the bill back into its envelope and instantly forgot about Miss Brettell. He gathered up the rest of his mail, stood up, finished his drink and went upstairs, half smiling, thinking with pleasurable expectation about the interview on Monday.
Monday morning, ten minutes past seven. In the bedroom of her ground-floor flat in Fairview, a solid Edwardian villa set on the lower slopes of the hills that cradled Barbourne, Alison Rolt drew back the curtains and looked out at the day. A little over two miles separated Fairview from Andrew Rolt’s Victorian residence on the other side of Barbourne.
Quite a pleasant day. A light veil of mist obscured the view but there was a strong hint of warmth and sunshine later in the morning.
She went swiftly along to the bathroom and turned on the taps, piled her long hair on top of her head, squeezing the springy tresses into a waterproof cap ruched and frilled with pale blue nylon.
She flung a handful of salts into the water and stepped in. There was a suggestion of the exotic about her; she was small, slender and delicately made, still three or four years away from thirty. A pale olive skin deepened by suntan, quick movements, easy grace.
The only sound came from the water running into the cistern and her own soapy splashings. But I don’t in the least mind being alone in the house, she thought, leaning back in the pale green water. She wasn’t nervous; she found the quiet a pleasant contrast to the daily bustle at the office. And in any case the situation was likely to be merely temporary; the two upper flats were sure to be tenanted again before long.
She came out of her thoughts with the recollection that it was Monday morning, that she had made up her mind on Friday to start a campaign to restore the efficiency of the girls who worked under her. She was junior partner at the Kingfisher Secretarial Agency in Barbourne, she had striven for high standards in the time she had held the post – a little less than a year. She had achieved a fair degree of success, only to find some of her efforts being undone in the last month or two.
In the middle of the summer Kingfisher had finally absorbed the remnants of Tyler’s, the other secretarial agency in the town. Before her move to Kingfisher Alison had worked at Tyler’s for eighteen months. It was a long-established agency but it had grown increasingly complacent, opposed to inevitable change, partly because old Mr Tyler had no son or daughter to inject fresh ideas into the business. He had seen the Kingfisher start up six years ago; he had felt no concern, considering the new agency an upstart enterprise likely to remain small and unimportant or else fade out altogether.
But Kingfisher had steadily expanded, nibbling unremittingly at the edges of Tyler’s business, gradually luring away staff, enticing and retaining clients. A little over a year ago Mr Tyler died. The ownership of his agency passed to his widowed sister, an elderly invalid living in a South Coast nursing home, with no interest in the business apart from the money it might bring her. One of the senior members of staff – a man of no very great competence, not far off retiring age – was promoted to manager.
The flowers had scarcely withered on Mr Tyler’s grave when Alison received an approach from the rival agency of Kingfisher. Judith Padmore, the founder and sole owner of Kingfisher, had had her eye on Alison for some time, well aware that it was largely Mrs Rolt’s ability and youthful energy that allowed Tyler’s to struggle on at all. Miss Padmore was a shrewd, hard-working woman with long commercial experience behind her. Now in late middle age and ready to take a little more leisure, she made her proposition in a forthright manner. A junior partnership, a percentage of the healthy Kingfisher profits in return for an investment of capital and the application of Mrs Rolt’s talents to the business.
It had taken Alison no time at all to say yes. She had joined Tyler’s when she closed the door on her marriage. She was twenty-three years old at the time, determined to make a good career for herself; she believed she had found a suitable niche. But her ambition had increased along with her experience. She hadn’t much enjoyed the final six months at Tyler’s and the bleak realization that in spite of all her endeavours she was now merely part of a rapidly failing concern.
After her departure Tyler’s had struggled on under its inadequate manager, finally giving up the ghost a few months ago when the manager decided to retire. Miss Padmore took over what was left of the business and goodwill, the few remaining staff, together with the furnishings and equipment, all in exchange for a lump sum paid over to the invalid lady on the South Coast.
The graphs on the walls of Miss Padmore’s office already showed a marked upswing and could be expected to present an increasingly satisfactory appearance for the next year or two. But there’s a fairly rigid natural limit to expansion in a town of this size, Alison thought, squeezing the sponge over her slender shoulders.
She lay back in the bath and stared up at the ceiling. She’d probably have to move on in a couple of years, seek lusher pastures. She blew out a long calculating breath.
Nothing in her thoughts so much as brushed against an image of Andrew or flicked awareness of his existence into the forefront of her mind. Her marriage – or what was legally left of it – was now totally lacking in significance for her. When some chance happening brought it to her recollection it seemed as if she was recalling with difficulty an almost-forgotten interlude. She felt more and more that exciting possibilities were opening out before her, that the real business of her life was only just beginning.
The sound of the newsboy’s whistle reached her ears. It must be turned a quarter to eight. She pulled out the bath plug and stretched out a hand for a towel. She stood up and dried herself with easy, rapid movements. Along with the goods and chattels that had moved across from Tyler’s in the course of the final transfer, there had also come a certain tinge of slackness that began before long to affect the Kingfisher staff. Girls started to arrive a little late in the mornings, to vanish a trifle early in the evenings, to absent themselves for an occasional afternoon without good reason.
And the time has come to root the slackness out, Alison thought, stepping out of the bath and flinging down the towel. She picked up a bottle of lotion and began to massage it into the fine smooth skin of her calves and thighs.
When she got back to her bedroom the clock showed five minutes to eight. She pulled open a drawer, looked rapidly through the filmy underthings. She certainly couldn’t risk being late for work herself if she was going to get her campaign off to a good start. Some of the girls were only too quick to take advantage of any little lapse on the part of the management.
The central police station in Barbourne was a modern building, bright and airy. The reception area was almost empty at this time on a Monday morning; it had a leisurely air after the busy traffic of the weekend. On a bench against the wall an old man sat alone in a patient, relaxed attitude.
Detective Sergeant Colin Viner stood in front of the long polished counter, dealing with a couple of girls, office workers, who had come in to report an incident which had taken place – or which they said had taken place – on Friday night. Viner was not at all sure that he was disposed to believe their unsupported tale of a man springing out at one of them as she walked home alone across the hill from an evening class in the town.
There had been vague rumours for some little time of a man haunting the hills. Nothing substantiated, nothing serious. Such rumours were not uncommon; often the episode which sparked them off was nothing more than a prank, a moment’s mischief.
‘It’s a great pity you didn’t manage to get a good look at the man,’ Viner said briskly. He slid a speculative glance at the taller of the two girls, the victim of the alleged assault – or more precisely, of the attempted assault, for the girl, according to her story, had taken to her heels at once with scarcely more than a finger laid upon her. She was really quite pretty in a fluid, drooping way … and he had always been rather partial
