‘And …?’ he prompted.

‘And I miss my beloved husband, of course.’ She used a gushing, over-sentimental tone that she hoped masked the slight exasperation she felt at his neediness.

‘And I miss you. So do the kids. But we’ll survive. Just make sure you do as well.’ Again he sounded strained, and slightly breathless.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she breezed. ‘At least I’ve got some food now. And the weather’s really good.’

‘All of life’s needs satisfied, then,’ he said. If it had been anybody but Drew Slocombe speaking, she might have thought there was a hint of sarcasm in his words.

90

Chapter Seven

Sunday evening closed down early, with thick cloud rolling in from the west. Thea barred the door into the kitchen at seven o’clock, and yet again wished she’d insisted on bringing the spaniel with her, in spite of Tabitha Ibbotson’s refusal. For years she had taken the dog for granted, sometimes ignoring her for days at a time; but now she resolved never to be parted from her again. The mere fact of another living creature in the house with her would have made a tremendous difference. Instead there was the lingering presence of a dead woman, suddenly and violently gone with all her secrets unrevealed.

She sat in the living room with her needlework, silence all around her. There was no birdsong outside and very little passing traffic. She had tried the television, but found it didn’t work for some reason, which meant she wouldn’t be able to watch DVDs either. Probably never been upgraded to digital, she thought crossly. She 91wanted to be quiet with her own thoughts, as well as able to hear any unusual sounds. What she felt was not exactly fear, but she was certainly on the alert for any threats. At some point since speaking to Drew she had become certain that Grace had been murdered. A person had come into the unguarded house, made his or her way up to the attic and somehow killed the sleeping woman. It was ludicrously unlikely, and yet far from impossible. Thea’s imagination had always been fertile. Now she played with notions of implanted tracker devices, enabling Grace’s enemies to find her with ease. Or perhaps Grace had come downstairs and used Thea’s phone, calling a trusted friend who promptly betrayed her. Perhaps the two women had been observed walking through the lanes the previous afternoon and entering Tabitha Ibbotson’s house. The front door was visible from at least one other property, and they had inescapably been seen by the occupants of two passing cars as they walked. If Grace’s story was even half true, there could have been a concentrated search under way for her, with watchers reporting every movement she made.

She went back over every detail of the previous day, preparing herself for an inevitable police interview when the cause of Grace’s death was eventually established. The strange lack of information, the obvious fear, the damaged shoulder – it was all clear in her mind, while at the same time not a very credible tale. Who else but Thea Slocombe would have so readily accepted the burden of an unknown fugitive and given her sanctuary in a house not her own? It was ridiculous to have done such a thing. 92And yet she could not see any moment when she had much of a choice. What else could she have done? She might, in fact, have done considerably more if she’d had a car at her disposal. She might have deposited Grace at an A&E somewhere, for a start. She might have driven them to a remote country pub and treated them both to a proper meal. And how odd that Grace had shown so little surprise at the absence of any such ordinary action.