A senior detective makes a visit to a lonely marshland cottage while following up a new lead in a 30-year-old murder case. Needless to say, his visit does not go as he anticipated.

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Disclaimer: The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended. This story is copyright (c) 2009 Penny Lane. All rights reserved.

1 - Friday

In the flat areas of the country, a drainage ditch is often called, interchangeably, a 'dyke' or 'drain'. These are usually V-shaped, about 20 feet (6m) deep and often 30ft (10m) or more wide.

He pushed the doorbell button and looked around him, his breath steaming in the frozen air. The flat marshland spread around the cottage in all directions, tall, frost-encrusted grasses standing motionless at the sides of low fields which faded away into the faint mist. Far away, there was just the merest hint of sea-birds' cries and the murmur of the sea.

After nearly a minute, during which time he contemplated ringing the bell again and then walking around the house, he saw a figure approaching through the hammered glass in the front door. The door opened, and he found himself facing a middle-aged woman, slightly shorter than himself. She was wearing a very faded red long-sleeved t-shirt tucked into an ankle-length straight denim skirt, with a floral pinafore over the top. In the hand which wasn't holding the door she held a hand towel.

"Good morning, madam. I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm looking for the cottage once known as 'Haystack Cottage'. I was told this was the place."

She gave him a half smile and indicated the towel.

"I'm sorry for keeping you waiting in the cold, I was up to my elbows in the washing. Yes, this was originally called Haystack Cottage. What can I do for you?"

The man delved under his heavy overcoat and into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a slim leather identification folder. Opening it, he showed it to the woman.

"I am Detective Chief Inspector Warfield, East Mercia CID, and I'm following up a lead on an old murder case. May I come in and ask you some questions about the cottage? I won't keep you long."

She looked at him with interest.

"By all means, Chief Inspector. Come in, please. You shouldn't be standing out in the cold in this weather. Go through to the sitting-room, please."

She showed him into a room to one side of the front of the cottage. It was bigger than he had expected from the outside, and quite modern in both construction and decoration. She bade him sit in one of the armchairs, although he found it awkward to do so while wearing his bulky coat. She sat in the other armchair facing him and gave him her full attention, her hands unconsciously kneading the towel as she did so.

"I'm investigating a cold case," he began, "a murder that happened thirty years ago in the East Midlands. As you know, murder cases are never closed until someone's caught, normally they just lie on file. There are people who work on all the cold cases, and these days there are new forensic techniques which we can use on the evidence collected during the original investigation. That's what has happened here. We have reason to believe that the person responsible moved to this cottage at some point following the crime, having originally been cleared of all involvement. I'm trying to trace his footsteps."

"I see. Well, I don't know how much help I can give you, I've been living here myself for fifteen years. I do have all the papers filed away from when I bought the property, I suppose his name and address will be amongst them somewhere." She frowned. "He went to Ireland. There was something odd - are you in a hurry for this information? I mean, do you have other places to go after here? It may take me some time to find what you are looking for."

"Thank you, madam, no, I haven't. This is the very end of the trail at the moment. I'd be very grateful for all assistance you can offer me."

She held him with a long, speculative look, then abruptly nodded.

"I'm afraid I'll have to carry on with what I was doing," she said. "The washing's in a state I can't leave at the moment. If you'd like to come through to the kitchen, maybe I can answer some of your other questions while I sort it out, and then I can look for the documents from the house purchase."

Warfield levered himself out of the chair, and followed the woman to the door of the sitting-room.

"Oh," she turned to him, "You don't look comfortable in that coat, and you're going to be here a while. Why don't you take it off and I'll hang it up by the front door."

He followed her through to the back of the cottage. She indicated a chair at the big table that filled the middle of the kitchen and he sat down, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he did so. It was much warmer here. He noticed the range, the built-in cupboards, the lack of clutter on the scrupulously-clean work surfaces. He pulled out his notebook and a pencil, and positioned himself ready to take notes. The woman carried on into the next room.

"Can you hear me alright from there?"

She poked her head around the doorway.

"I'll have to stay in the utility room till I get this load rinsed and in the machine, but you can still ask me things. Come and stand by the doorway if there's too much noise."

"Thank you, madam, I'll manage. First of all, I think I'd better have your name. Just for the records, you understand."

"Of course. I'm Elaine Williams. That's Elaine Muriel Williams. I think my mother was trying to be funny when I was baptised."

"Thank you. I know it's rude to ask a lady her age, but I have to, I'm afraid."

"That's fine, Chief Inspector. I'm fifty-five years old."

He raised an eyebrow. "That's a year younger than myself," he said. He thought. "And, coincidentally, the same age as the person I'm trying to find. Although," he added, "I don't think he'll be looking as well as you do when I find him. Women seem to have stopped ageing these days, unlike men." He ran his free hand through his thinning hair as he wrote.

She gave him a smile from the doorway, her lower arms dripping with soapy water.

"Of course. We decided we didn't want to do it, so we stopped."

The questions continued while she sorted her clothes, drained the water, and got the machine going to spin them. Then she came into the kitchen and filled the kettle.

"I usually have a cup of tea about this time every morning, and you look as though you need something warm inside you. Is tea okay?"

"Thank you, Mrs Williams. Oh, I'm sorry, am I assuming something I shouldn't?"

She held up her left hand to show the ring on her third finger.

"Actually, you are, that's the purpose of this ring. I have never married. Is that a problem?"

"No, no," he waved a dismissive hand. "These days, people wear what they like and call themselves what they like. The police have to be broad-minded. Do you mind if I call you Miss Williams?"

"That will be fine. Do you take sugar? If you open the second cupboard from the left, you should find a bowl."

The tea-making ritual concluded, they sat facing one another across the table, tea in front of them and a plate of biscuits between them. Elaine took a biscuit and nibbled a corner.

"Please help yourself. If I don't get help to eat them they will only make me put on weight. Now, after we've finished, I'll have a look for the file you wanted. I suspect that it's up in the loft, but I'll do a check of my work room before I pull down the loft ladder."

"Will it will be freezing up there? I know my loft is in the winter."

"Oh, no," she smiled at him. "It might not be as warm as the kitchen but it won't be cold." She gave him a glance. "Did you wonder why this place was called Haystack Cottage?"

"I did, a bit," he admitted. "But we're surrounded by farms here, and I thought -" He trailed off. The marshland was almost exclusively used for grazing sheep and cattle these days, even an outsider like himself could see that.

"This is one of the earliest eco-houses," she explained. "It's built of straw bales, the walls are more than two feet thick. The locals called it Haystack Cottage while it was being built, and the name stuck."

He grinned at her and took a biscuit.

"That's why the loft won't be cold," she explained. "It's got a layer of boards for a ceiling, and on top of that is about eight tons of shredded waste newspapers. There's another layer of boards on top of that, and then the slates. It's very snug in the winter, and quite cool in the summer."

She grimaced. "It is, in fact, full of spiders, although what they live on I can't imagine. I don't get up there often, except to store another year's tax papers." She changed the subject. "Can you tell me something about the case, at all? There's something about a murder which makes everyone curious, if you know what I mean."

He nodded. "Of course. Most of what we know is public knowledge, in any case. There's only a few crucial details of the most recent forensic tests I ought to keep secret for now, if you don't mind."

She shrugged. "It's your case. I'm just interested in finding out how my house fits in to all this."

"Okay. There's a largish village in our policing area called Balthorpe, don't know if you've heard of it?" She shook her head. "I'm not surprised, most haven't. It used to be a mining village. Geoffrey Strickland ran a family construction firm based there, made a fair job of it, too. Had four children, two of each. Wife had died four years previously, husband never got over it, depression, drink, you can guess the story." Elaine nodded, interested despite herself. "Late one afternoon, one of the daughters came home and found him dead in the kitchen. There had been a massive fight, destruction in several of the downstairs rooms."

He stopped, his eyes re-seeing the scene in the house that night.

"It's personal with me, understand? I was a green Detective Constable, in the job barely six months, and this was my first murder. I remember going into that house and finding him. The daughter had phoned us and then collapsed from shock in one of the front rooms." He shook his head. "It was a right mess. Well, to cut months of police procedure short, we never found anybody. The children all had cast-iron alibis, or so we thought. After ruling out one or two other possible ideas we decided he must have come home and found an intruder, put up a fight and come off worse. Death was said to be by a blow to the head."

He took a sip of his tea, and then continued.

"Over the years, wherever I went, however I was promoted, that first murder never left my thoughts. Finally, just when I thought it was going to get away from me, forensic comes up with evidence to suggest that the younger son, Joseph Strickland, was in the house when his father died. After the death of the father, the children ran the family firm for a year and decided it wasn't for them, so sold up and divided the proceeds. Joseph Strickland moved around a couple of times and finally bought Haystack Cottage. That's why I'm here."

She nodded in recognition. "Joseph Strickland. Yes, of course. It's funny how some memories fade and others don't. Well, he went to Ireland, and I'm not sure that any address I have for him is going to help you."

"Ireland? You mean the Republic of Ireland?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, I should have been more specific. He went to Dublin first, I recall, then to some relatives a short distance away. I heard he'd come into an inheritance and wanted to settle down over there, rather than here on the marsh."

"Oh, yes," replied the detective. "We know all about the O'Malley inheritance. So he went over there to spend it, did he?" His eyes unfocused as he tried to fit this new information into what he already knew.

"Yes, but even the solicitors selling the house for him found it difficult to get in touch with him. It made the whole buying process that much more drawn out for both sides. What did you mean, when you said it was going to get away from you? Are they taking the case off you, or something?"

"I retire in six months. I did one or two things during my career which didn't do my body any good, so I'm taking early retirement."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Have you family? Will they be pleased to see more of you?"

"Regrettably, no, not really. My wife died four years ago, a blood clot after a trivial accident when she was out one day shopping. My older son is in the force, married with two young children, but I don't see enough of him because of where he lives. The other son is a pen-pusher in a bank down the south-west. I only ever see him at Christmas when he brings his wife up for the holiday. They're expecting," he added.

She studied his face thoughtfully. "You don't approve of what your younger son's doing."

He grimaced. "He could have done better for himself. Still, as a police officer I've seen just about everything, so I really can't complain." He put his cup down. "Well, thank you for the tea, and the biscuits, Miss Williams. I really think we ought to try and find those details, if you don't mind."

"You're right. I could talk all day if I'm allowed, I'm sorry." She got up and put the two cups into the sink. "You'll be going back to the Midlands when you leave, then?"

"Yes. It'll be a long drive, and well dark when I get there. Add in the usual Friday evening traffic, and I'll be shattered by the time I get home."

She led the way into the bedroom she had converted into a study and work room. She pulled open filing-cabinet drawers, checked the contents of several shelves, and shook her head.

"Not here, as I thought. I'll have to go up into the loft." She continued their previous conversation. "You didn't drive down here this morning, did you? Whatever time did you start out?"

"No, I'm not that crazy, not at fifty-six. I stayed at a hotel in Tulmouth. I wanted to stay all weekend, actually, but I'd forgotten they have a music festival on. I was lucky to get a room for last night, they had a cancellation."

She used a pole from the airing cupboard to release the trapdoor, and then to pull the ladder down. He helped her to adjust it and make it stable.

"It's a shame, really, I hadn't realised there was a festival on," he continued, "I would have made more effort to get my hotel arrangements sorted out if I had. Still, easy come easy go."

He watched her climb up, switching on the loft light as she did so.

"You can come up as well, if you like," she called. "It's a bit dusty, but it's all boarded out, so you won't go through the ceiling or anything." He followed her up into the loft space. "You enjoy music, then?"

"Yes. I get a lot of time in my car to listen to it these days. Don't know in detail what the festival offers, though. I wasn't in Tulmouth long enough to find out. I was more concerned last night with finding somewhere to eat."

"Here it is," she said, pointing to one of a number of brown archive boxes. "Let's get it to the edge of the trapdoor and then I'll pass it down to you. Is that all right?"

He climbed back down part of the way and she handed him the box, which he put on his shoulder as he went down the last two steps. She followed him and began putting the ladder away.

"Take it into the kitchen while I do this," she said. "You can spread it out all over the table if you need to."

"Won't it get your table dirty? This box is covered in dust and webs."

"Don't worry, it will only take a few seconds to clean it up when we've finished."

By the time she came into the kitchen he had unloaded the box into piles on the table and was going through them. She sat in her chair and watched him, leaving him to find his own way through the documents. Eventually he looked up.

"I see what you mean. The first few of these letters go to presumably the hotel in Dublin where he was staying, and then the address switches to a post-office box. Still, I have the address of his solicitor, that's a start." He made a note in his book.

"I'm afraid not," Elaine told him. "That firm of solicitors no longer exists. One of the partners got done for embezzling a client's trust fund a few years back, and the whole thing folded. Made quite a stink in the local papers when it happened. I think all the records and such got absorbed by one of the big London firms, but I'm only guessing. Come to that, even the solicitor I used myself has long gone. I have no idea what happened to them, I just noticed that the office was empty when I passed it while shopping one day."

"So there's no connection left at all? What about forwarded post? Did you get anything for him you needed to pass on?"

"Yes, there was quite a bit to start with, as you can imagine. I sent it all to the post box in Dublin. After a while it started coming back, so I thought to ask his solicitor if they had a forwarding address, but all they had was the post box, so I just had to return all the post as 'gone away'."

"Damn! Oh, excuse my French. It looks as though the trail will go cold." He looked at Elaine. "Oh, I could probably go to Dublin and try to worm a contact address out of the Post Office over there, but I doubt they'd still have the information, even if they'd be willing to tell a 'foreigner' like me. It is, what, fifteen years ago." He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair again, defeated. "I'll write up my report, and see if we can get someone to do the Dublin enquiries, but I think it's going to be too late. Too late for me, at least." He shook his head. "Nope, I think I'm going to have to let this one go, even though it grieves me. I hate loose ends." He started stacking the piles of papers and putting them back into the box. "Do you want help to put the box back in the loft while I'm here?"

She waved a hand. "No, that's all right. If we put the box in my work room, I've other items that need to go up later, I'll do them all together. Can I offer you lunch before you go?"

"Thank you, Miss Williams, but I'd better get going. It's a long drive."

She helped him into his coat, and then put her own on. They went outside together, both shivering as the cold air hit them. He went to his car, climbed into it, and got himself settled for the journey. She headed for the gate, pulling woollen gloves out of her coat pockets as she did so, and opened it for him to drive through. He drove towards the gate, now open, stopping halfway out of the entrance and lowering the driver's window as she approached.

"Well, thank you, Miss Williams. I'm sorry to have to upset your routine this morning. I'm just as sorry that the trail effectively ends here, but that's just professional pride. Thank you for the tea."

She leaned towards the open window. "I'm glad to have helped," she said. "If you need anything more, you have my phone number and my email address. Goodbye, Chief Inspector."

But the car never got any farther, because as they spoke a quad bike roared along the narrow lane and stopped in front of it. The muffled-up rider jumped off and approached Elaine.

"Mornin' Miss Williams. Mornin', Sir. Sorry, but you won't be able to get out of the lane just at the moment, there's a milk tanker come unstuck just round the bend up there."

"What's happened, Mike?" asked Elaine, who recognised the man as a son of the farmer who lived at the end of the lane.

"'ee slid on the black ice, turning out of Salter's Lane. Back end's gone in the dyke, front end's all cocked up in th' air. The 'ole lane's blocked till we can get a recovery vehicle out. I'm off back to the farm to phone, then to get Pa with one of the big tractors, see if 'ee can 'elp."

"Can I help?" asked Warfield. "I have a mobile phone, if that's any use."

"No signal round 'ere, sir. Got to be a proper phone."

"Driver all right?" asked Elaine.

"Yeah, Miss Williams. 'ee a bit shaken up, 'ee's set in Ma Winter's 'ouse wi' a cup of tea right now. Oh, and I'll 'ave to get the Environmental. Milk's gone in the dyke. I'll call back and let you know when the lane's clear again. If you'll excuse me, sir, Miss Williams."

Mike climbed back onto his quad-bike and continued his journey. Warfield looked exasperated, then reversed his car back to where he had parked it. He switched off and got out, slamming the door.

"Looks like your luck isn't too good at the moment," Elaine commented as he walked over to her. "If you're going to be here for a while, I insist on feeding you lunch."

They walked gingerly over the treacherous road surface to the far side, where a small tendril of white was visible through the film of ice on the surface of the water in the drain.

"You might be here a while," she told him. "If you time it wrong, they'll have tankers and pumps and who-knows-what here to clean that up. No chance of getting out for a few hours, yet. Come back inside where it's warm."

He followed her back inside, and at a prompting his jacket joined his coat on the hooks inside the front door. They returned to the kitchen where Elaine promptly got out her cleaning materials and started on the table. He sat down in a chair and watched her.

"Chief Inspector -"

"Please. I'm not being official now. Chief Inspector is such a mouthful. I would like it -" he paused, and then continued, surprised by what he had decided to say. "I would like it if you would call me David, Miss Williams."

It had been four years since Ruby died, and he had given no thought to what might follow it. The demands of his job, and his minor obsession over solving his first and final case, had driven thoughts of a more personal nature from his mind most of the time. Now, sitting in the warm kitchen, he had realised that Elaine Williams was more than just a name on a police report. He had only known the woman an hour, or an hour and a half, but he could sense that there was a spark of friendliness between them. He felt comfortable in this cottage, watching her wipe the table. In fact -

"Then you must call me Elaine," she replied. She wiped her right hand on a towel and held it out. "How do you do," she said, half in jest.

He took her hand and shook it, finding it firm, warm and alive. "How do you do," he responded. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Not just at the moment. I've got to check the washing, then we can lay the table for lunch."

Laying the table was a sociable affair, both talking about the trials and tribulations of solitary living, favourite foods, what different people called different meals, and many other subjects. David's manner from the moment he had stepped into the house had put Elaine at ease, and she found him easy to make conversation with. As a long-serving guardian of law and order, he had a wealth of experience in dealing with such situations, but he found himself acting naturally rather than professionally. For her part, Elaine intuitively knew that he was a man she might trust.

She surveyed the wreckage of their lunch, sighing. "Twice as much to clear away. Twice as much eaten. I'm surprised you didn't eat more, in fact. Other men who've eaten from my table have had huge appetites."

"Ah, well, I don't seem to need quite so much now," David replied. "When I was in my twenties and early thirties, I used to eat like the proverbial horse. Ruby used to complain I used to eat more than the boys. Mind you, her tone changed once the boys were teenagers."

"Ruby was your wife?"

"Yes. She died four years ago," he answered abruptly.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, how clumsy of me."

He waved a hand. "I've more or less come to terms with it, although I don't suppose I'll ever completely get over the shock. I've had to tell people a number of times over the years that someone near to them has died, but until it happens to you yourself you don't really understand the impact it can have."

"No, I imagine not. Shall we change the subject?"

"Suppose I give you a hand washing up the dishes?" he asked.

She considered, briefly. "No, I think they can wait. I think it's probably more important to see if you can get out yet, you don't want to be hanging around here with such a long way to go. I suggest we get our coats and walk along the lane. That will give us a chance of seeing if there's any progress, and also it will help our digestion. What do you think?"

"That's an excellent idea. I could do with a little light exercise, particularly if I'm going to be spending the rest of the day sat in my car."

Elaine found some fur-lined boots in the hall and pulled them on. She took off her pinafore and added a scarf, a knitted beret, a thick padded coat and some sheepskin gloves. David climbed back into his jacket and coat.

"I see you're accustomed to the weather round these parts," he observed.

"Oh, yes. It's not going to be too bad today, but when the wind's directly off the sea it can really suck the heat out of you if you're not prepared. Shall we go?"

They left the cottage, David somewhat amused when he realised that Elaine hadn't locked the door behind her, walked up the short drive, through the iron five-barred gate, and onto the narrow lane. This ran straight in both directions, with a huge drain on either side. Looking in one direction, David could see a group of buildings nearly a mile away, presumably the farm where the young man on the quad bike had been going. In the other direction the road ran for perhaps quarter of a mile and then angled sharply to the right. A clump of low trees hid what was happening beyond the bend, but didn't hide the yellow flashing lights.

"Shall we?"

David indicated with a gloved hand, and they started carefully walking towards the lights. In the hours since they had previously been up to the road, the film of ice on the road had melted somewhat, although there were still sufficient patches to require attention while walking. As they turned the corner, the scene opened up to them.

Aside from the milk tanker, there were two large farm tractors, a heavy goods recovery vehicle, a lorry-sized low loader, two smaller tankers and a police van. A man wearing a high visibility jacket and a hard hat came over to them as they approached.

"Best you stay back here, folks," he advised. "We've still got cables attached to the truck and if something breaks, there's no knowing what might happen."

"Can you tell us how long it might be before a car could get past?" asked David. "I've got a long drive back to the Midlands ahead of me, and I want to get going as soon as I can, before it gets dark if possible."

"Ah. Let's see. We've got the trailer out of the dyke, as you can see, but we can't tow it away because the coupling is damaged. We'll have to put it on that low-loader. Now, before we do that, we'll have to pump the milk out of it to lighten it, that's why those two little'uns are there. You just got an ordinary car, sir? Not a big four-by-four?"

"Just a BMW 5 series."

"Ah. If we arrange it carefully, you might be able to get by in about an hour or so. Depends on how fast we can transfer the milk. Call it hour and a half to be sure."

"Thank you." David's face fell.

The man nodded and walked off, and they watched the scene for a few minutes before turning away. Although it was early afternoon, already it seemed that the light was beginning to fade. The mist from this morning had mostly gone, but visibility was still poor, and the air was still only just above freezing. They started walking back. Elaine began to feel sorry for the policeman, whom circumstances had conspired to trap at the end of nowhere.

"It's just not your day, is it?" she said as they walked slowly back. "I'm sorry, I can assure you there's no ill intent. I have known days when absolutely everything that can go wrong tries to."

David gave a wry smile. "It's just one thing after another, isn't it? Yes, I've had other days like this. You can hardly say it's your fault, anyway. I've had a pleasant lunch out of it I otherwise would have missed."

They walked along in silence. As they approached the gate to the cottage, Elaine had an idea which made her think hard for some moments before she voiced it.

"When you get home tonight," she asked slowly, "what awaits you? From what you told me before, you're on your own, aren't you?"

"Yes, I suppose I am," he said, stopping in the lane and looking at Elaine, curious.

"I wish to offer a suggestion," she said tentatively. "Merely a suggestion, and I don't want you to think that you have any obligation to me whether you say yes or no."

"Go on."

"I was thinking, by the time you can get away from here, you'll be in the heavy traffic, and then you'll have to stop to eat, and then you'll get home late, and then you'll spend the weekend by yourself. Is that right?"

David nodded, interested at the sudden turn of conversation.

"I was also thinking, you said originally that you would have stayed in Tulmouth if you'd realised the music festival was on. Since you can't get a hotel room, I was wondering whether you would like to stay in the cottage as my guest for the weekend. I usually go to the festival on the Saturday on my own, but I'd be delighted to have some company if you accept my offer."

The suggestion had come out of the blue, and it threw David completely. However, it would kill a number of birds with a single stone, and he decided to find out more.

"Miss Williams, I think you had better tell me exactly what you had in mind."

"Detective Chief Inspector Warfield, David, I must assure you that I had nothing untoward in mind." Elaine was now flustered, and she realised that she had been on the verge of making an improper suggestion to someone who was almost a total stranger. If her cheeks hadn't been so cold, she might have blushed. She swallowed and tried to compose herself. "I merely meant that as you had indicated a desire to sample the music festival, and that since I have a spare bed, that I wanted to offer you the chance to go to the festival. In addition it would provide both of us some company this week-end. You could stay tonight, and I would have no objection to your staying tomorrow night as well. That means that you would have the whole of Sunday to return home at your own pace, and in daylight."

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, "I didn't mean to imply you were suggesting anything improper." Then he completely surprised himself by saying, "Yes, Miss Williams, I find your suggestion to be an attractive one. You'll forgive me if I take a minute or two to weigh up my options."

"Shall we walk down towards the farm while you do, then? I'll be quite happy to answer any questions you might have."

The two continued past the entrance to the cottage towards the farm at the end of the lane while David thought about what he had been offered. It would certainly ease his travel troubles, he hadn't been looking forward to the delayed drive at all. In fact, he had been contemplating breaking his journey and stopping overnight at one of the service areas en route. While he knew from past experience that the accommodation at such places was usually clean and efficient, it was also uniquely soulless, something to be endured rather than enjoyed, so an opportunity to spend an evening in friendly company would be a definite plus. The food, judging by today's lunch, would also be significantly better quality. Then there would be tomorrow.

"You say you go to the festival every year?" he asked. "What sort of music is there?"

"A complete mixture," she replied. "It was originally music from about 1850 to about 1950, but the boundaries are a bit blurred these days. There's music hall, Gilbert and Sullivan, all kinds of jazz from traditional to progressive, barber-shop, big bands, brass bands, some skiffle, folk music, the occasional post-war musical too. They tend not to go in for the big classical pieces, or modern pop, but almost anything else has put in an appearance from time to time. Do you have any particular preferences?"

"I like Gilbert and Sullivan. Ruby and I used to go occasionally."

"Would that distress you to go again, do you think?"

"No. I have been since, and I did wonder what would happen, but I decided that I shouldn't cut myself off from life just because I had happy memories from before, and it turned out much less of an ordeal than I'd thought. What else do I like? I suppose most of what you've just listed. Would we have to book in advance, do you know?"

"Not usually. Most venues one can just turn up at the door. There are one or two special events - one on the Saturday, and one on the Sunday - where it's advisable to book, but otherwise there's usually room to get in." She thought. "There's a schedule of events in the middle of the Tulmouth Argus, we can have a look when we get back to the cottage."

He had other concerns, as well.

"I'm sorry, but the policeman in me is slightly cautious. It's occurred to me that I know next to nothing about you. For instance, what is it you do out here, a long way from anywhere?"

"I paint a bit, and I write a bit," she replied. "Like your suspect I came into a little money, and it allows me to follow my heart without having to resort to having a full-time job. In fact, if I just painted I could make a living, although it would be somewhat basic. The writing puts the jam on my bread, so to speak. The fact that I live in a house which is so energy-efficient means I spend nothing on heating bills either, which is quite handy. Why out here? Well, if you look ahead you'll see that the lane turns into a track, and if you were to walk down there for twenty minutes you'd be on the beach. It's the perfect place to put up an easel. Although, of course, at this time of year all my paints would be frozen in their tubes."

"Oh. Yes, I saw some canvases in your workroom when you were looking for those documents. Will you show me some of your work when we get back to the cottage?"

She was suddenly shy. "Oh, they're just some daubings of mine."

"If those daubings pay your bills then they can't be that bad. I don't know much about art - except when it's been stolen - so I promise I won't pass a critical eye over them. What do you say?"

"Oh, very well." It suddenly seemed important to her that he approved of what she did, although she could not have said why. "I don't have much about at the moment, it's the wrong time of year, but you're welcome to see what I do have. Now, have you come to a decision?"

"I'm sorry? Oh! Yes, of course, I'd be delighted to accept your invitation." He had been so efficiently sidetracked by their conversation that he had forgotten that he hadn't given her an answer. He had automatically decided that it was a foregone conclusion, but had omitted to tell her what he had decided. It was his turn to be embarrassed.

"Miss Williams!" The young man they had met earlier came out of the yard as they reached the farm gate. "They still makin' a dog's breakfast o' that truck, then?"

"Yes, Mike. One of the men said it would be a hour to an hour and a half yet. My visitor," she indicated David, "has decided to stay overnight, so I'll save you the bother of calling in."

"Ain't no bother, Miss Williams, thanks anyway."

The two retraced their steps to the cottage. David opened the boot of his car and retrieved his bags, Elaine showing him which room to drop them in before they hung up their coats and made themselves comfortable in the sitting-room.

"I'll make some tea to help warm us up. Here's this week's Tulmouth Argus, if you want to choose something to see tomorrow."

When she returned with a tray she asked, "Do you need to get into contact with anyone, to tell them where you are or anything? There's a phone in my work room. I've also got an internet connection, although it isn't very fast. It's enough if you want to check emails or something like that, though."

David looked at his watch. "Yes, that's a good idea. If you don't mind?"

"Of course not. I'll bring the tea things along, we can drink them in there while I get you connected."

David made two short phone calls, to update his team on progress - or lack of progress - in the case, and to tell people where he would be all week-end. By the time he had finished Elaine had fired up her computer and he then spent a few minutes checking emails. David drank his tea and then turned his attention to the stack of canvases leaning against one wall of the work room.

"May I?"

"Go ahead," she said calmly, although she was slightly nervous inside.

He picked up the first one and turned it over to look at it.

"I'm impressed," he said after a long pause. "I'm not surprised people pay money for these. Is that a lighthouse?"

"It's one of the navigation lights that line the channel into Tulmouth," she explained. "I walked a way down the beach towards town to paint that one."

He put the painting down and reached for the next. "That's the farm, surely?" She nodded. "And this one is your cottage?"

"Yes. It's done from the field behind, so you can see the kitchen garden and the conservatory. You probably didn't notice those from the road."

"No. I was more concerned with not falling over, I think. Now, this one's of the harbour at Tulmouth, yes?"

"Yes. Did you get to the harbour while you were there?"

"No, but I recognise it from a leaflet that was in my hotel room. I wouldn't have realised that from this apparently empty landscape you could find so much to paint, but then I've not got an artist's eye."

"Are you not artistic at all, then?"

"Hah. Not at all." He neatly stacked the canvases back where he'd found them. "We had to do some sketching of scenes of crime as part of the training to become a detective. My instructor said he'd seen more realistic identikit pictures." He considered. "It's not a good trait for a detective to have, really. We're supposed to be methodical and accurate rather than artistic, although having an imagination always helps, just so long as we don't start inventing things."

"Like witness statements, you mean?" she said with a smile that defused the implied criticism. He winced, but nodded agreement. She continued, "Right, perhaps we'd better go and find something for dinner." After shutting the equipment down, she led the way back to the kitchen. "My original meal for tonight will have to stay in the fridge, that's no problem," she added when he started to apologise. "I have some lamb in the freezer, will that be okay?"

In her own domain she was totally assured, just as Ruby had been at home. There were differences, of course, in the details, but she fitted her environment exactly. David was surprised to discover that he fitted in, too. He insisted on helping to prepare vegetables, and she made him wear an apron to keep the mess off his suit trousers. Once the ingredients had been placed in a casserole dish, and the dish put in the oven, they cleaned themselves up and returned to the sitting room.

She had a wide selection of books, although some of the titles made him raise an eyebrow. She explained that she went to a couple of second-hand bookshops in Tulmouth, and occasionally would pick random titles in order to ensure that she didn't get too set in her reading habits. He gently quizzed her about the contents of some, and found that she could talk knowledgeably about some subjects that he barely understood, and realised that there was an intelligent brain behind the gentle, middle-aged face. He unconsciously compared her to Ruby, who could never have been accused of reading much beyond her romances and women's magazines.

Although Elaine had a television, they listened to the news on the radio, discussing each item as it came on. They discovered that they thought alike on many of the issues. Of course, the guest would never disagree openly with his host, but then he didn't have to most of the time. After the news had finished, they looked at the festival programme in the middle pages of the Argus, trying to decide what to see. A phone call to the booking office showed, as Elaine had expected, that the main event of a Gilbert and Sullivan performance was fully booked, so they decided to just stroll around whenever they got to Tulmouth and see what was on offer.

The afternoon wore on and turned into early evening. Dinner was about ready and they adjourned to the kitchen, where David soaked up a domestic atmosphere he hadn't really experienced since Ruby died. The table was laid, the china prepared, and the casserole dish was bought out to sit steaming in the middle of the table on a stout cork mat. Elaine asked David to open some wine while she served out the meal.

"You don't want to go mad with the wine, do you. I would think that in your line of work you don't get a lot of opportunity to have a drink."

"Unfortunately, or perhaps, fortunately, depending on your point of view, I don't," he replied. "Because we tend to be on call most of the time we aren't supposed to drink very much, of course, although some seem to manage it without getting caught. On the positive side, there's a potential for officers at all levels to end up alcoholics because of the stress, so not being able to drink saves our livers, I suppose. My drinking tends to be a couple of shorts at the club with the Chief Super when there's a function, and maybe a bottle of wine or two over Christmas. Family life kept me from the beer culture of the lower ranks as well."

"Have you had a very hectic career, then?"

"So-so," he said. "It's the usual thing, weeks doing boring paperwork and then some high-profile crime everyone wants solved right now. Fortunately, because I'm coming up to retirement, things are beginning to tail off for me. Cold cases give me the opportunity to take a fresh look at old evidence and try to see what the original investigation missed, and do it at my own pace." He swallowed a forkful of food. "I must come here more often! This is delicious."

She smiled at him. "Well, you helped me make it, I can't take all the credit myself. What about this case you're working on now? I thought you said something about forensic advances."

"Oh, yes. These days we can get DNA samples - and fingerprints - from places we'd never have thought possible all those years ago. And we can do more with the samples we do get, as well. That means we might be able to draw conclusions the original team would never have been able to."

"Made your job easier?"

"Yes and no. We have to be a lot more careful at the crime scene, and the procedures have multiplied like a plague of locusts. I don't know that we're catching a lot more people," he admitted, "but we're more certain of those we do catch."

Dinner was followed by fresh fruit for dessert, and then they took their wine glasses into the sitting room to relax. Relax was certainly what David did. When he thought about it, he realised that he hadn't really had a quiet, unpressured evening to himself since Ruby had had her accident. After some further conversation Elaine realised that the combination of dinner, the wine and the warm house was sending her guest to sleep, so she suggested that they both retire, even though it wasn't very late. He readily agreed and followed her down to the guest bedroom. She showed him the bathroom facilities and left him to it while she cleared up the kitchen. By the time she had finished he had retired to his room and the light was off.

After sorting herself out in the bathroom, she went to her own bedroom and closed the door. Why had she offered to put him up? A single man in the remote house of a single woman, she must have been mad. Some strange impulse had made her do it, but the same impulse had known that he would not be a danger to her, not that kind of danger, anyway. His presence had woken something inside her that she hadn't known was there, as well. Interesting. Well, tomorrow would tell if her intuition had been on the right track. She switched off the light and pulled the covers over herself.