after six he bounded up the front steps of his house, a fine late-Georgian dwelling. Nina had always admired the property and Matthew had bought it a few years back, very near the peak of the market, as it later turned out; he had cheerfully taken out a massive mortgage. It hadn’t appeared an act of lunatic folly in those palmy days when it seemed the gravy train would thunder along full tilt for ever. And Nina had been overjoyed. She loved the house, loved living in it, often said as much. He intended to hang on to it for her if humanly possible.
Esther Milroy spent the late afternoon visiting one of her special patients at the Brentworth hospice, an elderly man with an overpowering need to recount the events of his long life. He asked little in the way of response, merely a willing listener. He occupied an out-of-the-way single room and she was able to stay with him for a good stretch of time without being disturbed. When at last he drifted into a peaceful sleep, she gathered up her things and went noiselessly from his bedside.
Six-forty-five. Too late to embark on a visit with another patient and she had in any case almost come to the end of her patience and cheerfulness. But ahead of her lay only the long empty evening at home. She cast about for some escape from the dreary prospect. She made her way quietly from the building, encountering no one in the maze of passages.
Twenty minutes later found her walking up the front steps of her brother’s house. Matthew and Nina were sitting at ease in the drawing room, enjoying a glass of sherry in anticipation of the delectable supper, almost ready. At the sound of the doorbell Matthew uttered a groan. ‘Who can that be?’ he exclaimed as he set down his glass. ‘I’ll get rid of them, whoever it is.’
But when he drew back the front door and saw Esther standing before him, gazing up at him like a lost dog, he could do no less than smile and invite her in. He gave Nina a glance of amused resignation as they entered the drawing room. Nina stood up at once, greeting her sister-in-law with warm friendliness. She sat Esther down, took her things and laid them on a nearby table. Matthew poured another glass of sherry.
A few minutes later, Esther reached for a carrier bag bearing the name of a high-class department store in the town. ‘I bought Grace’s birthday present this afternoon,’ she told Nina. ‘I don’t know if I’ve made the right choice. I’d be glad of your opinion.’
She took out a nightwear set of nightdress and matching negligée, unfolded them, held out each garment in turn for Nina’s inspection. ‘It’s a very good make.’ She indicated the label. ‘The material’s a wool and cotton mixture, nothing synthetic.’ White, printed with an all-over background pattern of rose-pink dots the size of a pinhead, scattered with delicate sprigs of rosebuds. A lavish use of frilled trimming, lace edging, satin ribbons. ‘You don’t think it’s too fussy?’ she asked with an anxious frown. ‘It was Verity chose this set. I happened to meet her in the street as I was going into the store. She had a couple of free periods from the college so she came along to help me choose. If you don’t think Grace would like it, I could take it back and get something else.’
‘It’s not at all too fussy,’ Nina assured her. ‘Grace will love it.’
‘I like the little rosebud sprays,’ Matthew said benignly. ‘It’s a very pretty pattern.’
Esther looked pleased and relieved. ‘I’ll keep it then,’ she decided, as she folded the garments away again. ‘I feel settled about it now.’
* * *
Early on Thursday morning, Dr Wheatley set out from his home in south-west Wales where he had chosen to retire. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with a mild countenance, white wings of hair. He was very much looking forward to another stint as locum to his successor – and a good long stint, this time. He would greatly enjoy seeing his old patients, driving round his old stamping ground. He was particularly looking forward to seeing Grace Dalton again, his old, dear friend.
On Thursday evening Detective Chief Inspector Kelsey came down the steps of the main Cannonbridge police station and walked across the forecourt. He was a big, solidly built man with massive shoulders, a fine head of thickly springing carroty hair, shrewd green eyes, craggy features dominated by a large, squashy nose.
He smiled to himself as he reached his car. It would be Monday morning before he was due to walk back up those steps again. He had recently come to the end of a long and gruelling case and was about to savour the luxury of a few days off.
But there could be no lying in bed tomorrow morning, he must get to the supermarket before the aisles got too crowded. There was never any way of knowing when he would find himself involved in another marathon stint, so his first thought in these breaks always was to restock his larder, invariably depleted at the close of a protracted assignment.
And he was up betimes next morning. In the supermarket he loaded his trolley with his old reliable standbys: cans of soup, spaghetti, baked beans, corned beef, ravioli, meatballs, stews. Anything that could be ready to eat in five minutes flat from the moment of putting his key into the front door, or even, in extreme fatigue, consumed cold, with a spoon, straight from the can. He had given up laying in a fancy assortment of frozen dishes. In hunger and exhaustion it was only too easy to make mistakes with a microwave, but, half dead or not, he always knew where he was with a can-opener.
Last of all, he added to his trolley a vast supply of that most essential of commodities: indigestion tablets.
He went through the check-out, stowed his purchases in the boot of his car and returned his trolley to its rightful place. As he was walking back to his car again, he spotted the Elmhurst station wagon turning into the car park, with Gosling at the wheel. Beside him, Dorothy Nevett sat staring out with a look of anxiety, as if lost in her own thoughts. Kelsey had known them both since the day he had first walked in through the Elmhurst gates as a boy of eight, a cadet in a church lads’ brigade, looking for any odd job within his powers, to earn a few shillings to swell the brigade funds.
He walked across to where Gosling was pulling up. They both caught sight of him as he approached, they looked pleased to see him. After some initial chat, he inquired after Mrs Dalton. Busy as he was these days, he called to see Grace at least once or twice a year. If anything to do with Elmhurst cropped up in the line of duty, he made a point of dealing with it himself. In Grace’s more active days, he had regularly come across her when she had served as a magistrate.
Dorothy told him about the birthday celebrations in two weeks’ time. ‘I’d like to call in to offer my good wishes,’ Kelsey said. ‘I’ll look in a day or two before. I’ll give you a ring first, to check it’s OK.’
‘And be sure to call in to see my father-in-law, while you’re about it,’ Gosling chipped in. ‘Nothing the old man would like better than a chat with you.’ Kelsey told him he wouldn’t forget.
‘How’s Jean Redfern these days?’ he went on to ask. He had been a young constable when Jean was born; he had seen her grow up. ‘I take it she’s still at Elmhurst?’
Dorothy gave a vigorous nod. ‘She certainly is.’ She slanted at the Chief a glance full of meaning. ‘That good for nothing boyfriend of hers is back. Shaun Chapman. I’ve seen him round the town. You remember the fuss there was a few years back, when Jean wanted to marry him.’
Indeed, the Chief did remember. Mrs Dalton had asked him to look into the lad’s background. He hadn’t come up with anything very terrible – or particularly reassuring. The Chapmans lived on a Cannonbridge council estate; Shaun was the eldest of several children. The father had never been in trouble with the law but neither could
