'Who wouldn't around here?'

'What's she done?'

'Not her, the Nightingales. Fine name, pity about the family.'

The barman paused, obviously feeling that he had said enough. Smith shrugged, hoping that his apparent indifference would be sufficient encourage-ment. It worked; eventually the publican was compelled to add.

'The Nightingales have been around here for generations. Owned land, ran the mill but they went downhill. In the seventies there were tales of all sorts happening, sort of stuff you wouldn't want your mother to hear.'

Smith thought about his dead mother and smiled in agreement.

'Anyroad, when Mr and Mrs Nightingale senior left, their son and daughter lived on at the farm, afore he married. Right goings on. They attracted the wrong sort.'

Smith couldn't wait any longer.

'And this woman?'

'Daughter of one of Nightingale's liaisons. S'obvious. She uses his name but she's the spit of that wanton of a mother of hers. Alike as two peas save for she's tall and 'er mum was a tiny thing.'

Smith discarded this news; all he needed was an address.

'And you say they lived at a farm. Nearby?'

'Sixeight miles or so from here. Was flourishing once but the old woman let it go, afore she killed herself.' He bent forward conspiratorially. 'Though they persuaded the priest that it was an accident.' He paused and would have spat if he hadn't been in his own bar. 'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.'

Over a second pint, Smith extracted details of the location of Mill Farm. He drank slowly, conscious of the need to remain alert. He decided to wait until dark and then walk there. From the directions he'd been given, a car would take almost as long and anyway he didn't think he could face driving again. It would take him a couple of hours, maybe three. And then she would die.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

Mrs Ironstrong ran an orderly house and that included guests arriving on time for their meals. She had been prepared to make allowances for the young couple because he'd been in an accident but by the evening some of her patience had run out. He might be an invalid as his 'wife' had said and his face was messy enough to believe it but he'd been spry this morning when he left the house. Even the limp had looked forced.

It was half past seven. Dinner ran from six-thirty to eight but as the dining room closed at eight-thirty sharp there was a tacit understanding among her guests that 'last orders' were best made before eight o'clock. All the others were sitting at their gingham-covered tables, obedient and appreciative. Except for 'Mr and Mrs' Wilmslow. She drew a deep breath, puffed out her ample chest and stalked along the corridor to the back bedroom. Her short rap on the door drew no response, not even the second time.

The master key opened every lock and she used it to peer inside. The room was the same as it had been that morning when she had double-checked the housemaid's cleaning. If it hadn't been for a case under the sink and the coat hanging on the back of the door, she would have suspected them of having skipped without paying. The room was stuffy with late afternoon heat. A solitary fly was buzzing around frantically. She hesitated, then went over to the sash window and opened it a crack to let in some fresh evening air. With a shrug, she left the room and relocked the door.

Well after nine o'clock she closed the front door in a huff, leaving all her guests in the TV room apart from the two unaccounted for, and joined her husband in their private sitting room. Sensing her mood, he shrank down in his armchair and edged the volume up a notch on the television. It was always soft anyway as he wasn't allowed to have it loud in case it disturbed their guests. He was watching the news.

'They're not back. I think they've gone.'

'Oh dear.'

It happened once in a while. At least this time their few remaining items of silver were untouched.

'It makes me mad, Courtney.'

'Yes dear, of course it does.'

'What is the world coming to? I mean, look at that there,' she pointed to a photograph of a young girl that had flashed onto the screen. Ginny's smiling face held their gaze for a moment before Mrs Ironstrong gathered her wind. 'I mean, who knows who's out there. We could be murdered in our beds one day. And what would you do about that! A helpless woman like me.'

Mr Ironstrong winced at this but fortunately it went unnoticed.

'Helpless. I could be raped! What would you do?'

'Defend you of course, dear.'

'Oh really!' She flounced away, heading for the globe c.o.c.ktail cabinet. She concentrated on mixing a stiff G&T and didn't see her husband suddenly sit upright in his chair and punch the volume higher.

'Ah Irene, I think you need to see this.'

'Not safe anywhere.'

'Could you just look Irene, I mean I think that's...'

'What are you going on about?' She spun round taking a long swallow of her drink.

'd.a.m.n, the picture's gone. I was trying to tell you. They had a photograph that looked like Mrs Wilmslow. It was taken from one of those video cameras so it wasn't clear but I'm fairly sure it was her.'

'Why didn't you say so sooner? What's she done?'

'I don't know. The police want to talk to her.'

'What about?' There was a touch of hysteria in her tone.

'I don't know you were talking too much. I couldn't hear.'

Such rebellion was bound to cause an argument but Mrs Ironstrong was silenced immediately by a photograph of a man on the screen. She took charge of the control and turned the volume up full.

'...is extremely dangerous and not to be approached by members of the public under any circ.u.mstances.'

'He was bandaged. It might not have been him...'

'Ssh!' Most unusually she shut up at once.

'Police advise that Smith may show signs of a recent injury, which they believe was sustained during his latest crime.'

'What's he done?'

As if answering her, the newscaster moved into the recap of his main story.

'So if anyone sees either Wendy Smith of Birmingham [photograph] or David Smith, [photograph] they are to alert the police immediately. They are wanted for questioning in connection with the murder on Monday of Virginia Matthews, the eighteen-year-old killed in her own home in Telford. Under no circ.u.mstances should they be approached.'

A telephone number flashed up on the screen and Mr Ironstrong reached for the receiver.

'Wait. We need to be sure. If we were wrong the embarra.s.sment would be terrible. Her bag's in the room lets check that first.'

'But supposing they come back?' His voice had dropped to a whisper.

She replied in kind.

'I've bolted the front door. Come on. We have to be sure.'

They crept out of their room and along to the rear of the house. Above them their guests were happily watching TV. Mrs Ironstrong removed her master key and opened the bedroom door again.

'It stinks in here!' Her husband wrinkled his nose. 'Have they left a takeaway in the sun somewhere. I thought you didn't allow food in the rooms.'

'Never mind that, Courtney. Go and look in her bag.'

As his wife hovered by the door, her diminutive husband circ.u.mnavigated the double bed that dominated the room and picked through the vanity case with the tips of his fingers.

'Nothing,' he whispered and came back to her.

'They must have another bag, try under the bed.'

Shaking his head he bent down on his knees and lifted the valance. A woman's white hand was curled delicately on top of the fur b.a.l.l.s.

'Oh my G.o.d.'

'What is it, Courtney? What have you found?' Irene eased her large body around the bed and crouched down beside him, knees creaking. 'Move over. You're in my way.'

'I don't think you should, Irene.'

'Nonsense.' She angled her ample chest towards the floor. 'I've seen enough goings on this house over the years. What sort of mess have they left this time?'

Courtney held his hand protectively over the floral sprigged valance but she brushed it away. He moved to one side with a muttered 'very well', giving his wife more room.

'I can't see anything. Oh hang on, yes I can, it's a...' she jerked back, stared him blankly in the face, and rose to her feet '...body.'

The remaining rebellious streak in Courtney's ego noted with satisfaction the protest of the mattress springs as she fell heavily onto the bed in a faint, and then he went to call the police.

The helicopter ride was a short one. By the time Fenwick arrived at the boarding house, drawn there by the reported sighting of Smith and the discovery of a young woman's body, he knew that it wasn't Nightingale. But for sixty agonising minutes, from the first phone call to the rendezvous with MacIntyre he had feared the worst. The horror he had felt then returned momentarily as he entered the cramped bedroom.

The bed had been turned on its side to expose the body, which at MacIntyre's request, had been left in situ. In the warm night the odour of death permeated the room despite the open window. Local detectives allowed the two men from London scrutiny of the corpse and waited to brief them. As MacIntyre and Fenwick moved to the front room and sat at the table already laid for breakfast Wendy's body was at last bagged and removed.

MacIntyre read out loud from a summary the locals had prepared for them.

'The pathologist estimates time of death at not more than twenty-four and not less than fifteen hours ago but we have witness statements that can pinpoint it more accurately than that, a.s.suming Smith's the killer.

'She was last seen alive just after ten o'clock as breakfast was finishing and the bandaged man calling himself her husband left before eleven.'

'Have we had confirmation of matching prints from the room and his cottage yet?'

'Why the urgency?'

'Because if it's him he's here for a reason. It must be Nightingale.'

MacIntyre opened his mouth to disagree but then contented himself with a shake of his head. Fenwick had been more right than wrong so far but nothing they'd found at Smith's cottage backed up his concern for his former colleague.

John Oakham, the local SIO, joined them and sat opposite MacIntyre, smoothing the red checked cloth straight.

'Any idea where he might have gone, John?'

'No. We have a witness statement that says he was driving a blue Peugeot but that's all. We think it was Wendy Smith's car and I'm expecting the registration number any moment. I couldn't help overhearing some of your earlier conversation. Do you think he had a plan in coming here?' Oakham directed the question to Fenwick.

'Yes. I don't think this area is a random choice. Did you find anything in his room that might help us?'

'I'll have it bought in.'

It was a meagre collection, printed and bagged: there was a cheap plastic vanity case with a lipstick, nightdress and an empty purse, with not even a penny in to keep the Devil out, as Fenwick's mother would have said; the contents of the wastepaper bin including a used Kleenex, part of the wrapping from a tube of mints, an empty paper bag and a till receipt dated the previous day and timed at 9.03 a.m.

'What did she buy?'

'Pardon?'

'The receipt. What was it for? It's from a local shop, the name's here.'

'The mints, perhaps a newspaper that Smith took with him for cover.'

'It's for three items, none of them now in the room. She went out, bought something and was then killed. What had Smith asked her to get? We need to find out now.'

John Oldham laughed pleasantly at Fenwick's terse instruction and looked at MacIntyre who shrugged and then nodded. After the local detective had gone the Superintendent said quietly.

'Don't push it, Andrew. They're bending over backwards to be helpful.'

'We need to find him. I'm calling Harlden again to see if they have any news.'

He took his mobile into the relative privacy of the hall and dialled Cooper's home number.

'Bob, it's me. Sorry to trouble you at home at this hour. No, it's not Nightingale but we're only hours behind the man I think is after her. I'm in Devon. Is there anything you've found out from your search that might help me?'

There was a brief pause in which MacIntyre stared at Fenwick trying to work out whether to be amused, indifferent or annoyed.

'A supermarket where?' Fenwick called out to Oldham. 'Barnstable. Is that near here?'

Oldham nodded, suddenly attentive.

'And she bought groceries there five days ago; you're sure...? And she's called the station today. Thanks, Bob. Call me if you hear anything else at all.'

Fenwick rang his messaging service immediately, his face tightening as he listened.

'She left me a message, this afternoon, with a contact number.' His mouth was dry as he dialled, then he shook his head in disappointment and mouthed 'answer service' before speaking into his phone.