Ridley asked for John’s opinion on a few more subjects, such as Norma and the other women from The Grange, but he had nothing useful to add.

Outside John’s house, Laura gasped at the clean air, as though there wasn’t going to be enough for her and Ridley to share.

“I’m really sorry, sir. I can’t believe that Connie Stephens, that carbon copy of Marilyn Monroe, would let that touch her. Did you see his fingernails?”

“Call Anik,” Ridley said as he unlocked the car. “Tell him to meet us for lunch in the Dog and Gun.”

He dropped into the driver’s seat and lowered his own and Laura’s windows before she got in, to create a through-draft of fresh air for her.

“And I’ll tell you what, sir,” Laura continued as she fastened her seatbelt. “Women do like men who have physical jobs, but we also quite like personal hygiene . . . Oh, thanks for opening the windows.”

Across in Taunton, Jack headed along Hazel Lane toward The Grange B&B. As he got close, the front door opened and a stunning, slender, 40-something, bleached blonde woman exited to water the plants on the front doorstep. Connie still looked like a glamour model. She wore far more make-up than in the 20-year-old photo of her on the evidence board, and comfy shoes instead of heels but, my God, she was still a head-turner. And she still had her figure. Jack tried not to look but she was side-on to him, so there was no chance of that.

The Grange B&B was one of five in a row, all connected, all displaying a three-star plaque. Jack speculated that each B&B probably had three or four bedrooms. The Grange had a handwritten sign outside boasting “Bed & Brekfast,” which made him smile. He knew that Connie had no education to speak of, so he found this misspelling strangely endearing.

There was a large expanse of grass in front of this long row of buildings, with benches and picnic tables randomly scattered about, all approximately facing the bottom of the hill, from where you could just about see the start of the Blackdown Hills—an official “Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.”

A tall wooden signpost indicated that the Blackdown Hills were a twenty-minute drive, the village was a ten-minute drive, and the ruins of an old fort were a steep, ten-minute walk. And beneath the three directional wooden arrows, carved into the vertical wooden signpost was a cock and balls. Jack frowned. Even in such a beautiful place kids were still dickheads.

The front door opened wider and an elephant of a woman stepped outside.

“I’m off to the shops. Need anything?”

“We’re out of butter,” the bleached blonde answered, “and get some more pens for the bedrooms. Why does everyone nick the pens?”

The women shared a knowing chortle, before “elephant woman” squeezed herself into a Fiat Punto and drove away. The bleached blonde shouted after her.

“Ta-ra, Connie! See you at five!”