BooksBarbecue
Back The Dead Line
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. By the Same Author
  3. Dedication Page
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. Acknowledgements
  86. Also Available by Holly Watt
  87. The Hunt and the Kill

The slightest hesitation. ‘Once.’

‘When was that?’

The shortest pause. ‘Two or three years ago? Not long after he had moved across there. Not long after my mother . . .’

They chatted on. And finally, Casey said, ‘Thank you so much, I won’t take up any more of your time, you’ve been so very helpful.’

She hung up, typed up a few paragraphs for Harry, and then turned to Miranda. ‘I’m quite sure of it,’ she said. ‘It’s her.’

13

13

Vivienne Hargreaves lived in a Devon longhouse, on the edge of one of the prettiest villages. The house made up one side of a cobbled courtyard, and old stone barns another two. Casey and Miranda admired the slabs of granite, the daffodils bobbing in a stone trough. Pink and red camellias climbed the north wall. A black Labrador, sunning himself on a mounting block, barked what might have been a welcome.

‘I’m a bit busy . . .’ Vivienne opened the door, a child squalling behind her.

‘It won’t,’ Casey smiled automatically, ‘take very long.’

Her father’s just died, Casey had said to Miranda, before leaving the office. Shouldn’t we wait?

For how long? Miranda’s jaw was set.

I don’t know.

There we go.

Is everything OK with . . . You know.

Yes. Fine.

‘We’re from the Post,’ Casey spoke to Vivienne. ‘Actually, we talked yesterday. About your father.’

‘Oh,’ Vivienne smiled. ‘His obituary. Of course.’

The hall was dark, with small windows and granite flagstones, uneven in places. In the kitchen behind Vivienne, Casey could see rows of bottled fruit, and strawberry jam prettily labelled. Two canaries hopped around a cage.

‘Shall we go into the sitting room?’ Vivienne was polite, but not instinctively warm. ‘They’re so inconvenient, these old houses. Impossible to heat. But we do love it here.’

Vivienne had thick dark hair and a strong jaw. Her green eyes were small, with firm eyebrows in a straight line above. She would be pretty, glossed up in London, Casey thought.

‘Your house is very beautiful,’ Casey said obediently.

Vivienne smiled around at her. She was prodding the fire, kneeling down without a thought for her sensible blue jumper and grey cords. The mantelpiece was covered in copperplate invitations, and there was a framed photograph of Vivienne, beaming, holding a tiny baby outside a beautiful church. Toys were scattered around the room. A wooden xylophone here, a stuffed lion there. An illustrated Snow White lay spine up on the floor, a pretty girl smiling on the cover.

‘Thank you.’ Vivienne sat back on her heels. ‘Can I get you tea, coffee?’

‘Tea would be lovely,’ said Miranda. Because a hot drink always slowed the pace.

‘I won’t be a moment.’

Vivienne crossed the hall to the kitchen, and they heard her switch on a kettle.

Casey and Miranda looked at each other, thoughtfully. They didn’t speak.