The Drowning Ground by James Marrison Page A

up on Meon Hill. Others take them along to a village called Mickleton or to another nearby village called Ilmington.’
    â€˜And anyone else see the argument?’ I said. ‘No one recognized the man he was arguing with up on the hill?’
    â€˜No, only the young couple saw them arguing. They’ve just moved in, sir, and they didn’t know who the other man was. But it looked like Hurst and this man were really getting into it. They saw the van before they crossed the gate.’
    â€˜Well, it looks like the van was gone by 5.00 and the man along with it. And, according to the old boy I’ve just been talking to, Hurst was still alive then.’
    â€˜Maybe he came back.’
    I nodded. ‘Could be. And you got a description?’
    â€˜Yes. Short and thin-looking. Around thirty. Black hair, kind of spiky. Bit odd for a man his age. Wearing a black coat. Leather, they think, and white trousers.’
    â€˜Not much, is it?’
    â€˜No, sir. I’m afraid not.’
    â€˜And they can’t recall the number plate?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜And no one noticed anything else out of place in the village?’
    Graves shook his head.
    â€˜You sure?’ I said, surprised. ‘No strangers hanging about? Nothing at all?’
    â€˜No, sir. Nothing. But we haven’t been able to talk to everyone. A lot of people just aren’t back from work yet. Probably be quite a few of them later, though.’
    Graves was talking about the Lower Quinton commuters, who take the train from the nearby village of Moreton-in-Marsh direct to Paddington. I scowled to myself as we drove past some of the bigger houses sedately tucked away behind well-manicured hedges. London commuters had swooped en masse into small villages like this all over the Cotswolds and bought up all the best houses. For a second, I was almost glad of the murder on their doorstep, hoping that it would knock off a bit of the old Cotswolds charm.
    â€˜We’ll have to try them again,’ Graves said. ‘But we’re nearly done. Just two more streets, sir: Fairfield Road and Bourton Close, and then a few houses at the back of the pub.’
    â€˜The pub’d be a good place to try as well,’ I said. ‘Wait till it gets really busy and send a few fellows in to have a chat with the locals.’ Then I added drily, ‘That’s if there are any locals left.’
    We were leaving the village now. The road curved past a small housing estate and then finally took us beyond a few hardy-looking labourers’ cottages that clung stubbornly to the edges of the village. After that, there was no sign of anyone.
    Graves put his foot down, and we gathered speed. The black road began to race beneath us, and the snow danced frantically in the beams of the headlights. The outline of the village behind us loomed out of the darkness. The hill rose stark upon the horizon and then sloped away again, until it was lost amongst the smaller, greyer contours of the surrounding hills.
    Graves tapped the steering wheel, glancing from time to time at the countryside behind him in the rear-view mirror. It seemed as if he wanted to say something but was unsure as to whether he should go on.
    â€˜There has been an awful lot of talk, though,’ he said finally.
    I had been expecting that.
    â€˜It all seems odd to me,’ Graves said, shifting in his seat. ‘I mean, the poor guy’s been murdered. But nobody really seems to care. Okay, so the chap likes to keep a low profile. Keeps himself to himself. But so what? He doesn’t like the villagers walking all over his field, but who can blame him for that? It’s like the whole village seems to think that the field is there for their own benefit,’ Graves said, clearly remembering the sign by the gate. ‘But was he really all that bad? Why do they seem to have hated him so much? One of the old dears I talked to this morning literally came out and