough, in the event, for someone to strike too hard, astonishing himself – and any mates – by the violence of the aggression sweeping over him.

But more general opinion in the local pubs inclined towards a run-of-the-mill mugging that had got out of hand, the victim being selected for ease in carrying out the robbery, with total indifference as to who that victim might be, the perpetrators more than likely not from the locality at all.

It was on this last point that opinion most sharply divided, some firmly rejecting the possibility that local lads could be involved in such a brutal crime, others maintaining with equal vehemence that the choice of dumping-ground – a private garden with the owners absent – must surely argue a degree of local knowledge.

Both groups were united in believing more than one assailant must have been involved, probably with a vehicle of some sort nearby. How else account for the spiriting away of the satchel and freesheets? A lone attacker on foot, argued the know-alls, would scarcely set about lugging the body single-handed off the common and into the garden, and then attempt to make off under the street lights, weighed down with a heavy satchel, brilliantly coloured, specifically designed to be noticed.

Tuesday morning brought a conference and press briefing. At noon the Chief had an appointment with Harry Lingard’s solicitor.

Harry’s will was a straightforward document. After a number of bequests to charities he had actively supported, his estate was split down the middle between his two grandchildren. Apart from the house, Harry had owned stocks and shares, various other investments. ‘A lot of folk are going to be surprised at the amount he leaves,’ the solicitor said. ‘He saved all his life, he was a shrewd investor.’ Harry’s wife had been the only child of a shopkeeper, she had inherited a substantial sum in her middle years; no mortgage had been needed when Harry came to buy his council house.

Gareth had been appointed joint executor with the solicitor. Both grandchildren knew the contents of the will; Harry had talked it over with them before the will was drawn up. To the best of the solicitor’s knowledge Harry had always been on excellent terms with both grandchildren. As far as he knew, neither was in any financial difficulty.

The Chief pondered these points as he left the solicitor’s office. Jill had reached Gareth’s house around six-thirty on Friday evening. Anne was there with the children, Gareth came in from work shortly afterwards. They had spent the evening together in the house. Gareth’s partner and his wife had come in for an hour or two after supper, arriving at about eight and leaving around ten-thirty. By eleven everyone had retired for the night.

Before returning to the station Kelsey called in at the bank and building society where Harry had held accounts. Both accounts showed substantial balances; there had been no unusual movement recently in either.

The afternoon saw an energetic round-up of every youth in the area who might be thought to have harboured a grudge against Harry Lingard. Clubs, discos and similar meeting-places were visited during the evening. Interviews took place in the police station, in the offices of clubs, in lads’ homes, in the presence of parents where possible.

The effect of all this activity was to arouse a good deal of apprehension in a section of local society more usually remarkable for its carefree attitude to law and order. Petty crime might be an everyday staple but suspicion of murder was another kettle of fish altogether, one that had many of these characters quaking in their designer trainers.

Alibis for Friday evening were produced in the end for everyone – in some cases only after considerable red-faced shuffling about, understandable enough when it emerged that one pair had spent the evening rampaging over half the county in a succession of stolen cars; a second pair had improved the shining hours by nicking cigarettes and cash from a tobacconist’s in another town; a third had amused themselves by breaking into an isolated dwelling some miles from Cannonbridge while the owners were out for the evening.

The youths currently on bail, against whom Harry would have given evidence, had operated as a gang of six, all living in the same area of Cannonbridge, a district with an unsavoury reputation, where the mere sight of a police car drawing up was normally enough to afflict every resident with dumbness, deafness, blindness and acute loss of memory.

Today, however, these afflictions were a good deal less severe and widespread. The fathers of some of the gang, themselves with records of one sort and another, were usually happy to turn a blind eye to whatever their sons got up to, no more in their indulgent eyes than might be expected from any lad of spirit. But on this occasion more than one of these citizens offered to beat the truth out of their offspring, given ten minutes without interference from the law.

It wasn’t necessary to accept any of these obliging offers as the lads were able to account satisfactorily for the manner in which they had spent Friday evening. It appeared they had occupied themselves harmlessly for once. Two of the gang had taken part in a pub darts match at the other side of Cannonbridge, the rest had gone along to cheer them on. All six had remained in the pub till closing time and had then gone on with members of both teams to the nearby home of one of the captains where the team wives set about making coffee and sandwiches. There had been a party of sorts which broke up around one-thirty.

The inquest on Harold William Lingard took place at eleven on Wednesday morning. The proceedings were brief and formal, the inquest being adjourned with no date set for resumption; the body was released for burial. Few members of the public were present. Old hands knew initial proceedings were scarcely ever of much interest; it was resumed inquests that usually offered a better chance of eye-opening disclosures.

Among the few who did take their seats the Chief noticed a handsome, dark-haired young woman with a strong, passionate face. She came alone, sat alone, spoke to no one. She looked about with keen interest, listened intently, left the moment the proceedings ended. The Chief was certain he knew her face and after a minute or two it came to him that he had seen her once or twice with her father at functions in the town. She was Tom Mansell’s daughter, Diane Holroyd, married to Lester Holroyd, Mansell’s right-hand man.

When the Chief left the court house he found Gareth and Jill Lingard waiting for him at the foot of the steps. ‘Something I remembered when I woke up this morning,’ Gareth told him. Two or three years ago his grandfather had told him he kept a certain amount of ready cash in the house for his bits of dealing. ‘He showed me where he kept it,’ Gareth added. ‘In a secret drawer of an old chest in his bedroom. He wanted me to know in case anything happened to him.’ Gareth couldn’t remember if Harry had mentioned a specific figure but his impression was that the sum might have been a few hundred pounds. ‘I’ve no idea if he still kept money there,’ he said, ‘or how much it might be now. He never mentioned it again.’

‘We’ll get along there and take a look in the chest,’ the Chief decided. Over his radio he arranged for a fingerprint officer to meet them at the house.

The kitchen window had now been repaired but this time they were able to make use of the backdoor key from the garden shed. The Chief had been right about the prints on the key and secateurs; such blurred traces as could be detected were too tiny to be of any use.

In Harry’s bedroom Gareth showed them a Victorian chest of drawers, highly polished; he had never touched the chest since the day his grandfather had told him about the money and shown him how to open the drawer. The fingerprint officer set to work but could come upon no trace of prints anywhere on the gleaming surface. Following Gareth’s instructions, he ran his fingers under a ledge above the top drawers, pressing at two points simultaneously to release the catch. The concealed drawer slid smoothly open.

Inside was a large old metal cashbox. And a money-belt made of canvas webbing. The cashbox was closed but not locked, although it was fitted with a lock holding a key; the metal surface showed a blur of fragmentary prints. The officer edged up the lid; the box was empty.

The money-belt had two webbing pockets furnished with large stud fasteners of some plastic material. Both pockets were open, both empty. The webbing offered no hope of prints but the studs showed blurred traces. The officer dealt with the prints on box, key and studs though there was little prospect of any useful result. Without being asked, Gareth volunteered in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘You’ll be needing fingerprints from Jill and me for elimination.’ The offer was accepted and acted upon without comment.

Jill had known nothing of the secret drawer nor had she touched the chest in recent times. Gareth had never previously set eyes on the money-belt but he had once heard his grandfather mention it. That would be a year or two ago, one day when Gareth had expressed concern that his grandfather might be robbed if he carried sizeable amounts of money on him in the course of his deals. His grandfather had told him he needn’t worry, he always wore a money-belt in such circumstances; he hadn’t produced the belt to show Gareth nor had he indicated where it was usually kept.

Jill told the Chief she had known of the existence of the belt; Gareth had mentioned it to her, though she had forgotten about it until just now when she saw it in the drawer.

Had either Gareth or Jill ever mentioned the secret drawer or the money-belt to anyone else? Gareth answered at once, very positively: he was certain he had never spoken of either to anyone else, not even to his wife.

Jill didn’t answer right away. When the Chief repeated his question she admitted, after further hesitation, that she had once mentioned the belt to Norman. There had been a case in the local paper a few months back, a youth convicted of handbag snatching. She had commented on the case to Norman, and it was then she had mentioned the money-belt.

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