The list of other people she ought to be worrying about had not got any shorter, either. Drew, Grace, Gladwin, the people of Venezuela and whatever population was currently experiencing floods or fires or earthquakes. Caz had seemed to imply that a good person should at least accord a degree of unselfish concern for anybody they knew to be suffering.

Thea chose Grace to take pole position at the top of the list. Admittedly, the woman was beyond suffering now – but perhaps she was being missed by a frantic husband or mother somewhere. The mystery of her death must have left a void, a hole in the complex tapestry of life 268that needed to be filled. Not only should the killer be brought to justice, but an explanation for the act was urgently required. Thea was angry with the unknown person, who could so easily have bumped her off as well, if she’d got in the way.

And Drew – what about Drew? He seemed so reluctant to talk to her; every time she phoned he was distracted somehow. He showed very little real interest in what she was doing and told her virtually nothing about life without her in the Slocombe household. Something was obviously wrong, and Caz Barkley doubtless believed that it was wanton neglect on Thea’s part to sit idly by in Barnsley, without going home to see what was going on. Now she had a car, she could easily pop back for an hour, and find out how things were. But what good would that do? She had to see things through for Tabitha Ibbotson, at least until the end of Friday. The bathroom pipes might leak; the builders might stop working; deliveries might go to the wrong house. And Grace’s killer might not be caught. And if she went home, to be greeted deliriously by her dog, how cruel to then go away again without her. Similarly, the children would be unsettled. And Drew – she tried to guess at his reaction. ‘Checking up on me?’ he might say. Or, ‘We weren’t expecting you for another two days or so.’ There could be no satisfactory excuse for a flying visit, and every reason why it was a bad idea.

So, she wasn’t going to do that, then.

She would, however, go out again. The house was noisy and dusty and boring. Barnsley was also quite boring, but the air was fresh and there was always a 269chance of meeting someone. She’d have a quick walk around the triangular block, before perhaps going into Cirencester for a look at the shops and museum. The exercise would be beneficial, if nothing else.

She walked briskly along the main street, past the back-to-front Barnsley House (Hotel and Spa, as it said in large letters), as well as the church and the pub and the village hall, and then turned right, into the country lane that led northwards in a Roman-straight trajectory. There were no other pedestrians in sight.