He took a huge bite of the grilled sandwich. It was warm and the smoked bacon crackled and tasted of his settled childhood. Reluctantly he put the butty down and looked around to see if anyone was watching. But he was alone in the diner. He walked swiftly and softly over to the door.

“What’re you going to tell ’im?” a woman’s voice, elderly and difficult, was asking.

“The truth.”

Stuart recognized the waiter.

“You ridiculous old man, you don’t know the truth any more than I do. There is no ‘truth.’”

“There is. Look, at least I’ve been there. You haven’t.”

“You went there to shoot hares. Nothing cosmic about it.”

“I didn’t say there was.” Now the old man sounded petulant.

“You’ve bored enough people with your drunken tale. Now get out there before he steals the condiments,” said the cook. “I know the type. Sneaky.”

Constable Stuart stood up straight, miffed, then sneaked quickly back to his breakfast.

*   *   *

Clara scrolled through image after image of the garden on the website. In one, several huge DNA double helixes rose from the ground as though expelled. In another part of the garden, bold sculptures representing various scientific theories mixed with tall trees to form a forest. Man-made, nature-made. Almost indistinguishable.

And then there were the checkerboard patterns that swooped up and down and in and out, bursting through from another dimension.

The photographs on the website had been taken in daylight, in sunshine. But still there was something disturbing about them. This was no temporary sculpture garden. This one felt old, enduring.

It felt like Stonehenge or the haunting hilltop shards of Bryn Cader Faner in Wales. Their meaning obscured, but their power unmistakable.

Why? Clara asked herself. Why had someone created this garden? And why had Peter gone there?

*   *   *

“Never met the owner,” said the elderly man, whose name turned out, unexpectedly, to be Alphonse.

“Should I call you Al?” Constable Stuart asked.

“No.”

“Did he create the garden?” Stuart asked.

“With his late wife, aye. Nice people from what I hear. Did it just for themselves, but when word got out, they decided to open it to the public.”

Stuart nodded. He knew that much. And he also knew it was open for only one day a year.

“Not a day,” Alphonse corrected. “Five hours. Once a year. The first Sunday in May.”

“Is that when you saw it?” Stuart asked, knowing the answer.

“Not exactly. I went there in the evening.”

“Why?”

This was clearly not the line of questioning Alphonse had expected. Should he say he’d gone there to poach hares? Not for food, they had plenty of that. But for fun. As he’d done since he was a boy. Shooting squirrels and rabbits. Moles and voles.

Should he tell this policeman about the last time he’d gone shooting in the garden? It had been dusk. He’d seen movement and had raised his rifle.