‘Tell her to bring an air bed, then.’

‘Good thinking.’

‘It won’t help the investigation,’ said Barkley with pessimistic certainty. ‘It’s been three days now. Whoever killed your woman could be on the other side of the world by this time.’

‘More likely he’s just carrying on as normal, and nobody suspects a thing.’

‘You sound as if you believe it’s a local.’

‘Do I? I suppose nothing else makes much sense. The way I see it, somebody fetched her from somewhere – maybe Manchester – and drove her here, for a reason. There’s a Barnsley connection somewhere, I bet you.’

‘But it’s such a small place. Hardly any people live here permanently.’

‘Just over two hundred,’ said Thea. ‘I looked it up.’

‘Pity they didn’t find any fingerprints, then.’ She looked at the ceiling. ‘Up there, I mean.’228

‘None at all?’

‘Yours and the dead woman’s on the door and light switch, that’s all.’

‘Not the builders’? Or Tabitha’s? Well, you wouldn’t have hers for comparison, would you? She must surely have gone up there sometimes.’

‘Yes, but not in the past three days. Fingerprint traces fade with time, you know. You can easily tell which are the fresh ones.’

‘Well, I never. I didn’t know that.’ She thought about it for a moment. ‘I suppose it’s obvious, really. If they all remained intact for years, you’d have to eliminate hundreds of people.’

‘Right.’

Barkley got to her feet. ‘I’m going. Tell me your daughter’s name, rank, home station, and I’ll see if I can wangle a transfer. You never know – she might actually turn out to be useful.’

229

Chapter Seventeen

Thea sent a text to Jessica, five minutes after Barkley left. ‘Have suggested you be sent here to help with murder investigation. Hope that’s okay? All a bit sudden, I know. You’d stay with me in a village called Barnsley. Phone me when you’re free.’

It seemed only fair to give as much information as she could – not that Jess would have much say in the matter, from the sound of it. She might even be seriously annoyed, if it clashed with things she wanted to do.

There was still more than half of Wednesday to get through. The plan of driving to Bibury remained her best option, as far as she could see. The day was dry, if not especially sunny, and she realised that she might find a spot to park in, from which she could discreetly make a drawing. A vague notion persisted that if she could show Drew some artwork made during her absence, she would thereby demonstrate her innocence of any secretive behaviour. ‘It took me hours,’ she would say, 230proffering the sheet of A4 covered in pencilled detail.

It would also work as a calming process, or so she hoped. The restlessness and suppressed anxiety were starting to increase. Unsolved murders were unsettling at best. Surely everybody in the village must be feeling the same way? If they were, there was little sign of it. As usual, there was nothing to observe in the street – nobody walked along the narrow pavements, or gathered outside the pub for a sociable chat. Those who did walk, headed off along the footpaths with their dogs. Even the theoretical permanent residents probably had little flats in Chelsea they spent half their time in. Money was even more evident in this eastern side of the Cotswolds, where property values were routinely in seven figures. But there were still ordinary family homes, passed down the generations, with old-fashioned accoutrements and unpretentious occupants. When, eventually, an aged widow died and her offspring leapt like vultures to dismantle and sell the old place, another little piece of local history would disappear. And if the aged widow was in fact a spinster, with no immediate descendants, as had happened with the Corner House, then some lucky friend or distant cousin reaped the rewards instead.