the binoculars.
‘They’re for the birds,’ he said, and his wife smiled anxiously at Calvin.
‘We can’t have sheep now, you see? So Donald looks after the birds.’
‘Got to look after something,’ the old man said grumpily and turned and lifted his binoculars to his eyes to look down the long garden.
‘Well, thank you anyway, Mr and Mrs Moon. It’s good to see you again.’
Marion saw Calvin out. ‘You must excuse him,’ she said at the step. ‘He hasn’t been the same since all that happened.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Calvin. Donald Moon had been a simple farmer who’d dutifully reported a gruesome find – whereupon he and his wife had become collateral damage in the quest for a serial killer. He’d been questioned about Frannie Hatton until he’d broken down, and then he and Mrs Moon had wept again as the police had torn apart their old farmhouse on the cliffs. They’d had to, but it had all been for nothing. Donald Moon had had nothing to do with the crime. No wonder he looked guarded now. He would probably never trust the police again, and Calvin couldn’t blame him.
‘Is everything all right next door?’
Calvin knew he should fob Mrs Moon off with police-speak, but felt he owed her some honesty, so he told her that Albert had died.
‘Oh dear!’ she gasped. ‘Poor man. Was it his lungs?’
‘We’re not sure what happened,’ hedged Calvin. ‘How well do you know the Canns, Mrs Moon?’
‘Not well,’ she said. ‘We only moved in eighteen months ago. We knew they were sick, of course. Albert and Skipper. Reggie told us. But he’s a lovely boy. Looks after them a treat and works full-time. And Albert wasn’t an easy man, you know?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just not easy. He and Donald had words soon after we moved in. Over who was supposed to repair the fence between us. It’s their fence, you see? But it was rotten and their little dog kept coming through and doing his business in our garden. Donald fixed it in the end. With his bad leg and all. But then Albert got sick and we didn’t see him much after that.’
Calvin nodded. ‘Did you ask Reggie to fix the fence?’
‘No, no. We could see he was snowed under. I don’t know what they’d do without him. And when we moved in he helped me move furniture about while Donald was in plaster. I gave him some scones to take home and he brought the plate back all washed and dried and everything. Oh dear. Poor Reggie. And now you think these two people might have something to do with it?’
‘Yes,’ said Calvin, ‘but you mustn’t worry about it, Mrs Moon. We don’t know yet what happened but it looks like a one-off in very specific circumstances.’
She nodded, regaining her sensible demeanour. ‘I don’t think I’ll tell Donald,’ she whispered. ‘He hardly gets out any more. Down the garden to feed the birds and that’s about it, and he hasn’t even done that for a week, so he won’t notice anything’s amiss next door for a good while.’
‘That’s probably best,’ nodded Calvin. ‘Would you have any idea who might have called the police? It was a woman.’
‘There’s Jean over the road where the gnomes are. She’s very nosey.’
‘Yes, thank you. My colleague is speaking to Jean.’
‘Other than that the only women are me and Mrs Digby next door.’
Calvin thanked her and said goodbye, and moved on to the next house, where Mrs Digby – a very old woman on a walker – took for ever to reach the glass front door. Then, when she made it, she couldn’t hear Calvin, even when he shouted.
‘I’LL FETCH MY HEARING AID!’ she finally yelled, as if it was something that had to be toted about by Sherpas instead of worn in her ear. Calvin almost told her not to bother, and then – after another five minutes of fruitless conversation on the doorstep – wished he had.
Calvin saw Pete knocking on the door of the middle house and called over, ‘Any luck?’
Pete shook his head.
Calvin crossed the road. The last house in the row had a No Parking sign on the wall, a Keep off the Grass sign on the grass and a No Cold Callers sign on the door. When he knocked, a flurry of angry barking surprised him and he took a small, wary step backwards. Calvin wasn’t scared of dogs but this one sounded big and he’d once been bitten by a Dalmatian. The owner had said it was just playing, but Calvin had seen the intent in its white-walled eye.
The door cracked open on a chain, and the dog stopped barking.
‘Yes?’
The man was middle-aged, with a monobrow. Calvin glanced down but couldn’t see the dog.
‘Good afternoon, sir, I’m PC Bridge from Bideford. Just asking neighbours about an incident in the street. Wondered whether you’d seen or heard anything unusual.’
‘What kind of incident?’
Calvin sidestepped. ‘Somebody called in a report of two suspicious visitors to the Canns’ home earlier today. Was that call made from here, sir?’
‘No,’ said the man. ‘Not me.’
‘It was a woman who called. Could that have been your wife?’
‘I don’t have a wife any more, thank God.’
‘OK,’ nodded Calvin, relieved for womankind. ‘Could I take your name and a phone number, please, sir? In case we have any further questions?’
‘Bob Wilson.’
Calvin jotted it down.
‘Like the goalkeeper.’
‘Yes? Who does he play for?’ Calvin wasn’t a big soccer fan.
‘Bob Wilson!’ said Mr Wilson tetchily. ‘Arsenal, 1963 to 1974!’
‘Before my time, I’m afraid, Mr Wilson,’ smiled Calvin, but Mr Wilson was in no mood to forgive Calvin his age. He gave a big tut of contempt and said his phone number fast, as if he might also catch Calvin not knowing the numbers between one and ten.
‘Well, thanks, Mr Wilson. You just give us a call if you remember anything.’
‘I haven’t forgotten anything!’ he said angrily, and banged the door loudly in Calvin’s face.
He blinked at the door for a moment, then knocked again.
The dog barked, just as hard as the first time – sounding ready to tear his throat out. But when Mr Wilson answered, it stopped again.
‘What?’ said Wilson angrily.
Calvin looked down at the man’s legs. There was no dog. No real dog anyway.
‘Nothing,’
