Harry's jacket and tie looked incongruously formal and sober among the T-shirts and shorts of the other customers. He could have been an elderly undertaker who had wandered into a wedding reception. When he turned his head, the peak of his cap swung like a knife across a background of pink limbs and sunburnt faces.

‘So the bloke who killed this lass,' said Harry when he returned to the corner table. 'Do you reckon he'll get away with it?'

‘Depends,' said Wilford. 'Depends whether the coppers have a bit of luck. Perhaps somebody saw something and decides to tell them about it. Or some bobby asks the right question by accident. That's the only way it happens.'

‘They have their suspicions, no doubt.'

‘It doesn't matter what they suspect. They can't do anything without evidence,' said Wilford confidently. 'Evidence. Aye, that's what they'll want.'

‘They'll be desperate for it. Desperate for a bit of evidence.'

‘They reckon that Sherratt lad has gone missing,' said Sam.

‘Daft bugger.'

‘It'll keep the coppers busy, I suppose, looking for him. He'll be the number one suspect.'

‘Unless they fancy blaming it on one of the family,' said Wilford. 'That's where they always look first.’

Aye,' said Sam, brightening suddenly. 'Or the boyfriend.’

Ah! Which boyfriend?' asked Harry.

‘That's the question. With that one, that's the first question you'd have to ask.’

And only fifteen,' said Sam.

They shook their heads in despair.

‘Well, that's the best bit, eh, Harry?'

‘Oh aye,' said Harry. 'That's the best bit. When they do all their enquiring, they'll turn up all sorts. They're bound to find out about those buggers at the Mount. The Vernons.'

‘Maybe when they do . .'

‘. . they won't be so bothered about finding out who put the cat among their pigeons.'

‘Maybe,' said Harry, 'they'd even give him a medal.’

The youths at the other end of the pub turned in astonishment to stare at the three old men in the corner. For once, the laughter of the old men was even louder and more unnatural than their own.

*

Helen stood with her grandmother on the doorstep of the cottage, watching the lights of the Renault disappear past the bend by the church. The night was clear and still quite warm, and the stars glowed in a dark-blue blanket of sky. Only the streetlamps here and there and the security lights outside the Coach House and the Old Vicarage created areas that seemed truly dark.

‘It was nice to see Sergeant Cooper's son, wasn't it? He's made a nice-looking young man.'

‘Yes, Grandma.'

‘Ben, is it?'

‘That's right.'

‘He's the one you used to bring round to the house after school sometimes, isn't he, Helen?'

‘Only once or twice, Grandma. And that was years ago.'

‘I remember, though. I remember how you looked at him. And then you told me one day that you were going to marry him when you grew up. I remember that.'

‘All little girls get crushes like that. I don't even know him now.'

‘I suppose so. But he has nice eyes. Dark brown.' They turned back into the house. Helen noticed that Gwen was reluctant even to look into the kitchen, let alone go near the door, although the police had long since taken away the bloodstained trainer and the pages of the Buxton Advertiser with it.

‘They'll be up at the Mount now,' said Helen. 'I don't envy them the job. They have to tell Mr and Mrs Vernon what they've found.’

Her grandmother looked at the clock, fiddled with her cardigan, folded and unfolded a small piece of pink tissue from her sleeve.

‘One of them will have to go and identify the body, you know. I suppose he'll be the one who does it. But it will hit her hard, Charlotte Vernon. Don't you think so, Grandma?’

Gwen shook her head, and Helen saw a small tear gather at the corner of one eye, brightening for a moment the dry skin of her cheek.

‘I know I should do,' said Gwen. 'I know I should feel sorry for them, but I don't. I can't help it, Helen.' Helen sat on the side of her grandmother's chair and put her arm around her thin shoulders.

‘It's all right, Grandma. It's understandable. There's no need to upset yourself. What if I make some hot chocolate, then there might be something you can watch on TV until Granddad comes back.’

Gwen nodded and sniffed, and found another piece of tissue that was still intact to wipe her nose. Helen patted her shoulder and began to move towards the kitchen until her grandmother's voice stopped her. It sounded harsh and full of fear, and trembling on the edge of despair.

‘What's going to happen to Harry?' she said. 'Oh dear God, what will they do to Harry?’

7

The mortuary assistant drew back the plastic sheet from the face with care. The relatives should never be allowed to see the injuries on the body, unless it was absolutely necessary. In this case, the face was bad enough, although it had been cleaned up as far as possible in the time they had been given. The maggots had been scooped away and bottled, the eyes cleaned and closed, the dried blood scraped off for testing. With the hair pushed back, the injuries to the side of the head were not readily visible.

‘Yes,' said Graham Vernon, without hesitation.

‘You are identifying the remains as those of your daughter, Laura Vernon, sir?' asked DCI Tailby. 'Yes. That's what I said, isn't it?'

‘Thank you very much, sir.'

‘Is that it?'

‘It's a necessary formality which allows the other procedures to get under way.’

The assistant was already drawing the sheet back over Laura's face, returning her to the anonymity of the recently dead, until the postmortem examination could be completed.

‘Does one of your procedures involve catching my daughter's murderer, by any chance, Chief Inspector?' said Vernon, without taking his eyes from the body.

There was no need for Tailby to have been present in person when Graham Vernon identified his daughter's body, but he saw it as a valuable chance to observe the reactions of relatives. He watched Vernon now as the man stepped away from the sheeted mound that had been his daughter. He saw his eyes linger with that familiar horrid fascination on the loose ridges and hollows of green plastic that concealed the dead girl's face. Vernon's hands moved constantly, touching his face and his mouth, smoothing his jacket, rubbing their soft fingers together in a series of involuntary gestures that could mean nervousness or barely concealed distress. His face told its own story.

Many parents and bereaved spouses had told Tailby that at this point their minds still refused to accept the reality of death. They would imagine their loved one sitting up suddenly and laughing at the joke, the sheet falling away from features restored to life and health. Was Graham Vernon thinking this now? Did he still see and hear a living Laura? And, if so, what was she telling him that made him look so afraid? There was a fine line to tread in these cases. The family of a victim had to be treated with care and consideration. Yet ninety per cent of murders were 'domestics', in which a family member or close friend was responsible. Tailby was no longer moved by the various symptoms of distress displayed by relatives. It was a necessary ability in the job he did, this hardening of the emotions.

Sometimes, though, he was forced to acknowledge that it had weakened him as a person; it was a long time since he had been able to form a close relationship.

‘You appreciate that we will need to talk to you and your wife again, sir,' he said, when Vernon finally turned away.

‘There isn't anything else I can tell you that I haven't already.'

‘We need to know as much about Laura's background as we can. We need to interview all her friends and associates again. We need to identify any links that we haven't yet discovered. We need to trace her movements on the day she was killed. There's a lot to be done.'