‘He died three weeks later when he stepped into the road without looking and was hit by a bus.’

‘Christ. It does make you wonder if sometimes they can actually predict the future.’

Abbott pulled a face. ‘And that’s why you’ll never catch me going to a fortune-teller. I don’t want to know in advance when I’m going to be shown the exit.’

Despite himself, James couldn’t hold back a smile. ‘I think we should change the subject or stop talking altogether so that I can concentrate on this bloody road.’

The snow was still holding off and the sun had at last managed to struggle through the murky clouds but the icy surface created hazardous driving conditions.

Luckily, they didn’t have far to go as the village of Burnside was only two and a half miles north of Kendal and Greg Murphy’s house was just off the main road. They hadn’t bothered to call ahead but James thought it likely that the couple would be home.

‘We’re almost there,’ he said. ‘It’s just up the hill beyond the cricket club.’

In less than a minute they spotted the large, detached house and James eased his foot off the accelerator as they approached the entrance, which was sandwiched between high hedges.

But when they turned into the wide, tarmacked driveway the sight that greeted them was totally unexpected. A fight was taking place between two men who were rolling around on the snow-covered forecourt in front of the house. And two women – one of them Libby Murphy – were standing off to one side yelling for them to stop.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

James brought the car to a screeching halt on the forecourt, and as soon as the engine was switched off, he and Abbott leapt out.

At the same time, the two men involved in the brawl on the ground suddenly pulled themselves apart and jumped up.

It wasn’t until James got to within a few feet of the pair that he recognised them as Mark Slade, Greg Murphy’s best man, and Gordon Carver, the reporter with the Cumbria Gazette who James had spoken to only the day before. They were both panting heavily, but neither of them appeared to be injured.

James stopped walking towards them and said, ‘What the hell is going on here?’

It was Slade who responded as he wiped snow from the cagoule he was wearing over a T-shirt.

‘This hack and his photographer sidekick thought they could come to my friend’s house and take liberties, Inspector,’ he said, jabbing a finger at Carver. ‘And no way was I going to let them get away with it.’

James and Abbott shared a look before James turned and quickly took in the scene.

Libby had stopped shouting and was now shaking her head as though she couldn’t believe what she’d just witnessed. To her left stood a girl with exuberant red hair who looked to be barely out of her teens. James recognised her as Elena Devonshire, a photographer employed by the Gazette. She was staring at Slade, her thin body shaking beneath a tight, padded black jacket.