That was the truest sentence Fry had heard spoken for several days.

She finished her tea and looked out of the window. Sure enough, it was still raining. She couldn’t yet see any sign of Ben Cooper standing outside getting wet.

‘One last question. Have you heard of anyone going missing locally, while you’ve lived here? Word of that would get round, wouldn’t it? By osmosis or otherwise.’

‘No, and it’s rather worrying, Sergeant,’ said Mrs Brindley. ‘We heard on the news about something being found. There was a picture of the old farm. It’s terrible, what’s happened.’

She couldn’t even bring herself to mention an object so tasteless as a dead body.

‘Yes, terrible,’ said Fry.

‘We’re very anxious to help, if we can. But we’re so busy at the moment, all of us. You were quite lucky to catch us at home. We certainly haven’t had time to keep up with the local gossip.’

‘How many children do you have, Mrs Brindley?’

‘Just the two, Sergeant. Evan here, and Chrissie, our daughter. Chrissie is fourteen.’

Fry addressed the teenage boy who’d sat silently on the edge of the sofa, watching her throughout their visit.

‘I don’t suppose you know anyone in Rakedale either, Evan?’

‘No, hardly anyone. There are no young people, only old – I mean, old people.’

‘It’s difficult enough trying to keep Chrissie and Evan away from unsuitable company at school,’ said Mrs Brindley. ‘We wouldn’t want them going down into the village.’

‘No, I see.’

‘Should we be concerned about the safety of our children, Sergeant?’ she asked.

‘I doubt it,’ said Fry. ‘If a crime was committed – and we’re not even a hundred per cent certain of that yet – then it happened a while ago.’

The teacups were empty, and Murfin had consumed the last crumb of the last biscuit. It was time to leave the normal world and get back to Pity Wood Farm.

‘Oh, I suppose you must know David Palfreyman?’ she said.

‘Palfreyman? Yes, we do know him,’ said Brindley carefully. ‘He lives quite close, and we’ve said “hello” a few times.’

‘He used to be the local village bobby.’

‘Ah, the rural policeman. Yes, we’ve definitely seen him. You could hardly help but recognize what he is. I’m sorry.’

Throughout their visit, the son had sat watching Fry and Murfin as though they were putting on a show especially for his benefit. His own home version of Law and Order or CSI, maybe. Oh well, the climax would be a bit disappointing – no guns drawn, no armed officers summoned to slap on the cuffs. Just boring old police work. Just Detective Sergeant Diane Fry struggling through the mud, as usual.

Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten