‘No, that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about attacks on the gardens. Have any of the owners reported any criminal damage last year or this year?’

There’s silence as Escritt wonders why I think anyone might want to vandalise work I did years ago. He knows my answering silence means I’d prefer not to explain.

‘I’d say no to most people,’ he says eventually.

‘Thank you.’

‘It might take me a while. Can I reach you on the number you’re calling from?’

‘For a bit. I’m not sure how long, but . . . yes. I know it’s a lot to ask, but can you try to be quick? If anything was reported . . .’

‘I’ll ring you,’ he says curtly.

I clutch the phone. The driver doesn’t ask for it back. He doesn’t say anything. I pull my diary out of my bag and find Charlie Zailer’s number. After my conversation with James Escritt, I want to talk to someone else who knows who I am, who will call me ‘Ruth’ instead of ‘Miss’.

There’s no ringing, only a recorded voicemail message. She must be talking to someone else, or have her phone switched off. ‘It’s Ruth Bussey,’ I say. ‘Ring me back as soon as you get this message. The number’s . . .’ I break off.

‘07968 442013,’ says the driver. His voice carries no trace of his former bonhomie. It’s full of apprehension, or disapproval; I can’t tell which.

I repeat the number and press the ‘end call’ button, then lean forward and drop the phone onto the passenger seat. ‘Thank you.’

‘Services coming up. Are we still stopping?’

Say no. Go back to Spilling. Go home. Let the police deal with it.

‘We’re going back,’ I say. ‘To Villiers. Drive along the hard shoulder if you have to—just get me there as quick as you can.’

24 - 5/3/08

24

5/3/08

Charlie had hoped things would be winding down by the time she got to the Spilling Gallery, but the party seemed still to be in full swing at nearly nine o’clock. The lit interior was dark with bodies, and she heard the noise as soon as she got out of her car: laughter and clashing voices.

She’d rung Saul Hansard at home first, having found his number in the phone book. His house was listed by name: The Grain Store. That’s right; she remembered him mentioning the dilapidated building he and his wife had bought and converted. Charlie knew Saul from an initiative she’d been in charge of last year to combat business crime. Most of the local shop-owners had been involved; Saul had been among the least obnoxious and demanding.