‘My husband always had a Lexus. It was just me that liked my little bit of history. I sold his motor when he died, one old lady and two cars was a bit extravagant. Do you know anything about this one, Mr Ballard?’

They had pulled up at some lights, and he glanced across at the other brochure. It was for a Ford Mustang Fastback. ‘Oh, that one’s a bit classy for me, I’m afraid. The only Fords we ever drove were police transit vans, and a Focus traffic car.’

Emilia pushed the pamphlets back into her bag and sighed. ‘Perhaps I should buy a, ah, what are they called, a banger?’

Liz smiled at her. ‘If you are used to nice cars and can afford one, why not have one?’

A dark look passed over Emilia Swain’s face. ‘I’m not sure now is the right time.’ She paused. ‘Mr Ballard. Liz. You were both police officers, were you not? I can tell you this. Last week I found my cat dead. She had been thrown into my flower bed, the one with the geraniums and the marigolds, just outside the front door.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,’ Liz said. ‘Perhaps someone ran her over and didn’t want to leave her out on the road.’

‘Road accidents do not generally leave an animal with a cleanly slit throat, do they, Liz?’

‘Are you sure about that?’ Liz said.

Emilia Swain gave her a withering look. ‘And the week before that my potting shed had the lock snapped off.’

‘Was anything taken?’ asked Matt.

‘Everything was thrown outside, trampled. A terrible mess, terrible, but I think that nothing was stolen. It was hard to say with all the chaos.’

‘Did you report these incidents, Mrs Swain?’ Matt asked.

‘What could anybody do about it? Nothing was taken and the cat is dead. Even your wonderful local constabulary cannot perform miracles, can they?’

‘Still, you should have told them.’ Liz said kindly. ‘They could keep an eye on things for a while.’

‘I’m sure that they don’t have the time or the manpower. There must be plenty worse things than that going on.’

Emilia was right, but a couple of private investigators might be interested in following it up. ‘Any idea who it might be?’

‘I cannot begin to think. I know nearly everyone in Whisper Fen and the surrounding villages. There are a few newcomers, but they seem good people. There is old Robert Lenton’s son, he is not what my husband would have called quite right in the head, I think, but the poor soul has the mind of a child and he loves animals. No, I cannot think of anyone.’

‘Do you know a man called Gerald Grove?’ asked Matt, easing the big car on to the road leading to the villages.