She visited him in prison in the segregated area where he spent his time with other s.e.x offenders - not all murderers - and in her eyes he shone like a light in the blackest of wildernesses. He told her to pray for his persecutors and she did, with her fingers crossed not meaning a word of it, and just loud enough to embarra.s.s other prisoners and warders close enough to hear. She uncrossed them when he began his litany of hate against those he said had framed him - particularly Bradshaw. Bradshaw was the epitome of evil. He mocked G.o.d. He fornicated. He concocted evidence. G.o.d had taken his life - hallelujah - but his sins lived on. The hatred spilling over on to his son might seem to some unfair, but the Good Book wasn't unfair, the Good Book condoned it. That the Bible might be interpreted differently occurred to her, but she dismissed it as heresy. Sins of the flesh, of the spirit, it was all the same. It pa.s.sed on. She agreed that retribution was necessary and did everything he suggested. It was a war of attrition fought with zeal. And her conscience was as clear as a pale blue sky on a summer's day. Hixon's conscience she never questioned. The secret chambers of his mind were locked as securely as his cell door.

Mrs Mackay, relieved to find Sally's door unlocked and that there was no one in the corridor to observe her, went in to fetch her some clothes. Sally's jogging suit, which was respectable, had been splashed with mud and left lying on the wardrobe floor. Unlike the leather skirt which might not wash, this could be, but was rather bulky and too hot to wear around the house. She had brought a Tesco's carrier bag upstairs to the domestic wing - no one would query its contents if they happened to see it. It was just large enough to hold a lightweight dress and cardigan plus underwear. But she didn't seem to have a lightweight dress and cardigan. She had jeans and T-shirts and one cotton skirt that looked as if it might fit a child of twelve. As for underwear, it consisted of elasticated sc.r.a.ps that weren't halfway decent. And no nightwear. The Mount wasn't all that warm in the winter. Maybe she kept warmer, more suitable clothes in the brown plastic suitcase on top of the wardrobe, but there was no time to look in it now. Someone might come. A quick glance in the dressing-table drawer showed an untidy a.s.sortment of toiletries and a black and gold evening bag, the kind that elegant middle-aged ladies such as Mrs Bradshaw might have owned. Perturbed, Mrs Mackay took it out and opened it. Inside was a plait of hair, as soft as a fox's pelt and with great tensile strength.

Donaldson reported Sally missing at seven thirty on Monday morning - two days later than he should have done. She had been seen with Bradshaw's son on Friday evening, he informed Maybridge over the phone. They could have spent the night together and gone off somewhere on Sat.u.r.day. A weekend taken without leave was an annoyance but he hadn't been unduly concerned until she had failed to turn up last night.

Maybridge, who had just finished his breakfast, asked him why he hadn't contacted Simon before contacting him. "Because it might be an embarra.s.sing intrusion," Donaldson said with surprising illogicality. "I wanted to avoid that. It's in your hands now, Chief Inspector. You must do what you think best."

There were times when Maybridge wondered if the stresses at The Mount were making the fabric crack. Donaldson should have made the preliminary enquiries immediately: embarra.s.sment as an excuse for being lax wasn't acceptable. He thought fleetingly of Rhoda's sister, but couldn't equate the two. This girl had been expected back, her absence noted. He and Radwell were due to continue an investigation into a series of car thefts in the area but this should take priority. He told Donaldson that he and his sergeant would call on Simon within the next half hour and report back.

"In the meantime, find the girl's home address, she may be there, but don't alarm her family until you hear from me."

It was a delicately silver-toned morning. Drifts of mist laced the bushes and made soft patterns on the lawn. Later the day would be very hot. Simon's car, hazed over with dew, was parked in the drive.

"Good weather for fishing," Radwell commented as they parked behind it. He felt very cheerful. His summer holiday in the Lake District was due in three weeks. Twenty-one days of duty were bearable when there was a break at the end of them, and recently he'd felt better able to cope. Superintendent Claxby hadn't been hara.s.sing him so much.

Maybridge suggested that fish might rise more readily to the bait in the rain. Making polite, often dull conversation with Radwell had become a habit. When he wasn't defending him from Claxby's barbs he was encouraging him for work well done. Police officers need to grow a tough protective layer of indifference. Radwell hadn't.

"There's a peculiar smell here," Radwell sniffed, "something burning."

Maybridge had noticed it too but was more concerned about getting into the house. He pressed the front door bell and kept his finger on it for a couple of minutes before giving up and leading the way round to the back. The kitchen door was closed but not locked. He rapped on it and went in. The smell here was the fresh clean smell of washing-up liquid. Everything had been washed and put away, with the exception of a mug which held dregs of coffee. Maybridge touched the electric kettle. It was warm.

"He's outside, sir," Radwell pointed down the garden. "In the orchard."

Simon, who was rarely up this early, had forgotten how dew-wet the gra.s.s could be. His sandals were sodden. Early morning privacy might be desirable for what he had to do, but not if it made everything impossibly wet. He wanted to dispose of Sally's bloodstained shoes, which were still up in the studio. Either burn them or bury them. It didn't seem right to parcel them up and post them back to her. And if he put them in the bin the refuse collectors might wonder about the blood. And a half-burnt quilt which had blood on it too would make them wonder more. Trying to get a decent fire going was difficult. He hadn't been able to find any cans of petrol or turps in the shed, and the fire-lighters he'd used on Friday night must have been damp and weren't much use. It had rained all day Sat.u.r.day and yesterday so he had cleaned the house. He couldn't think why, except that it needed to be cleaned. When he had been putting the crockery away he had found a box of green scented candles which he had pushed into what remained of the quilt (too much) and had left smouldering. Later today he'd get petrol and make a proper job of it. If it didn't rain. It didn't look as if it would. In the meantime he had to rake out the candles, which were making a disgusting smell. He hadn't realised they smelt like that. People would wonder what he was up to.

"h.e.l.lo, Simon," said Maybridge. Simon, startled, dropped the rake and nearly p.r.o.nged his foot. There was a burst of bird songs somewhere up in the branches behind him. It sounded derisive, as if all nature were laughing at him. Christ! What was Maybridge doing here? And he had his sergeant with him. Had someone - the neighbours perhaps - complained about the smell? Maybridge had been in a great many confrontational situations in the course of his work. Guilt and embarra.s.sment weren't always distinguishable. And in this case friendship and professional caution married uncomfortably. He asked Simon if he was doing some gardening.

Simon picked up the rake and propped it against a tree. "I meant to tidy up the gra.s.s. Just came to see if it is dry enough to put the mower on. It isn't."

"So what's the rake for? Don't you have a box on your machine?"

"Yes, but it will need raking too."

Maybridge made a few casual comments about the garden and then suggested that they should walk back to the house. He hoped Sally would be in it. The boy's demeanour was sending out alarm signals and he seemed reluctant to lead the way past the bizarre compost heap. Gardeners tended to throw peculiar combustibles on to their tips, but he had never smelt one quite like this. There was a green oily trickle of something pungent that was burning slowly amongst the stiff dirty folds of what looked like an old blanket. A brown and yellow one.

"Why?" he asked Simon bluntly, - pointing.

Simon blushed. He hadn't blushed for a long time, but the familiar hot rush of blood to his cheeks seemed worse than ever. What could he tell him? I had s.e.x on it. With Sally. It should have been with Rhoda.

Maybridge, not getting an answer and peering more closely at it, suggested that he might have been using candles to set whatever it was alight. An odd method.

Simon agreed huskily that yes they were candles. He had been doing a bit of clearing and had chucked them out. He added that his mother had bought them one Christmas together with a perfumed cone - the sort of thing they had in India - to make a nice smell in the hall.

Radwell, contributing to the conversation at the wrong time, said that an aunt of his had something similar once - a small bra.s.s Buddha which was placed over the cone on a bra.s.s tray. It smelt like incense.

Maybridge gave him a Claxby look before turning back to Simon. The boy was as nervous as a trapeze artist on a slack rope. He was trained to spot a weakness - move in - cause pain if necessary - get the truth.

"Simon, where's Sally?"

"What?" Simon's blush faded. "What do you mean - where's Sally?"

Maybridge's own pain - yes, it was there, he didn't like what he was doing - eased. The boy would need to be a very good actor to simulate that sort of surprise.

He told him that Sally hadn't returned to The Mount and had been missing for two days. "And now, let's go inside. You can make coffee for us and we'll talk it over."

Strong sweet tea is good for shock but Simon had been asked for coffee, so he made it. He asked if he should put it on a tray, with some biscuits, and carry it through to the dining-room. There was more room in there for them to sit. Maybridge said that the kitchen would do and commented that it was very clean. "Did Sally tidy it for you, Simon?" "No, I did it. After she'd gone." "So it was a social visit. Tell us about it." Us. Radwell was leaning against the sink, cup in hand. Simon hardly knew him. He was a lot nearer his age than Maybridge was. Telling the sergeant on his own might be remotely possible. Telling Maybridge would be like telling his father. Only his father might have had more sympathy - certainly more experience.

Simon said that he and Sally had come back here, after a pub meal at the Avon Arms, just to have a drink.

Maybridge didn't point out that they could have had it there. It was an odd reversal of procedure. "Go on."

"Well, that's it. We had a drink. Talked. Looked at the telly."

"Oh, yes? What did you see?"

Simon invented. "The usual rubbish. Car chases to music."

Maybridge hadn't been looking at the television at all, but it sounded a likely answer. He glanced at Radwell. Radwell nodded.

"So you were together all of Friday evening. In the Avon Arms, then here. Did you go out together again later?"

"No, we stayed in."

And went to bed, Maybridge guessed. And probably had an argument at some stage. "How did you cut your lip, Simon?"

Simon licked the tender area, which he had forgotten about until now. The truth was easy. "I fell downstairs."

It made a change from walking into a door. Had he been kissing her too ardently? Maybridge wondered. She might have bitten him.

"Were you and Sally upstairs together - before you fell?" He couldn't put it more tactfully.

"Yes, for a while."

"All night?"

"No."

"What time did Sally leave you?"

Simon didn't know, so said nothing. Coffee was a bitter drink and it was getting cold. He could have done with something stronger. Whisky. He tried to protect himself from memories by blanking his mind. The were kitchen walls were painted s.h.i.t yellow. He felt nauseous.

"What time, Simon?"

"Late. It was dark." He hadn't seen her go.

"Before or after midnight?"

He couldn't guess. It was impossible to try. He had been afraid of what he might do to her - hitting her had been bad enough - and had gone outside. He had been in the summerhouse - sitting there in the dark, shaking. He might have been there a long time. It had felt like half the night.

Maybridge repeated the question. There was an edge to his voice now.

"Probably at about eleven." He could have said three o'clock - one - four - any time. Why were police so obsessed with time?

"What was she wearing when she left you?"

Last time he had seen her she had been crouched on his bed - naked - and clutching Rhoda's nightdress - taunting him with it. But she would have left wearing everything she had arrived in, apart from her shoes.

"I think she was wearing my trainers. I can't find them. And she had a black skirt and a white top."

Maybridge had noticed the plaster on Simon's left foot. One of the straps had been slackened to make room for it.

"Why would she be wearing your trainers?"

"We'd cut our feet. Walked on gla.s.s."

It sounded like a bizarre m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic ritual. An accident, of course. He asked Simon how it had happened.

Simon tried to draw a credible picture. "Sally went up to the studio. She wanted to paint something. She dropped a gla.s.s jar of powder paint. It broke. We both walked on the pieces. They were hard to see. We weren't wearing shoes."

"Then-what?"

"We were carrying the quilt downstairs. And fell."

"What was the point of removing the quilt?"

Simon looked away. "There was blood on it - from our feet."

Maybridge wondered fleetingly if Simon had deflowered a virgin. Unlikely.

"Did you have s.e.xual intercourse with her?"

Simon didn't answer.

"For goodness sake boy, grow up! I'm not being prurient. If you raped her she would have left in some distress. I'm trying to understand the mood she was in when she left you."

Simon pa.s.sed his tongue once more over his swollen lip. "I didn't rape her."

"So she agreed to your ... making love?"

"Yes."

"Did you make love - on the quilt - after you'd cut your feet?"

Silence for a moment. "Yes."

In a court of law that would be a leading question by a defence lawyer, Maybridge thought ruefully. He had been a fool to ask it. He wished this boy were a stranger, not Bradshaw's son. It was difficult to distance himself.

"The quilt ... is that what you're burning outside?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because of the blood."

It sounded like a scene of carnage. The girl might be lying upstairs with her throat cut.

"Simon ... did you hurt Sally ...in any way?"

Simon was beginning to understand what Maybridge was getting at. She had gone off - walked away - not gone back to The Mount. He might have wished her dead when he hit her, but was appalled now to think she might be. Someone might have murdered her. Maybridge, quite obviously, thought he had.

"Take a walk around the house," he invited him. "Look in all the rooms - in all the cupboards - under the beds. I didn't strangle her. She isn't Rapunzel Number Six." And then he began to giggle, as Sally had. But his eyes, Maybridge noticed, were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears.

Superintendent Claxby had known Professor Bradshaw a long time, but he didn't know his son at all. And his contact with Macklestone village was practically nil, apart from an occasional game of golf on the nearby links. Maybridge's professionalism was sharp edged - usually - but could perhaps be blunted in this sort of situation. He didn't see much point, at this stage, he had just told Claxby, in sending in the forensic team. There had been a bit of a mess up in the studio - some paint dropped - which tallied with what the lad had told him. And a pair of green shoes had blood on them. But Simon had explained that, too, and there were shards of gla.s.s on the floor which had confirmed what he'd said. "As I see it," Maybridge stressed, "it was a couple of youngsters having it off. Getting a bit rough. Had a row, probably. Why test for blood and s.e.m.e.n when he admits she was with him?"

Claxby, who would test that the sun was in the sky if it seemed in the remotest degree relevant, said that if she had still been with him - had walked out of the studio or whatever place coitus had occurred - and a.s.sured him that all was well - then tests wouldn't be necessary. Until she was found - or her body was found - there would be an intensive search - door to door - garden to garden - field to field. Statements would be taken. And blood - any blood - especially blood on a quilt that was being burned - would be investigated, a.n.a.lysed, and recorded.

"You've been remiss. You should have brought the lad in to make a statement. He's probably building a huge bonfire in his garden right now."

Maybridge, who had believed that possible too, had brought Simon in and had left him in Radwell's care in the police canteen. A rea.s.suring area where he could have a bite to eat if he wanted it. The superintendent might want to have a word with him, he'd told him. Claxby's reaction was more or less what he had expected, but he had hoped to do a little softening up first.

He said mildly that Simon was on the premises. "I antic.i.p.ated you might want to interview him yourself, sir, but don't expect him to be lucid. Sally's disappearance has shocked him. I don't believe he had anything to do with it."

"That's the trouble," Claxby observed drily, "your belief. What has that to do with anything? His father dealt in facts. If his father were here now - and it was your lad - he wouldn't make a fuss about a normal routine procedure. He'd get on with it." He held his hand up as Maybridge was about to respond. "All right, don't say it - you're not biased. The fact that you've known him since he was an infant has nothing to do with it. Just remember it has nothing to do with it. And keep on remembering it. When I've heard what he has to tell me I'll send him back home, but when he gets there he'll find that the blanket, quilt, whatever it was he was burning, is no longer there. Make sure it isn't. Is it too much to hope you might have the shoes?"

Maybridge said it wasn't. He had removed them with Simon's, permission.

"Good," said Claxby, jovially sarcastic. "Good. Hope you said 'please'."

Simon had hoped that Maybridge would sit in on the interview with him but he had things to do, he told him, and would look in on him later at home. He might have good news for him by then. "In the meantime, try not to worry. Superintendent Claxby played a lot of golf with your father. If your own handicap is less than ten, don't tell him." Joke. Simon smiled wanly.

That Simon was emotionally tender and not in the least like his father was immediately obvious to Claxby. He became less aggressive. "Thank you for coming to help us."

Simon nodded mutely and took the chair that the superintendent indicated. It had been rowdy down in the canteen, a restrained rowdiness, young policemen off duty enjoying a break. It was very quiet up here. His father had described Claxby to him as a dapper sort of chap - wears stiff white collars with studs in them. Why that memory should come to him now, in the middle of all this angst about Sally, he didn't know. The brain was like a giant computer with an odd retrieval system. He tried to remember why his father had mentioned him at all. Something to do with wiping mud off his golfball with a handful of gra.s.s. That was it. His father had told him not to be so b.l.o.o.d.y fastidious. "Or you'll grow up like Claxby - terribly clean." Simon's dislike of his father's job - his obvious dislike - must have rankled. "What are your thoughts on the young lady's disappearance?" Claxby asked. He glanced at his notepad whilst waiting for an answer. Loreto - odd name. Sally Loreto.

Simon said the first word that came into his head - a Kester-Evans word, but it was accurate. "Dismay. I shouldn't have let her walk back on her own."

"So why did you?"

"She went while I was out in the garden. I didn't know she was going."

"Did she walk out on you because you'd quarrelled?"

"You could say that."