‘If you knew someone had done something which you thought was wrong, and yet to mention it might cause even greater problems in its own way, would you mention the thing which was wrong, whatever the circumstances, or would you keep quiet thinking that the smaller wrong was preferable to the greater one that would occur as a result?’

Ellie thought for a moment, then said carefully, ‘I think it depends on whether you thought that the person might do the wrong thing again.’

Chapter 14

One would be in less danger

From the wiles of a stranger

If one’s own kin and kith

Were more fun to be with.

‘Family Court’, Ogden Nash, 1902–71

At half past nine on Saturday morning, while Ellie was still asleep, Christopher rang Randall Cummings at his home. The phone was answered in the abrupt manner he had become used to.

‘Randall, it’s Christopher Devon.’

‘Yes?’

‘I need to see you. Can I come round?’

‘It’s not very convenient. I’ve a golf match in an hour.’

‘It won’t take long. I can be with you in fifteen minutes.’

‘You’ll have to take your chance. I might be here, I might have gone,’ and Cummings put the phone down.

Christopher took a deep breath to calm himself. Cummings’ manner had not improved in the intervening months. He was as terse and peremptory as ever. But then, with Christopher Devon, he probably felt he had need to be.

Cummings’ house was in a neighbouring village, within a stone’s throw of the Itchen Valley Golf Club. Maybe, Christopher mused as he drove there, if he’d joined the golf club things might not have turned out the way they did. A pity he’d always subscribed to the ‘good walk spoiled’ school. But no. Cummings would never have been his type, and golf was never his game. He’d rather spend his time outdoors in the garden.

He pulled up alongside the high brick wall that surrounded Cummings’ house. It was the sort of house more usually associated with a professional footballer than a family practitioner. It was barely five years old–brick built with a red tile roof and a white-pillared portico. A row of three garages stood beside the sweeping Tarmac drive and to enter the premises any caller had to press a button in the brick pillar by the electronically controlled gates. They were made of black wrought iron, with gilded spears at the top of each upright. It seemed to Christopher an appropriate indication of the owner’s character.

He got out of his car and pressed the call button. There was no reply, but after a few seconds a low hum indicated that the gates were opening. He drove up to the front door and parked his mud-caked Volvo estate alongside a gleaming silver Mercedes. The boot was open, and he could see a red leather golf bag filled with clubs lying within it.