On Christmas morning, James made no mention of his vigil. Instead he took the trouble to spruce himself up with a bath, a shave, and clean clothes, as if to persuade Mark that he had slept soundly in recognition that personal care, or rather the lack of it, was an indication of a disordered mind. He made no objection when Mark insisted on playing the tapes in order to understand what was going on-he said it was one of the reasons why he had made them-but reminded Mark that it was all lies.

The difficulty for Mark was that he knew much of it wasn't. Various details were constantly repeated, and he knew for a fact they were true. Ailsa's trip to London the day before she died… the constant references to Elizabeth's hatred of her father in uniform… James's fury that the child had been put up for adoption instead of aborted… Prue Weldon's certainty that she had heard Ailsa accuse James of destroying her daughter's life… the undeniable fact that Elizabeth was a damaged woman… the suggestion that if the grandchild were found she might resemble James…

One of the voices on tape was disguised with an electronic distorter. It sounded like Darth Vader's. It was the most chilling and the best informed. There was no escaping the conclusion that it was Leo. There were too many historical descriptions, in particular of Elizabeth's bedroom when she was a child, for a stranger to know: her teddy bear, called Ringo after the Beatles' drummer, which she still had in her London house; the posters of Marc Bolan and T-Rex on her walls, which Ailsa had carefully stored because someone had told her they were valuable; the predominant color of her patchwork bedspread-blue-which had since been moved to the spare room…

Mark knew that just by questioning James he was giving the impression that his mind was open to the allegations of incest. Even his assertion at the outset that the calls were clearly malicious was qualified by his admission that he didn't understand what the intention was. If it was Leo, what was he hoping to achieve? If it was blackmail, why didn't he make demands? Why involve other people? Who was the woman who seemed to know so much? Why did Prue Weldon never say anything? How could anyone unconnected with the family know so many details about it?

Everything he said sounded halfhearted, more so when James flatly refused to involve the police because he didn't want Ailsa's death "resurrected" in the press. Indeed, resurrection seemed to be an obsession with him. He didn't want Mark resurrecting Elizabeth's "blasted teddy bear" or the row over the adoption. He didn't want Leo's thieving resurrected. It was history, over and done with, and had no relevance to this campaign of terror. And, yes, of course he knew why it was happening. Those damned women-Prue Weldon and Eleanor Bartlett-wanted him to admit he'd murdered Ailsa.

Admit…? Mark tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice. "Well, they're right about one thing," he said. "These allegations are easily disproved with a DNA test. Maybe the best strategy would be to make a tactful approach to Captain Smith. If she's prepared to cooperate then you could take these tapes to the police. Whatever the reason for the calls, there's no question they constitute menace."

James held his gaze for a moment before his eyes slid away. "There's no tactful way of doing it," he said. "I'm not stupid, you know, I have thought about it."

Why this tiresome defense of his faculties? "We needn't involve her at all. I could ask her mother for a sample of hair from her bedroom. She must have left something behind that will give a reading. It's not illegal, James… not at the moment, anyway. There are companies on the Internet who specialize in giving DNA analysis in questions over paternity."

"No."

"It's my best advice. Either that, or inform the police. A temporary solution might be to change your phone number and go ex-directory…but if Leo's behind it, he'll soon find out the new one. You can't let it go unchecked. Apart from the fact that you'll be dead of exhaustion in another month, the gossips will talk and mud will stick if you don't challenge these allegations."

James opened a drawer in his desk and took out a file. "Read this," he said, "then give me one good reason why I should turn this child's life into a nightmare. If one thing is certain, Mark, she neither chose-nor is responsible for-the man who fathered her."

Dear Captain Smith, My solicitor informs me that if I attempt to contact you, you will sue…"

An hour later, telling James he needed a walk to clear his mind, Mark crossed the vegetable garden and made his way to Manor Lodge. But if he expected enlightenment from Vera Dawson, he didn't get it. Indeed he was shocked by how much her brain had deteriorated since August. She kept him at the door, her old mouth sucking and working through her resentments, and he was less surprised than he had been that the Manor was filthy. He asked her where Bob was.

"Out."

"Do you know where? Is he in the garden?"

A pleased smile flickered in her rheumy eyes. "Said he'd be gone eight hours. That's usually fishing."

"Even on Christmas Day?"

The smile vanished. "He wouldn't spend it with me, would he? Only good for work, that's all I am. You get up there and clean for the Colonel, he says, never mind there's mornings I can hardly rise from my bed."

Mark smiled uncomfortably. "Well, could you ask Bob to come up to the house for a chat? Later this evening, perhaps, or tomorrow? If you have a pen and paper, I'll write him a note in case you forget."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "There's nothing wrong with my memory. I've still got my marbles."

It might have been James talking. "Sorry. I thought it might help."

"What do you want to talk to him about?"

"Nothing in particular. Just general things."

"Don't you go talking about me," she hissed angrily. "I've got rights, same as everyone else. It wasn't me stole the Missus's rings. It was the boy. You tell the Colonel that, you hear. Bloody old bugger-it was him murdered her." She slammed the door.

SHENSTEAD VILLAGE

BOXING DAY, 2001

After a fruitless attempt to contact his solicitor- the office answerphone advised callers that the partnership was on holiday until January 2-Dick Weldon gritted his teeth and dialed Shenstead Manor. If anyone had a lawyer on tap, it would be James Lockyer-Fox. The man was in permanent danger of arrest if Dick's wife, Prue, was to be believed. "You'll see," she kept saying, "it's only a matter of time before the police are forced to act." More to the point, as the only other property-owner with a boundary on the Copse, James would be involved in the discussion sooner or later, and it might as well be now. Nevertheless, it wasn't a call that Dick wanted to make.

There had been no communication between Shenstead Farm and the Manor since Prue had told police of the row she'd heard the night Ailsa died. She always said it was fate that intervened to turn her into an eavesdropper. In three years she had never felt the need to walk the dogs through the Copse in the dark, so why that night? She had been on her way home from a visit to their daughter in Bournemouth and one of the Labradors started to whine halfway across the valley. By the time she reached the Copse, the agitation in the back of the estate was intense and, with a groan, she pulled onto the mud track and let the two dogs free.

It should have been a brief lavatory stop, but the bitch, untroubled by her bowels, got wind of a scent and vanished into the woodland. Damned if she was going after it without a torch. Prue reached inside the car for the dog whistle on the dashboard. As she straightened again an angry argument broke out somewhere to her left. Her first assumption was that the Labrador had caused it, but one of the voices was clearly Ailsa Lockyer-Fox's and curiosity kept Prue from blowing her whistle.