any for me.'
The car, which had been standing in the sun, was unbearably stuffy. Webb opened all the windows, took off his jacket and tossed it on the back seat. 'Perhaps we'll have a hot summer for once.'
Hannah wasn't listening. 'Do you think she's still alive, David?'
'I don't know. The more time that passes, the less likely-it seems.'
He started the car. It was like old times to be discussing a case with Hannah, but he knew better than to say so. At least this second meeting had helped to thaw the atmosphere. He'd go and see her one evening, as soon as he could make it. Now they'd established contact again, she might let him plead his case. It felt unbelievably good to have her beside him as the car climbed steeply up the hill, with the breeze from the open windows lifting their hair. God, he'd missed her—was still missing her.
'Where shall I drop you?'
'The admin building, please. You know where it is?'
'Yes, I ferreted my way round this morning. It's a town in itself, isn't it? Theatre, shops, bank, chapel. How many actually live up here?'
'About a thousand, I think. The rest are scattered round the town and villages in digs or rented houses.'
'You think your girls will plump for it, or has somewhere further afield more glamour?'
'It depends what courses are on offer.'
Webb smiled. 'Me, I'm no academic. I'd come for the view alone.'
'It's marvellous, isn't it? You should paint it. You'd have a ready market here.'
'It's a thought.' He turned to her. 'Thanks again, Hannah. I really appreciate your help.'
'That's all right.' She swung gracefully out of the car. 'Goodbye, David. Thanks for the lift.'
He watched her until she disappeared through the swing doors into the building, then he turned the car and drove back to the town.
Despite the open window, the bedroom was hot with the day's stored sunshine. Beside her, Tom slept peacefully, occasionally emitting a bubbling little snore.
Restlessly Claire turned on her side. Across the silent town the church clock chimed sonorously and she counted the strokes: one, two, three. What a horrible hour to be awake! All the worries she could suppress during daylight seemed to leap out at her, assuming monstrous proportions. Mainly she thought of Arlette. Her parents would have arrived by now. Were they, too, awake, listening to the same clock strike?
Involuntarily, Claire pictured herself in their position, in some strange French town where Sarah was missing. She put her hands to her head to squeeze out the thought.
Who was the older man Edna'd seen with Arlette? She should have told Simon. She'd phone him tomorrow. Oh, please let the girl turn up safely, and they could all get some sleep.
She turned again, her cotton nightdress sticking to her body. The airlessness of the room suffocated her. Despite deep breaths, she seemed unable to fill her lungs.
Carefully, so as not to disturb Tom, she slid off the bed and padded to the window, silently pushing up the sash and leaning out as far as she could. A faint night breeze was cool on her forehead and damp shoulders. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Then she opened them, letting them move over the silver and black garden beneath her.
Their bedroom was at the back of the house, and Claire loved its daytime outlook—the patio directly below with the plants in its edging wall, the splash of geraniums in their tubs, and the flowering shrubs further up the garden, following one another in colourful sequence from spring to autumn. Now, colour was drained away, leaving only light and shade, like an old television set.
Far above her, the sky was speckled with stars. She lifted her head, letting the breeze play over her throat. That was better. Perhaps she'd sleep now. Idly she turned her head to the left, towards the Warwicks' garden—and froze, her fingers clamped on the sill. In the centre of the lawn a figure stood motionless. It must have been there as long as she had—she'd been aware of no movement. A
The car, which had been standing in the sun, was unbearably stuffy. Webb opened all the windows, took off his jacket and tossed it on the back seat. 'Perhaps we'll have a hot summer for once.'
Hannah wasn't listening. 'Do you think she's still alive, David?'
'I don't know. The more time that passes, the less likely-it seems.'
He started the car. It was like old times to be discussing a case with Hannah, but he knew better than to say so. At least this second meeting had helped to thaw the atmosphere. He'd go and see her one evening, as soon as he could make it. Now they'd established contact again, she might let him plead his case. It felt unbelievably good to have her beside him as the car climbed steeply up the hill, with the breeze from the open windows lifting their hair. God, he'd missed her—was still missing her.
'Where shall I drop you?'
'The admin building, please. You know where it is?'
'Yes, I ferreted my way round this morning. It's a town in itself, isn't it? Theatre, shops, bank, chapel. How many actually live up here?'
'About a thousand, I think. The rest are scattered round the town and villages in digs or rented houses.'
'You think your girls will plump for it, or has somewhere further afield more glamour?'
'It depends what courses are on offer.'
Webb smiled. 'Me, I'm no academic. I'd come for the view alone.'
'It's marvellous, isn't it? You should paint it. You'd have a ready market here.'
'It's a thought.' He turned to her. 'Thanks again, Hannah. I really appreciate your help.'
'That's all right.' She swung gracefully out of the car. 'Goodbye, David. Thanks for the lift.'
He watched her until she disappeared through the swing doors into the building, then he turned the car and drove back to the town.
Despite the open window, the bedroom was hot with the day's stored sunshine. Beside her, Tom slept peacefully, occasionally emitting a bubbling little snore.
Restlessly Claire turned on her side. Across the silent town the church clock chimed sonorously and she counted the strokes: one, two, three. What a horrible hour to be awake! All the worries she could suppress during daylight seemed to leap out at her, assuming monstrous proportions. Mainly she thought of Arlette. Her parents would have arrived by now. Were they, too, awake, listening to the same clock strike?
Involuntarily, Claire pictured herself in their position, in some strange French town where Sarah was missing. She put her hands to her head to squeeze out the thought.
Who was the older man Edna'd seen with Arlette? She should have told Simon. She'd phone him tomorrow. Oh, please let the girl turn up safely, and they could all get some sleep.
She turned again, her cotton nightdress sticking to her body. The airlessness of the room suffocated her. Despite deep breaths, she seemed unable to fill her lungs.
Carefully, so as not to disturb Tom, she slid off the bed and padded to the window, silently pushing up the sash and leaning out as far as she could. A faint night breeze was cool on her forehead and damp shoulders. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Then she opened them, letting them move over the silver and black garden beneath her.
Their bedroom was at the back of the house, and Claire loved its daytime outlook—the patio directly below with the plants in its edging wall, the splash of geraniums in their tubs, and the flowering shrubs further up the garden, following one another in colourful sequence from spring to autumn. Now, colour was drained away, leaving only light and shade, like an old television set.
Far above her, the sky was speckled with stars. She lifted her head, letting the breeze play over her throat. That was better. Perhaps she'd sleep now. Idly she turned her head to the left, towards the Warwicks' garden—and froze, her fingers clamped on the sill. In the centre of the lawn a figure stood motionless. It must have been there as long as she had—she'd been aware of no movement. A
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