Ever since she reached home that afternoon, Leonie had been prowling round the cottage, unable to settle. She knew she should be getting something to eat; she had hardly touched a thing since breakfast and it had been an effort then to force down a few spoonfuls of cereal and a slice of toast. But the thought of food made her feel sick, even though her stomach was empty and hunger was making her light-headed. She had no idea when to expect Sukey, except that it would be after eight. She was beginning to doubt whether Sukey would turn up at all, despite her promise. She wasn’t sure whether she had done the right thing in asking her.

  She had spent a sleepless night, unable to drive from her thoughts the horror she had uncovered the previous day. It was a diary of cruelty, a record of every barb that Myrna had fired at her victims and a detailed, sadistic description of the pain it had inflicted. He was like a butterfly writhing on a pin, it was delicious, was one comment; I really enjoyed it, it was like pulling the wings off a fly, was another. Revolted, unable to stomach any more, she had switched off the computer and fled from the house, overwhelmed by a terrible sense of isolation. The knowledge she had uncovered seemed to set her apart from the normal, everyday world, a world from which her one thought now was to hide. Mechanically, she had got into her car and driven back to the village, her eyes fixed on the road, indifferent to the nods and smiles of greeting from neighbours she passed along the way as she headed for the cottage where she had lived since starting her job in the office of Dearley Manor Estates. In those early days it had seemed like heaven on earth to have her own little domain, free of the contamination of years spent under the roof of a father whose abuse during her childhood had turned her against men forever. Now, it was more than just a home; it had become a haven, a place where she could be alone with her torment.

  Comfort of a sort had come from an unexpected quarter. A telephone call, a kindly word of concern, ‘I saw you drive past and I thought you looked ill, are you all right?’ was all that was needed. Within minutes she was pouring the whole wretched story into a sympathetic ear and begging for advice. And as she spoke, something strange happened: little by little her grief began to turn to anger. Myrna had betrayed her. Had it not been for her death she, Leonie, who had served her so loyally and loved her so dearly, would have been rewarded with mockery, rejection and humiliation. The world at large had known and admired a beautiful and talented woman; only her victims knew that she had been the living embodiment of sadistic cruelty. It was a monstrous injustice to those who had suffered under her tyranny – an injustice that Leonie had the power to put right.

  And yet… to reveal the truth would only blight the victims’ lives still further. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she had said despairingly. ‘I feel people should know what a wicked person she was and yet, to go telling would mess up so many lives. What do you think?’

  The response was simple and uncompromising: Say nothing. What was the point in stripping Myrna’s victims naked for the gutter press to gloat over? They had sinned, yes – one of them in a particularly unpleasant manner – but they had, as the saying went, paid their debt to society and deserved the second chance that Grant Maxford had intended for them, the chance that his daughter had frustrated in every possible way while exploiting them to the full to satisfy her psychotic lust for power. Wasn’t it better to let sleeping dogs lie?

  Thankfully, Leonie had accepted the advice and they had gone on to talk of other things, especially of her own plans for the future. Myrna’s death had left her staring into a black hole; she missed her former home and her old friends more than she realised. Perhaps it would be a good idea to go back to familiar surroundings. Why not? It would be a clean break for her, and those who had suffered under Myrna’s yoke could get on with their lives while she rebuilt hers. Gradually, the future began to seem less bleak.

  But was it really that simple? Later, as she lay sleepless in her tiny, low-ceilinged bedroom and stared into the darkness while the church clock counted the hours away, the doubts returned and brought new terrors. What if Bradley Ashton, Sam Perry or Eric Dennison – or maybe all three of them acting together – had decided that enough was enough, that it was time to remove once and for all the constant threat of exposure that had soured their lives for so long? Had the decision not to accept the takeover bid, with the loss of the promised perks and future prospects, been the proverbial last straw? Leonie had been so certain that Paul was the murderer, so blinded by her love for Myrna, that she had not even considered the possibility that others might have reasons for wanting her out of the way. But she knew now that these men – and their wives – had more to lose than Paul, who could have walked out at any time without sacrificing his career. Now that she understood the true nature of the woman she had once idolised and – in fancy – endowed with every virtue, it was all too evident that theirs was a far stronger motive. If they had killed her, justice demanded that they pay for the crime.

  Yet who could blame them if they had? Their past record was enough – in the case of two of them at any rate – to ensure that should it be made public they would face ruin. Although it had all happened long ago and – so far as she could tell – they had lived within the law ever since, they would never have dared to step out of line while Myrna was alive. She had used her knowledge ruthlessly, she had been an evil woman and the world was a cleaner place now that she was dead. Where was the point of causing further suffering by dragging that knowledge out into the open?

  And so Leonie’s battle with her conscience raged on until at last she fell into an uneasy sleep, waking with a throbbing head and the problem still unresolved. It was the unexpected encounter with Paul’s ex-wife, who had struck her as a woman of integrity and compassion, that had prompted the spontaneous request for advice. It had seemed the right thing at the time.

  Now, with darkness falling and the air thick with the menace of the approaching storm, she was having second thoughts. From time to time she peered out through a gap in the sitting-room curtains, half hoping, half fearing to see a car pulling up outside. Once the local bobby went cruising past. There was nothing unusual about that; he was only doing his regular patrol through the village, yet the sight of him made her uneasy. Supposing Sukey had felt it her duty to inform her police colleagues of this evening’s visit and what had prompted it? The prospect of another interrogation filled her with dread; she wished she had kept to her original resolve and said nothing to anyone.

  She went into the kitchen. There was no drink in the house, but at least she could offer a cup of tea or coffee. She had just filled the kettle when she heard what sounded like someone moving around outside. With hands that shook, she attached the safety chain to the back door, cracked it open and peered through the gap.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called anxiously, then relaxed as she recognised the muffled figure looming out of the shadows. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ she exclaimed in relief.

  ‘May I come in for a moment?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but I’m expecting—’

  ‘This will only take a moment.’

  Leonie released the chain and stood back while her visitor entered in a gust of wind and driven rain. ‘Gosh!’ she exclaimed as she closed the door. ‘It’s going to be a wild night. Shall I take that?’ Turning, she held out a hand for the heavy, damp overcoat, then recoiled in horror and disbelief at the sight of what it concealed. One short scream of terror was all she had time to utter before the knife plunged into her.

  The sight of the speeding police car increased Sukey’s feeling of unease, even while she told herself that it was probably responding to a burglar alarm. She wound down her window for a moment and listened, but could hear nothing except the sound of the rising wind. Then the first drops of rain began to fall; by the time she reached the outskirts of the village it had become a downpour that reduced visibility to a few yards. Temporarily disoriented, she switched her headlights to full beam and slowed down, searching for a recognisable landmark. The wipers thumped across the flooded windscreen, through which she caught a glimpse of an illuminated window on the other side of the road. That would be the shop, which she recalled was near the church. Leonie had said the turning to her cottage was just beyond the church; yes, there was a sign reading, ‘Church Piece’. She turned out of the main street and crawled along, trying to read the names of the dwellings huddled behind stone walls on either side of the narrow lane. In true country fashion, half of them were illegible, others non-existent.

  The lane doubled back on itself; the headlights swung in an arc and picked out the two police cars standing on the verge a few yards ahead. Vague unease turned to dread as she pulled in behind them, switched off her engine and scrambled out of the car, dragging the hood of her jacket over her head against the downpour. Light from an open doorway picked out the words painted on the open gate: ‘Woodbine Cottage’. The wind drove a sheet of rain into her face as she ran down the flagged path, all but losing her footing on the slippery wet surface. In the tiny hallway she nearly collided with DS Radcliffe. Over his shoulder, she glimpsed an open door leading to a kitchen. Two men, one in uniform, the other in plain clothes, were bending over a figure lying on the floor.

  Radcliffe took her by the shoulders and restrained her as she tried to pass him. ‘Don’t go in there,’ he said grimly.

  ‘For God’s sake, what’s happened?’

  ‘Leonie Filbury’s been stabbed. An ambulance is on the way.’

  ‘Is she badly hurt? Is she dead?’

  ‘Not dead, but she’s lost a lot of blood.’

  ‘Has she said anything?’

  ‘She was mumbling something when PC Riley found her, but he couldn’t make much sense of it. It’s thanks to him she’s still alive – he thinks he disturbed the attacker before he could finish what he’d started.’

  ‘Please, let me see her. She wanted to tell me something, that’s why I’m here. Maybe—’

  ‘She won’t be telling you anything for the moment, she’s unconscious.’

  The man in plain clothes straightened up and joined them; it was DCI Lord. ‘There’s still a pulse – just. Let’s hope the ambulance doesn’t hang about. Riley says it hasn’t far to come.’

  ‘Here it is now.’ A white van had drawn up at the gate, its blue light flashing through the glittering rods of rain. Paramedics carrying equipment came charging through the open door and were directed to the kitchen. What seemed a lifetime passed before they reappeared carrying Leonie on a stretcher. She was lying motionless under the blankets, her eyes closed and her face the colour of marble, but the drip attached to her arm showed that she was still alive.

  ‘You go with her, Radcliffe,’ said Lord. ‘Sukey, you stay here, I want a word with you.’

  ‘Sir.’

  The ambulance drove off with its siren wailing. Outside, the officers from the rapid response car were busy with yards of blue-and-white tape while attempting to shoo away a group of curious neighbours who had heard the disturbance and braved the rain to investigate. Lord closed the front door and summoned PC Riley from the kitchen. ‘You’ll no doubt be writing your report when you get back to the station, but I’d like you to tell me now exactly what happened,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir, it was like this.’ The constable was plainly shaken, but he stood respectfully to attention as he spoke to the Chief Inspector, slowly and deliberately, as if he was reciting something learned by heart. ‘At seven forty-five exactly I had a message from control to come along and check on Miss Filbury. No reason given, just check everything was all right. I’d already done my patrol through the village, like I do every evening, but I returned as per instructions and was just approaching the front door of Woodbine Cottage when I heard a scream from inside. I banged on the door and shouted, but I got no response, so I ran round the back, quick as I could. The kitchen door was unlocked, I opened it and found her lying on the kitchen floor, covered in blood.’

  ‘Did you see any sign of the assailant?’

  ‘No, sir, not a whisker. It was pitch dark and coming on to rain.’

  ‘Or a weapon?’

  ‘Nor that either, sir. Must’ve taken it with him.’

  ‘I take it there’s a side entrance to this cottage?’

  ‘No, sir, it’s part of a terrace. There’s an alley runs along the end of the gardens, it comes out into the lane fifty yards or so back there.’ Riley made a vague gesture.

  ‘So, it would take you half a minute to get there?’ Lord considered the constable’s portly frame for a moment before adding, ‘Or maybe a bit longer.’

  ‘Long enough for the villain to get clear away,’ Riley admitted ruefully. ‘I shone my torch as I ran, but I never saw a thing. I was more concerned with getting to Miss Filbury, y’see, sir, having heard that screaming,’ he explained, and Lord nodded approval. ‘Soon as I found her I summoned an ambulance, notified control and did what I could to stop the bleeding until help arrived.’

  ‘You did quite right. Tell me, was the victim conscious when you got to her?’

  ‘Just about, sir. She was moaning and clutching her stomach, but her eyes were tight closed.’

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘Just a few words… couldn’t hardly hear… didn’t seem to make much sense anyway—’

  ‘Never mind the sense, what exactly did she say?’ Lord interrupted. Sukey, who had been silently listening, guessed that he was becoming slightly irritated by Riley’s slow and ponderous manner. ‘Did she say who’d attacked her?’

  ‘Like I said, sir, I couldn’t hardly hear. It being no more than a whisper and the words coming out slowly, one at a time like and all jumbled up… I might’ve got it wrong, y’see—’

  ‘Just tell me what you think you heard.’ This time there was no mistaking Lord’s impatience.

  ‘Well, sir, if you’re asking what I think, it sounded like she was trying to say, “Dear little Paul”.’

  The Chief Inspector inhaled sharply through pursed lips, but all he said was, ‘Thank you, Riley, that’ll be all for now. Better go back to the station and write up your report.’

  ‘Sir.’

  It was all too clear what line of thought the mention of Paul’s name had triggered in the detective’s brain. It had occurred to Sukey in the same moment and it filled her with dread. Supposing that during the conversation with his father, Fergus had mentioned this evening’s arrangement? It could have happened so innocently: Mum’ll be out as well, she’s going to see Leo. Don’t know what it’s about but it sounded urgent. Was that the reason for the sudden change of plan, the hastily contrived excuse to postpone their meeting? Was it, after all, Paul Reynolds who had killed first his wife and then Pussy Willow, and had now tried to kill Leonie to prevent her revealing something that could brand him a murderer?

  But in that case, Sukey reasoned, why should someone who until yesterday had nursed a corrosive hatred for Paul suddenly refer to him in such affectionate terms? It made no sense, unless… Fergus had suggested that Leonie might have hit on the password giving access to Myrna’s private computer. ‘Dear little Paul’ sounded an unlikely combination, but it was possible that Myrna had at some time referred to him in those terms, in contempt rather than affection. To use the expression for such a purpose might have appealed to her warped sense of humour. And if Leonie had happened to hear it, and put two and two together…

  ‘Just a moment!’ At the sound of Lord’s voice, Sukey jumped. For a moment, she thought he was speaking to her, then realised that he was calling to Riley, who was on the point of closing the front door behind him.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘One other question. You were telling me about the alley running between the backs of the cottages. I assume it’s unlit?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Black as a coal cellar it is on a dark night like this.’

  ‘So how were you able to locate Miss Filbury’s cottage?’

  ‘Easy, sir. The name’s on the back gate and I had a torch—’

  ‘That’s probably how the assailant got in,’ said Lord thoughtfully. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted to risk going to the front door and possibly be spotted by someone putting out their milk bottles or whatever.’

  ‘I reckon that’s how it was, sir. He could sneak along the alley, do his dirty work and sneak back without a soul seeing him.’

  ‘And he could enter and leave at either end?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Once again, the constable turned to go. This time, it was Sukey who called him back. Another possible interpretation of Leonie’s cryptic utterance had sent the adrenalin pumping madly round her system. Without stopping to think and with a total disregard for protocol, she blurted out, ‘Constable, are there more gardens on the other side of the alley?’

  ‘Yes of course, miss.’ Riley’s manner became slightly patronising at such an obvious question. ‘They belong to the cottages in the High Street – this bit of Church Piece runs parallel, y’see.’

  When Riley had finally departed, Lord said, ‘Would you care to explain the significance of your question?’ If he was annoyed at her intervention, he gave no sign.

  ‘Just something that occurred to me, sir. Two things, in fact – they might sound a bit far-fetched—’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. You can tell me while I’m waiting for the SOCOs to get here.’

  She suggested that Leonie might have managed to get into Myrna’s computer using a combination of the words: ‘Dear little Paul’. He looked dubious, but made a note of the suggestion and said he’d bear it in mind. When she told him her second theory, he was openly sceptical.

  ‘It’s ingenious, and I suppose it’s just about feasible, but… can you suggest a motive?’ She had to admit that she couldn’t. Having promised to see that she was kept informed of Leonie’s condition, he ordered her gently but firmly to go home.

 

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