From the moment they’d first spoken to him at the old man’s caravan, Arthur hadn’t liked the tone of their inquiries. So, that night, he’d notified a good solicitor in Guildford, Mr Fish, and hadn’t cared what doubt it cast over their innocence. Mostly, he’d been worried about Charlie being cooped up in a room alone with two detectives. Mr Fish had served them well and billed them at his going rate; that is to say, their savings had depleted by the hour. He’d made sure none of them was held without a charge. Arrests had not been made. But there’d still been an invasion of their home, an interruption of their practice. All their competition work had been abandoned. ‘It’s something that you’ll have to tolerate, I’m sorry,’ Mr Fish had told them. ‘Be as helpful and hospitable as you can. They’ll go away after a while, once they’ve combed through it all.’

For days, they’d had a constable on sentry duty at their door. They hadn’t been allowed to leave their drive unless a plain-clothes officer came trailing after them in a blue Minx. There’d been reporters at their gate – just local press, but stories of the HUNGRY HILL MURDER had been printed in the Advertiser for the next few weeks, and most of these had been regurgitated by the regional papers up and down the country. They’d got used to reading them, as time went by, although the first report had shaken them – to see their movements summarized in print so tersely:

Two men and a woman were detained at Leatherhead Police Station last night for questioning in connection with the death of Mr Geoffrey Hollis (68), found buried in a field below his caravan, near Ockham, Surrey, shortly after 10.00pm. Mr Hollis was a supervisor on a local farm. The three detained were released this morning without charge. Police are searching for another woman in relation to the incident and will soon be ready to issue a description. A post-mortem is now under way.

There’d been police in every room, disturbing their possessions, riffling through their documents, searching all five acres of the farm. They’d been questioned separately at the station and at home, with no forewarning: ‘Just a few more i’s to dot with you, that’s all,’ they’d been informed. ‘You’ll have to wait for Mr Fish to get here, then,’ they’d said. The Chief Inspector had been thorough with his questions, not inimical; DS Applegarth was more suggestive and officious. She’d lost count of all the explanations she’d given and been glad of Mr Fish’s calm assertiveness. ‘We can’t pay that bloke enough, believe me. He’s worth every penny,’ Arthur had assured her – he’d been right. Especially in those later interviews at the station, when DS Applegarth had raised the facts of the post-mortem to unsettle her. He’d been looking to dislodge some information about Joyce, but it was information that she didn’t have. ‘Well, our pathologist believes the old man died by strangulation with a wire. Quite likely a clothes hanger. Inflicted by a person over six feet tall. His teeth were pulled out after he’d been dead at least an hour. So, when we find Miss Savigear, she’s going to be charged with murder. And you’d better do yourselves a favour now, you and your husband both, by telling us where we can find her. Or we could charge you all with aiding and abetting.’ Mr Fish had answered, ‘On what basis?’ Applegarth had said, ‘You wait and see.’ There’d been mention of dismantling the root cellar, exposing what might lie in the foundations, but Mr Fish had said, ‘You’ll need to raise a warrant first and you don’t have the grounds. In fact, you haven’t any evidence at all my client knows of Joyce’s whereabouts. I’d recommend we all go home.’ She’d driven back to Leventree that day in tears and Arthur had been raging on the phone to Mr Fish: ‘How much longer is this going to go on for? What more can we tell them?’ Next day, the Advertiser had put out another story: