‘Skeletons in the cupboard, Mr Wakeley?’

‘More than skeletons. If you shake the cupboard too much, half the village will fall out. But you don’t want old gossip.’

The old man chuckled, and coughed.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Cooper, wondering whether Mr Wakeley didn’t have quite so much toughness, after all.

‘I will be, when I’m dead.’

Cooper smiled. The old man and his clock seemed to be running at different speeds. The clock still ticked away at a regular pace, but Mr Wakeley had slowed down, as if his internal spring was unwinding and losing its tension, no longer able to push his body around at the old rate. He was gradually slipping out of real time.

And one thing was certain. He wasn’t going to find out who had been having that argument in the early hours of the morning by standing here in the sitting room at 6 Laurel Close. He would have to follow the trail closer to Birchlow.

STANDING IN THE residents’ lounge of the Birch Hall Country Hotel, Fry was impressed by a series of oak bookcases lining the wall. While she waited, she peered through the glass to study the contents. Shelves were full of volumes that were clearly more for display, and creating the right ambience, than for reading. Bound volumes of Punch, a complete set of Sir Walter Scott, Who Was Who 1951–1960. Their dark bindings formed an impenetrable wall behind the glass.

She’d obtained a copy of Patrick Rawson’s account from the head receptionist, who had expected Mr Rawson to be staying at the hotel until the weekend. It wasn’t unknown for guests to miss sleeping in their room for a night, but there was always the chance that something regrettable had happened. From the response to her news, Fry wasn’t sure whether the hotel would be sorry to have lost a guest, or relieved that they had a scan of his credit card to settle the bill.

A quick search of Patrick Rawson’s room had been unfruitful. Clothes, yes. Toiletries, of course. But anything that could provide useful information must have been back home, or in his car. She would have to make sure the room was kept locked until a proper search could be conducted.

When her phone rang, she found that it was Gavin Murfin, calling with the first solid information on Patrick Rawson.

‘Has he a record?’ she asked. ‘Anything on the PNC?’

‘A bit of juvenile vandalism,’ said Murfin. ‘Keying cars, mostly – with a special fondness for the more expensive motors.’

‘Oh, early anarchist tendencies, then.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. I was kidding.’

She could imagine Murfin staring at the phone in amazement. Diane Fry kidding? Cracking a joke? It was almost unheard of. She sighed ruefully.

‘Now we have Patrick Rawson’s mobile phone numbers, we can get hold of a record of his calls.’

‘Did you say “numbers”?’