“No.”

“This is the best room.”

I thought she meant it was best in terms of decor and size, or “best” as in reserved for visitors, so I wasn’t prepared for what I found. There wasn’t a stick of furniture inside. It was a huge shuttered room with a woodblock floor, white walls and a series of slim floor-to-ceiling panels set asymetrically down the centre with mini speakers attached to them. I had no idea what I was supposed to be looking at until Jess touched a series of buttons on a panel by the door and the room came alive with moving images and sound.

For a few sickening moments, as the farm appeared on the wall at the end, I thought I was about to see her family go through a series of repetitive loops on video. In that case I’d be agreeing with Lily. What could be more morbid and unhealthy than sitting in the dark, watching dead people perform bursts of activity at long-forgotten parties or school plays?

“It’s the life-cycle of the weasel,” said Jess as different footage played across the screens. “That female was nesting under the house for a season…she moved into Clambar Wood when the dogs sniffed out her entrance. Those are her kittens…she’s teaching them to hunt. It’s probably where the myth of weasel gangs comes from. In fact they’re incredibly territorial and only come together for mating. Look at that. Do you see how beautiful they are? Farmers should encourage them instead of killing them. They’ll go for eggs and chicks if they can get them but their favourite prey is mice and voles.”

“It’s amazing,” I said. “Who took it?”

“I did.”

“Did you set up the room as well?”

She nodded. “I made the panels light enough to move to produce different effects. Some films are more effective if the screens form a continuous arc…like birds in flight. I’ve some great footage of crows leaving their roost in the morning, and it’s stunning to watch them wheel around the arc. The weasels work better in a staggered formation because it shows how territorial they are.”

“Can I see the crows?”

She glanced at her watch. “It’ll take too long to set up. I’d have to realign the projectors as well.” She touched the buttons and plunged the room into darkness before easing me out and closing the door. “I’m working on the soundtrack for the weasels at the moment, but maybe I’ll set up the crows when that’s finished.”

I allowed myself to be shepherded back towards the kitchen. “But what are the films for? Are they for schools? What do you do with them?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

She took some sandwiches, wrapped in clingfilm, from the worktop and tucked them in her pocket. “It’s just a hobby,” she said.

I looked at her in disbelief. “You’re crazy! What’s the point of making films that no one sees? You should be showing them…finding yourself an audience.” I paused. “It would be like me writing columns that no one reads.”

“I’m not like you. I don’t have to be admired all the time.”

“That’s not fair.”

She gave an indifferent shrug.

“What’s wrong with showing you’ve got talent? You’re good, Jess.”

“I know,” she said bluntly, “but what makes you think I need you to tell me? How much do you know about filming? How much do you know about weasels? Anything?” She gave a dismissive laugh when I shook my head.

“I was only saying what I honestly felt.”

“No, you weren’t.” She opened the back door and ushered me out. “You were being patronising-probably because you feel guilty about listening to Madeleine. In future you’d do better to keep your mouth shut.”

It was like walking on eggshells. I couldn’t see what I’d done wrong except compliment her. “Would it have been better if I’d said it was crap?”

“Of course not.” She flicked me a scathing glance. “I hate liars even more than I hate arselickers.”

From: connie.burns@uknet.com

Sent: Wed 21/07/04 13:54

To: alan.collins@manchester-police.co.uk

Subject: contact details

Dear Alan,

Journalists are notoriously jealous of their stories. I don’t trust my boss not to cut me out of the O’Connell/MacKenzie loop and pass off all my research as his! I’ll let you know my address and phone number as soon as I’ve found somewhere permanent to stay. At the moment I’m living out of a suitcase.

It was ever thus!

Best wishes,

Connie

PS. I can’t believe how bad the mobile signals are in this country! I think I’ve signed up to the wrong server!

JESS AND I parted on superficially good terms but there was no invitation to return, and she gave a noncommittal nod when I said I hoped to see her at Barton House. It was all very confusing. Rather than go straight home, I drove to the village to see if Peter was home. When I spotted his car in the road, I pulled in behind it and rang his doorbell. I had second thoughts while I waited, mostly to do with rumour-mongering and disloyalty, but I was too curious to give in to them.

“Are you busy?” I asked when he opened the door. “Can you give me ten minutes?”

“Is it a medical visit or a social one?”

“Social.”

He stepped back. “Come in, but you’ll have to watch while I eat my lunch. There’s only enough for one, I’m afraid, but I can rustle up a glass of wine or a cup of coffee.”

I followed him across the hall. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“When did you last eat?”

The question caught me off-balance. “This morning?” I suggested.

He eyed me thoughtfully before pulling out a chair. As always in my company, he was careful to give me space, stepping away before inviting me to sit down. “Take a pew.”

“Thank you.”

He resumed his place at the other side of the table. Lunch was a microwaved pasta meal, still in its plastic container. “I use a plate when I know people are coming,” he said, picking up his fork. “Anyone who rings the bell on spec doesn’t count. Has Jess been bringing you food from the farm?”

I nodded.

“Do you eat it?”

I nodded again.

He didn’t believe me, but he didn’t make an issue of it. “So what can I tell you about Jess? Which particular part of that extraordinarily irritating personality do you want me to explain?”

I smiled. “How do you know it’s Jess I’m interested in?”

He filled his fork. “I was two hundred yards behind you when you turned in through her gate. Did you find her at home?”

“I watched her grease her baler, then she took me inside and showed me around. Presumably you’ve been in the house?”

“Too often to count.”

“So you’ve seen the corridor of family photos?”

“Yes.”

“The big room with the screens?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

He didn’t answer until he’d dealt with the last of his food and pushed the container aside. “I change my mind from time to time but, on the whole, I think it’s a good thing Jess never finished art school. She was at the end of her first year when the accident happened, and she had to jack it in to take on the farm. She still regrets it…but she’d have wasted three years if she’d stayed.”

I was unreasonably disappointed. If anyone could see she had talent it was surely Peter, because he seemed to have more empathy with her than anyone else. “You don’t think she’s any good?”

“I didn’t say that,” he corrected mildly. “I said if she’d stayed at art school she’d have been wasting her time. Either she’d have conformed and lost all her individuality…or she’d have been at permanent war with her tutors and done her own thing anyway. If you’re lucky, she might show you her paintings one day. As far as I know she hasn’t touched a brush since the accident, but the work she did before was exceptional.”

“Did she sell any of it?”

He shook his head. “Never tried. It’s sitting in a studio at the back of the house. I doubt she’d accept money for it, anyway. She’s of the painting-for-profit-is-bad school…thinks any artist who panders to what the buyer wants is a mediocre hack.”