sensed that it wouldn’t be a good time to broach the subject of history. Terry Hoxworthy obviously
had other things on his mind.
A woman walked into the bar. She wore a long, hooded black coat which billowed behind her as she moved. She looked around,
searching for a face among the drinkers. Neil watched as she removed the coat to reveal a shapeless black dress which covered
a small skinny body. Her shoulder-length dark hair was peppered with grey, and it was obvious to Neil that she had been pretty
once, maybe even beautiful. But now her movements were mouselike, quick and anxious to avoid attention. Her great dark eyes
looked from left to right, scanning each face in the bar. She caught Neil’s eye and quickly looked away.
At last she spotted her quarry, and Neil watched as shescurried over to the corner of the bar and sat down next to Terry Hoxworthy, who looked about him as though afraid that someone
would overhear.
Neil drained his glass and walked quickly out of the pub and into the damp night air. His instincts told him that it wasn’t
a good idea to hang around. From the woman’s obvious unease and Hoxworthy’s furtive manner, he guessed that he had unwittingly
stumbled on an extramarital affair. Terry Hoxworthy, he thought to himself with an inward smile, was a man with something
to hide.
Detective Sergeant Rachel Tracey was still relishing her brand-new rank. Men, she thought as she strolled through Derenham
village early the next morning, weren’t worth it: she would concentrate on her career from now on. She had to put up with
her mother’s worried looks and the jibes of her three brothers about her continued single status, but she didn’t let them
worry her. She was making plans to move away from her family’s farm and into a flat of her own anyway. She would put the past
and all its associated pain and embarrassment behind her and begin again, start afresh.
She looked at her companion, a good-looking dark-haired man in his twenties; a snappy dresser with a brown leather jacket
that must have cost him a couple of weeks’ salary. Detective Constable Steve Carstairs walked beside her, hands in pockets.
They didn’t make conversation. It was hard to think of anything to say to Steve Carstairs that wouldn’t be twisted and taken
the wrong way. It was best to stick to professional matters.
‘What’s next on the list?’ she asked.
Steve consulted the sheet of paper in his hand. ‘The boss wants us to visit the houses along the lane. There’s a big place
called the Old Vicarage, but I don’t think the vicar lives there – and there’s a cottage near its gates. Someone called yesterday
but there was no answer. Then he wants us to go to Hoxworthy’s farm again. The uniforms talked toMrs Hoxworthy yesterday but the boss wants us to pay another visit. You can see the field from their farmhouse, so someone
might have spotted something suspicious.’ He looked at Rachel, slightly wary. ‘Okay, er … Sarge?’
Rachel smiled. She knew the title ‘Sarge’ stuck in Steve’s throat. For one thing they had joined CID at around the same time
and he remained a detective constable – and for another thing, she was female. But Steve, she told herself, had only himself
to blame: he hadn’t even attempted his sergeant’s exam, so what did he expect? In this life you reaped what you sowed.
‘Fine,’ she said, feeling suddenly charitable. ‘I know the Hoxworthys – or rather my mother does – so I’ll do the talking
when we’re there.’ Rachel’s mother, Stella, a woman of indomitable energy, was a local farmer’s wife and an authority on the
successes, failures and scandals of the area’s farming community.
Steve didn’t answer, and they walked on in silence to the outskirts of the village, until they reached the Red Bull, a long,
low, whitewashed establishment with a thatched roof: a certainty for a picture postcard.
‘Looks like a good
had other things on his mind.
A woman walked into the bar. She wore a long, hooded black coat which billowed behind her as she moved. She looked around,
searching for a face among the drinkers. Neil watched as she removed the coat to reveal a shapeless black dress which covered
a small skinny body. Her shoulder-length dark hair was peppered with grey, and it was obvious to Neil that she had been pretty
once, maybe even beautiful. But now her movements were mouselike, quick and anxious to avoid attention. Her great dark eyes
looked from left to right, scanning each face in the bar. She caught Neil’s eye and quickly looked away.
At last she spotted her quarry, and Neil watched as shescurried over to the corner of the bar and sat down next to Terry Hoxworthy, who looked about him as though afraid that someone
would overhear.
Neil drained his glass and walked quickly out of the pub and into the damp night air. His instincts told him that it wasn’t
a good idea to hang around. From the woman’s obvious unease and Hoxworthy’s furtive manner, he guessed that he had unwittingly
stumbled on an extramarital affair. Terry Hoxworthy, he thought to himself with an inward smile, was a man with something
to hide.
Detective Sergeant Rachel Tracey was still relishing her brand-new rank. Men, she thought as she strolled through Derenham
village early the next morning, weren’t worth it: she would concentrate on her career from now on. She had to put up with
her mother’s worried looks and the jibes of her three brothers about her continued single status, but she didn’t let them
worry her. She was making plans to move away from her family’s farm and into a flat of her own anyway. She would put the past
and all its associated pain and embarrassment behind her and begin again, start afresh.
She looked at her companion, a good-looking dark-haired man in his twenties; a snappy dresser with a brown leather jacket
that must have cost him a couple of weeks’ salary. Detective Constable Steve Carstairs walked beside her, hands in pockets.
They didn’t make conversation. It was hard to think of anything to say to Steve Carstairs that wouldn’t be twisted and taken
the wrong way. It was best to stick to professional matters.
‘What’s next on the list?’ she asked.
Steve consulted the sheet of paper in his hand. ‘The boss wants us to visit the houses along the lane. There’s a big place
called the Old Vicarage, but I don’t think the vicar lives there – and there’s a cottage near its gates. Someone called yesterday
but there was no answer. Then he wants us to go to Hoxworthy’s farm again. The uniforms talked toMrs Hoxworthy yesterday but the boss wants us to pay another visit. You can see the field from their farmhouse, so someone
might have spotted something suspicious.’ He looked at Rachel, slightly wary. ‘Okay, er … Sarge?’
Rachel smiled. She knew the title ‘Sarge’ stuck in Steve’s throat. For one thing they had joined CID at around the same time
and he remained a detective constable – and for another thing, she was female. But Steve, she told herself, had only himself
to blame: he hadn’t even attempted his sergeant’s exam, so what did he expect? In this life you reaped what you sowed.
‘Fine,’ she said, feeling suddenly charitable. ‘I know the Hoxworthys – or rather my mother does – so I’ll do the talking
when we’re there.’ Rachel’s mother, Stella, a woman of indomitable energy, was a local farmer’s wife and an authority on the
successes, failures and scandals of the area’s farming community.
Steve didn’t answer, and they walked on in silence to the outskirts of the village, until they reached the Red Bull, a long,
low, whitewashed establishment with a thatched roof: a certainty for a picture postcard.
‘Looks like a good
Similar Books
