The Woman In Blue: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 8 (12 page)

Tim is accompanied by a man in a leather jacket and woollen cap. Nelson sees the flash of a white collar.

‘You said you wanted to talk to the Reverend Westmondham,’ says Tim.

‘Yes,’ says Nelson. ‘This way, Reverend. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

‘In the church,’ says Larry Westmondham. ‘I’ve got the keys. What’s going on?’

‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’

They walk back through the graveyard. Nelson can just make out Jan and Barney moving steadily along by the outer wall. Larry opens the heavy oak door and they sit in the porch, opposite notices for Frugal Lent Lunches and Alpha courses.

‘Reverend Westmondham,’ says Nelson. ‘A serious assault has occurred. I need to find out if anyone was in the church or churchyard this evening.’

‘An assault?’ says Larry. ‘What happened?’

‘A woman was attacked,’ says Nelson. ‘Now, I saw you lock the church at about eight o’clock. Did you go back after that?’ Tim and Nelson were sitting by the lych-gate entrance, but Larry could easily have gone in the front way. Nelson looks down at the keyring in the vicar’s hands. So many keys, so many doors.

Larry is still looking shocked, but he answers calmly enough. ‘I went straight home,’ he says. ‘Like I told you, it’s only a short walk.’

‘Does anyone else have the keys?’

‘The verger, but he lives a few miles away.’

‘Is there anywhere round here where a person could hide?’

‘All the buildings are locked,’ says Larry, ‘but I suppose someone could hide in the churchyard. It’s very dark at night.’

‘You didn’t see or hear anything suspicious as you were going home?’

‘No. I didn’t hear anything until Sergeant Heathfield knocked on my door.’

‘OK. Thank you. Someone will be round to take a statement in the morning.’

‘Can I go home now?’

‘Yes.’ Larry locks up again and walks quickly away through the graves. As Nelson watches, a rectangle of light appears in the darkness, like an Advent calendar door being opened. A man is standing in the back doorway of St Simeon’s Cottage.

‘What’s going on?’ It’s Cathbad’s friend, Justin. He’s wearing some kind of velvet dressing-gown affair and he has the cat in his arms. As Nelson approaches, the animal narrows its eyes and hisses quietly.

‘There’s been a serious assault in the graveyard,’ says Nelson. ‘Did you hear or see anything?’

‘I didn’t hear anything,’ says Justin. ‘I was listening to music with my headphones on. But then I saw all the lights and people hurrying to and fro. No, Chesterton, you can’t get down.’

The cat is struggling to escape. Nelson remembers that it was the cat who first led Cathbad to Chloe Jenkins. He wishes that he could ask it a few questions.

‘Someone will be round to take a statement tomorrow,’ he says.

‘Always delighted to see a policeman,’ says Justin, ‘but I don’t really think I’ll be able to add anything. I’d better take Chesterton in now. I saw a big, rough dog going past.’

The door shuts, and the churchyard is dark once more. Nelson is about to go back through the passageway when he hears a noise behind him. Jan is standing by the gate to the lane. Doreen Westmondham’s tombstone gleams white in the darkness. Nelson can’t see Barney, but he knows he’s nearby.

‘Any luck, Jan?’ he asks.

‘There’s a track,’ says Jan. ‘Someone has walked over this grass recently. They probably went out by this gate, but there’s no one in the lane.’

She calls softly. A few seconds later Barney appears at her side.

‘He’s a good dog,’ says Nelson.

‘The best.’

‘Go on searching, will you, Jan? I’ve a feeling our man is still around here somewhere.’

‘Will do. Come on, Barney.’

Nelson watches as the woman and her dog disappear into the night. For the first time in years he misses his dog, Max, who looked a bit like Barney. Max died ten years ago and Nelson has sometimes thought about getting another dog. If a dog were waiting for him at home, maybe he wouldn’t be dreading going back there.

*

By eleven-thirty Ruth is desperate. The women seem in no hurry to leave and several of them have ordered more liqueurs. Ruth doesn’t want to go before the bill comes (however much cash you leave, it always looks as if you’re trying to get out of paying your share), but she really needs to be getting back to Kate. She escapes to the loo and texts Clara. ‘Still at Bfields. Sorry! Leaving soon.’ Clara texts back reassuringly. ‘No prob all well here x.’ On her way out of the cloakroom Ruth bumps into Hilary.

‘Hilary. Look, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. The childminder can’t stay too late.’ This isn’t true, Clara never minds staying late, but with any luck Hilary will think it’s all part of Ruth’s tragic life as a single mother.

‘Of course,’ says Hilary. ‘I’m sorry. You should have said. I’m afraid the others are well away.’

There are two doors between them but they can still hear the women’s voices. All the other diners have gone home.

‘Actually, Ruth –’ Hilary says and puts her hand on her arm – ‘Could you give me a lift back? I’ve got a bit of a headache and I don’t want to break up the party.’

‘Of course,’ says Ruth, glad to have a cast-iron excuse to leave. Come to think of it, her friend does look rather pale. She hopes she won’t be sick in the car.

Ruth and Hilary leave cash with Freya (the self-appointed treasurer), and then Ruth is free, driving through the dark roads, headlights on full. It’s a clear night with a full moon, but that doesn’t help much around here. As she drives along the raised-up road there’s no way of knowing whether the space on either side is land, sea or marshland. She hears Erik’s voice, perfectly preserved in the peaty depths of her brain. ‘Marshland is a liminal zone, neither land nor sea, neither life nor death, a bridge to the afterlife.’ Hilary’s voice: ‘You sound like Erik. The sacred landscape.’

A fox or some other animal runs out in front of her and she brakes sharply. The new car has stronger brakes than her old one, and she skids slightly.

‘Sorry,’ says Ruth, as Hilary pitches forward.

‘It’s OK,’ says Hilary. ‘I wouldn’t like to drive on these roads at night.’

‘You get used to it,’ says Ruth. Though you don’t, really. She waits for Hilary to say that she doesn’t know how Ruth manages it, living alone in the wilds of Norfolk without a man. But Hilary is silent for a while, as the liminal zone gives way to trees and hedgerows. When she speaks again her voice sounds thin, almost as if she’s trying not to cry.

‘I envy you, Ruth. You’ve got your life sorted out. A job that you love, a place that you love.’

‘So have you,’ says Ruth. ‘You’re doing what you wanted to do. You’re a priest. You might even be a bishop one day.’

‘But people hate us. How can we minister to people if they hate us?’

‘People change,’ says Ruth. ‘Women used not to have the vote. Everyone got used to that.’

‘Eventually,’ says Hilary. ‘I’m just not sure I’ve got the patience to wait.’

‘Of course you’ve got patience,’ says Ruth. ‘You were an archaeologist, weren’t you?’

Hilary laughs. ‘You’re right. Sorry, Ruth. I’m just feeling a bit melancholy. Too much wine probably.’

Walsingham is quiet. Just a security light by the abbey gates and a black cat strolling down the centre of the road. Ruth drops Hilary at her guesthouse and watches as she lets herself in. Somehow it seems important to see Hilary safely inside. Somewhere, quite close by, a clock is striking midnight. The moon is round-faced and baleful above the gateway to the ruined priory. Ruth does a three-point turn and heads back the way she came. The cat watches from the side of the road.

As Ruth passes the church she notices something that she hadn’t seen the first time. There’s a light on in the porch and it illuminates police tape across the entrance. Why is that there? She slows down and, as she does so, she sees something else, a man walking slowly along the lane by the church. He’s tall, wearing a long black coat and a hat. But as he passes the porch she sees his face quite clearly. It’s Father Hennessey.

Chapter 16

It’s past midnight when Nelson gets home. The AA have towed his car away and he gets a lift in a squad car. He’s grateful that the driver is the taciturn sort who doesn’t like to chat.

‘You can stop here,’ he says, at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. ‘Save you turning round. Goodnight.’

The lights are on downstairs. His heart sinks and he realises that he’d been hoping Michelle was upstairs, asleep, and that any talking could wait until morning. Don’t be a wimp, he tells himself. He was less scared when a madman pulled a gun on him last year.

Michelle is in the sitting room watching one of those programmes where celebrities talk about themselves and their films. She’s wearing her white dressing gown and her hair is loose.

‘Did Tanya come?’ he asks.

‘Yes. She brought a lady doctor with her. She was very nice.’

Nelson switches on the overhead light. In its unforgiving glare he can see the bruises around his wife’s neck. She shields her eyes with her hand.

‘Harry, please. You know I hate that light.’

She does too. She thinks it shows the little lines that are starting to appear around her eyes. She’s still beautiful, though. Never more so than at this moment.

Nelson moves to stand in front of her.

‘Are you having an affair with Tim?’

Even now he expects her to deny it, to be angry, to laugh at the absurdity of the idea. Instead she says, in a flat voice, ‘It wasn’t exactly an affair.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘We didn’t sleep together.’

‘What did you do?’

Michelle sighs and starts plaiting the tassel on one of the cushions. ‘We went out, we kissed, we talked. He listened.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

She pretends to think. ‘For about a year.’

‘A
year
! Jesus Christ.’

‘But we stopped seeing each other in December. After that Blackstock Hall affair.’

After Tim saved his life. Why the hell had he done that? Why hadn’t he pushed Nelson into the path of the bullet and buggered off with his wife?

‘Jesus Christ,’ he says again. ‘Why?’

So suddenly that it is almost terrifying, Michelle flares up. She tosses back her hair and her eyes flash.

‘You can’t talk! I didn’t sleep with Tim. You slept with Ruth and she had your baby. How dare you pretend to be the one in the right? You betrayed me.’

‘Is this what this is about?’ says Nelson. ‘Getting back at me?’

She looks at him with what is almost contempt. ‘Not everything is about you, Harry.’

‘What is it about then?’

‘It’s about me!’ He can’t remember the last time that he heard Michelle shout but now her raised voice makes the glasses in the cabinet ring. ‘It’s about me. You cheated on me and then you forgot all about it. You went on seeing Ruth. And Katie. Everyone knows about it. You humiliated me.’

‘You agreed that I could see Katie.’

‘Yes,’ says Michelle bitterly, ‘shows what a mug I am.’

‘I suppose Tim told you that. I suppose he played on you, saying what a bastard I am. Jesus. The sneaking little swine.’

‘It’s not his fault. He listened to me. He loves me.’

‘I suppose he told you that.’

‘Yes, he did! He still loves me.’

And Nelson, remembering Tim’s voice as he cradled Michelle in his arms, thinks that she is probably right. Doesn’t stop him wanting to tear the little bastard limb from limb though. And, tomorrow, that’s just what he’ll do.

*

Ruth leaves Walsingham behind and drives home, Bruce Springsteen on full blast. The country roads with their high hedges seem like a maze, nightmarish and unending. Surely she’s seen this crossroads before? If only she had her sat-nav plugged in, at least it could tell her if she was going the right way. She’s just wondering if she should stop and consult her phone when the landscape opens up and she’s driving over the Saltmarsh, the moon silver on the sea. Nearly home. It’s been an unsettling evening one way or another: the discussion about Norfolk and the sacred landscape, Paula describing the letter-writer as a ‘soul in torment’, the panic of wanting to get back to Kate, the dark drive with a strangely sombre Hilary and, finally, that sighting of Father Hennessey in the graveyard. Why was he standing by a church in the middle of the night? And why was there police tape over the entrance to the church? What has been happening in Walsingham?

Clara is asleep when she gets in, dozing on the sofa with her textbooks around her. Ruth asks if she wants to stay the night, but Clara says that she ought to go because she’s starting a new course in the morning. After Clara has left and the sound of her car engine has died away, Ruth stands by the door and listens to the silence. Sometimes nights on the Saltmarsh can be noisy affairs, with the wind howling and the sea roaring away in the distance. But tonight everything is deathly quiet, as if the dark is a muffling hand. Ruth gets herself a glass of water and climbs the stairs to bed. She checks on Kate, who is sleeping peacefully, spread-eagled on her Dora the Explorer duvet. Ruth tucks her in and goes into her own room. She switches on her bedside radio and soothing Radio 4 voices tell her about financial disaster and fiscal catastrophe. For the first time that evening, Ruth starts to relax.

She dreams of marshland, of bones and silence, of ancient relics washed up like flotsam and jetsam on an incoming tide. She dreams of a woman in a blue cloak, of the god Mercury, of the voices of lost children beneath the waves. She wakes suddenly while the sky outside is still dark. Her phone is ringing. It says 6.15 and ‘Hilary’.

‘Hilary? What’s up?’

There’s a silence and, for a moment, she thinks that Hilary may have called her number by mistake. Then there’s an intake of breath and Hilary says, in a voice quite unlike her own, ‘Ruth. Something awful has happened.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s Paula. She’s dead. Someone’s killed her.’

Chapter 17

Nelson is already up when he gets the call. He hadn’t slept well although Michelle, annoyingly, seemed to sleep peacefully all night. He had lain awake at four a.m., listening to her regular breathing, and wanting to shake her awake. Didn’t she feel at all guilty about seeing another man for almost a year? Was it really all his fault? Yes, he had slept with Ruth and that was unforgivable, but Michelle had forgiven him, or so she said. And that one sexual act had occurred at a time of great emotional strain for him and Ruth. And afterwards, from the moment he knew she was pregnant, he really had tried to act in the best way possible, trying to be fair to all of them – his wife, the woman who was having his baby and the baby herself – even though he knew that it wasn’t really possible. Was he really such a bad guy? At five he is drinking coffee downstairs and thinking that he is definitely ill-used. Some men would have run a mile if a woman got pregnant after a one-night stand. Some men would have tried to pressure her to have an abortion. He has done none of those things. He has tried to be a father to Katie and be true to Michelle and his other daughters. Except, except . . . Was Ruth really no more to him than the mother of his child? What about that other time, that other night he had spent with Ruth, with no excuse except that he had wanted her badly? No, he’s not the good guy. He really wanted to have them both, Michelle and Ruth, and all three daughters. He has behaved like some backwoods patriarch who wants several wives waiting on him and bearing his children. No wonder Michelle has sought sanctuary in the arms of Tim, good-looking, polite Tim who has listened and told her that she was beautiful and that he loved her. When did he, Nelson, last say these things to his wife? He deserves to lose her, he really does. And if he does lose her . . . What if she left him for Tim, if the two of them disappeared into the sunset (or Essex)? Would he then be able to live with Ruth and bring up Katie with her? Don’t think like that, he tells himself. But, sitting in the dark kitchen as the microwave clock ticks towards dawn, it is impossible to stop.

The phone call is a relief, even though a call from police control at six a.m. is unlikely to be good news.

‘Nelson.’

‘DCI Nelson. You’re needed in Walsingham. A woman’s body has been found in the abbey grounds. It looks like she’s been strangled.’

Nelson goes upstairs. Michelle is still fast asleep, her hair spread out on the pillow. Nelson shakes her shoulder gently.

‘Michelle? I’ve got to go out.’

‘Why?’ says Michelle, not opening her eyes.

‘Someone’s been killed. The thing is, I’ll have to take your car. Is that OK?’

Michelle sits up. Nelson can see the bruises on her neck, darker than they were last night.

‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘Debbie can give me a lift into work.’

‘You’re not going to work? After what happened last night?’

Michelle’s eyes flash. ‘Why not? My job’s important, although you never think so.’

‘You’ve had a shock. You should take it easy.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ says Michelle. ‘You get back to your case.’ She turns away. Nelson knows he should say something more, but he’s still angry after last night and, besides, he’s itching to get to work. He heads for the shower, but when he’s at the door, Michelle says, ‘You won’t do anything stupid, will you, Harry? You know, with Tim.’

Nelson has the satisfaction of not answering this question.

*

It is just getting light when he reaches Walsingham. A uniformed policeman whom he knows by sight is waiting for him at the visitors’ centre.

The man introduces himself: ‘PC Bradley Linwood. The body’s through here, sir. In the grounds.’

‘Who found her?’

‘The groundsman. He’s in the visitors’ centre. He’s very shaken.’

‘Do we have an identity for the dead woman?’

‘We rang St Catherine’s Lodge because that’s the nearest place. A couple of people came out and identified her as Paula Moncrieff, a delegate at a conference being held at St Catherine’s. They’re in the centre too.’

‘Have next of kin been informed?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘I’ll do that myself once I’ve had a look at her. Are SOCO on their way?’

‘Yes, and Doctor Stephenson.’

‘Good. You’ve done well, Linwood. Now show me.’

They walk through the door into the grounds. The early morning sun is shining through the trees and illuminating a vast archway standing on its own in the middle of the park. To Nelson it looks both absurd and sinister. A few yards further on and a woman’s body lies on the lawn, guarded by another police officer. From the distance, she could be asleep, but, as Nelson gets closer, he sees the marks on her neck and the awkward sprawl of her limbs. He thinks of the bruises that he saw on his wife’s neck less than an hour earlier.

Nelson kneels next to the body, careful not to touch her. He is struck by two things. The dead woman is beautiful, and she looks very like Chloe Jenkins – and Michelle. Her long blonde hair is spread out on the grass and it glitters with what look like spiders’ webs. She is wearing a black sparkly jacket, white silk vest and smart-looking trousers. Her feet are bare, but high-heeled black shoes lie a few feet away. Unlike with Chloe Jenkins, this time the murderer has made no attempt to hide the body. The dew-drenched grass is flattened as if someone has walked over it, but Nelson doubts if any footprints can be found. Standing up, he sees a small brass cross, like a stepping stone embedded in the ground. A few yards away is a sign: ‘Site of the 11th-century, Anglo-Saxon shrine of the holy house of Nazareth (excavated 1961).’

He turns to PC Linwood. ‘I’d better talk to the groundsman. Let me know when Stephenson gets here.’

In the visitors’ centre, under framed posters advertising pilgrimages in ‘England’s Nazareth’, sit a young man in a heavy jacket and two people Nelson recognises as Hilary Smithson and Robin Rainsford. Hilary stands up as soon as he comes in.

‘DCI Nelson. What’s happening? We’ve been here hours.’

‘Forty-five minutes,’ says Linwood.

‘I’m sorry Doctor Smithson,’ says Nelson, ‘but a serious crime has occurred. We’re working as fast as we can. I need to speak to this young man first. Can we get you a hot drink or something?’ By ‘we’ he means PC Linwood and is pleased to see that the young officer is quick to offer tea or coffee, saying that there’s a machine in the office. Hilary, who is wearing a coat over what are obviously pyjamas, accepts gratefully. Rainsford, who is fully dressed, seems in a daze and doesn’t seem to understand the question. ‘What? Yes. Tea. No, coffee. Thank you. Yes.’

‘I’ve phoned Ruth,’ says Hilary.

Nelson looks accusingly at Linwood. ‘Well, you shouldn’t have. Please don’t contact anyone else until such time as I give you permission. Now –’ he turns to the groundsman – ‘if I could have a word, Mr . . .?’

‘Peters. Lee Peters.’

‘This way please, Mr Peters.’ He pushes a door at random and finds himself in a sort of museum full of glass cases. There’s nowhere to sit, so they stand by a display of agricultural machinery.

‘Mr Peters. Can you describe how you discovered the body?’

The young man looks nervous but speaks fluently with a strong Norfolk accent. ‘I do a tour of the grounds at five, just to pick up any litter and check that nothing’s happened overnight like. I were just crossing the main lawn when I saw her . . .’ He pauses, wiping his brow with one of his gardening gloves.

‘Take your time,’ says Nelson. ‘What did you do then?’

‘Well, I thought she might be sleeping. Sometimes people break in to sleep in the grounds. You know, hippies and that. So I called out to her and, when she didn’t answer, I shook her. I probably shouldn’t have touched her. I’ve seen on TV . . .’

‘Don’t worry about that. Then what?’

‘I called 999.’

‘Police or ambulance?’

‘Police. I were pretty sure she were dead.’

‘Why?’

‘When I touched her she were cold. Like a statue.’

That places time of death at a few hours back, even accounting for the cold night. Nelson must have left Walsingham at nearly midnight. How long afterwards did the killer strike, having been deprived of his victim in the graveyard?

‘What time did you start work?’ asks Nelson.

‘Five.’

‘And you didn’t see or hear anything suspicious? No signs of a break-in?’

‘No. I come in through the side gate as usual. It were locked.’ He brandishes a key ring very like the one Larry Westmondham used to lock the church.

‘Thank you, Mr Peters. I may need to speak to you later, but you can go home now. You acted very responsibly. Thank you.’

The young man looks surprised at this praise. He nods and then says, ‘It were horrible. I mean, she were so pretty. Poor lady.’

‘Yes, it’s horrible,’ says Nelson grimly.

When he goes back into the visitors’ centre, Clough and Stephenson have both arrived. Hilary is sipping a cup of coffee, still looking argumentative. Rainsford is staring into space.

‘Cloughie,’ says Nelson. ‘You go with Doctor Stephenson. We’ll need to secure the site. I just need to talk to these witnesses, then I’ll call the next of kin.’

‘OK,’ says Clough. ‘Is Tim on the way?’

‘No. I didn’t call him.’

Clough looks both surprised and pleased. He knows better than to ask why, though. Stephenson greets Nelson heartily (‘We have to stop meeting like this, Admiral’) and he and Clough pass through the door marked ‘To the Abbey Grounds’.

Nelson sits down next to Hilary and Robin Rainsford.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘This must be a terrible shock.’

‘Awful,’ says Rainsford. He looks ashen and, when he takes off his glasses, his eyes are pink-rimmed. Hilary is made of stronger stuff. ‘Is it the same man who killed the other girl, the model?’ she says.

‘We don’t know yet,’ says Nelson, ‘and let’s not presume anything. Now, what time did PC Linwood contact you this morning?’

‘At about five-thirty,’ says Rainsford. ‘He called at the house and the housekeeper woke me.’

‘And you woke Doctor Smithson?’

‘I was already awake,’ says Hilary. ‘I often wake up early. It’s a good time to pray. I was in the kitchen making tea.’

‘So the two of you went with PC Linwood?’

‘Yes,’ says Rainsford. ‘I must say, I was glad of Hilary’s company.’

‘And you identified the dead woman immediately?’

‘Yes,’ says Hilary, with a shudder, ‘it was definitely Paula.’

‘Did you know her well?’

‘I just met her this week on the course but she was a lovely person, lovely. Why would anyone . . .’

‘When did you last see Paula?’ asks Nelson.

‘Last night. We went out for a meal. I had a headache, so I left early. Ruth drove me home.’

Nelson realises, with a slight shock, that this was the dinner that Ruth had been planning to attend. Maybe that was why Hilary was so quick to ring her.

‘Do you know what time that was?’ he asks.

‘Midnight. I heard the clock striking. The others got back about an hour later. I heard them come in but I didn’t go downstairs to join them.’

‘Are you sure that Paula was with the others?’

‘I think I heard her voice, but I can’t be sure.’

‘Doctor Rainsford, did you hear the other delegates come in?’

‘Yes. I was in bed too. I didn’t go down either. I thought it might spoil the party, seeing the course leader. And everyone sounded, well . . . jolly.’

‘We’d all had quite a lot to drink, I’m afraid,’ says Hilary.

Nelson is quite shocked. Women priests going out and getting drunk like a gang of rugby players. He wonders what Ruth made of the evening.

‘Do you know what could have made Paula go out again?’ he asks.

‘She may have gone for a walk,’ says Hilary. ‘When we . . . when we saw her, she was still wearing what she wore to the restaurant. She may have just felt like a moonlight walk.’

‘Is that the sort of thing she was likely to do?’

‘I don’t know.’ Hilary blushes, very noticeable on her pale skin. ‘As I say, we were all a bit drunk, DCI Nelson.’

‘I’ll need names of everyone who was at the dinner,’ says Nelson. ‘Can you provide that?’

‘Of course.’

‘And I’ll need next-of-kin details for Paula.’

‘I’ll have the details on file back at St Catherine’s,’ says Robin Rainsford.

‘I’ll come with you,’ says Nelson. ‘And I’ll need somewhere quiet to make the phone call.’

*

When Nelson gets back to the abbey grounds he sees that a small tent has been erected over the body and the SOCO team are searching the area nearby. He also sees Tim, deep in conversation with PC Linwood. He breaks off when he sees Nelson.

‘I’ve organised door-to-door, boss. Cloughie’s getting all the CCTV together.’

‘Good,’ says Nelson. ‘We need to talk to everyone who was with the dead woman last night.’ He waves a list.

‘What do we know about her?’

‘Paula Moncrieff, aged thirty. She was a priest. Lived in Kent, married with one child. I’ve just spoken to her husband and I’ve sent a car to pick him up.’

‘I’ve fielded the press, but Superintendent Whitcliffe wants you to give a statement.’

‘I bet he does. Tell him midday at the station. Then I’m going to see Stanley Greenway.’

‘Do you really think he’s involved?’

‘He’s got a motive for Chloe Jenkins. I’ll be interested to see where he was last night.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘No. I’ll take Cloughie. You keep going door-to-door, appeal for witnesses. Someone must have seen something.’

‘OK.’ Tim hesitates. Then he says, ‘Boss, we’ve got to talk.’

‘No,’ says Nelson. ‘We’re not teenage girls. We don’t have to talk. Michelle tells me that you didn’t sleep together, which is the only reason you’re still in one piece. As it is we’ve got to catch a murderer. When we’ve done that I’ll approve your transfer and then I never want to see your fucking face again. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ says Tim. And he walks quickly away across the grass.

*

Ruth listens to the radio all morning, but there’s nothing about Paula’s death. When she got Hilary’s call she’d asked if her friend wanted her to come to Walsingham. She hoped she’d say no; it would be a hassle getting Kate up and off to Sandra’s so early and she didn’t really know what help she could be to Hilary. Hilary had said no. ‘Thanks, Ruth, but there’s nothing you could do. I’m just waiting to be interviewed by DCI Nelson. Robin’s with me.’ ‘OK,’ Ruth had said, ‘I’ll call later.’ The mention of Nelson had disturbed her, though she couldn’t have said why.