'Why didn't you phone her?'
That stopped me. 'It didn't occur to me.'
'Does she have a mobile?' I told him she did. 'Do you have her number?'
It was in my phone memory. I scrolled to it, knowing what he was going to ask and feeling stupid for not having thought of it myself.
'Shall I ring it?' I offered, before he could say anything.
'Why don't you?'
I could feel him watching me as I waited for the connection to be made. I wondered what I would say if she answered. But I didn't really think she would.
The bedroom window opened in the house. The police sergeant leaned out.
'Sir, there's a phone ringing in a handbag.'
We could hear it faintly from behind him, a tinkling electronic tune. I rang off. In the house the notes stopped. Mackenzie nodded to him. 'All right, it was just us. Carry on.'
The sergeant disappeared. Mackenzie rubbed his chin. 'Doesn't prove anything,' he said.
I didn't answer.
He sighed. 'Christ, this bloody heat.' It was the first sign he'd given that it bothered him. 'Come on, let's get out of the sun.'
We went to stand in the shadow of the house.
'Do you know of any family?' he asked. 'Anyone who might know where Miss Palmer is?'
'Not really. She inherited this place, but as far as I know she doesn't have any more family in the area.'
'How about friends? Apart from yourself.'
There might have been a barb there, but it was difficult to tell. 'She knew people in the village. But I don't know of anyone in particular.'
'Boyfriends?' he asked, watching for my reaction.
'I wouldn't know. Sorry.'
He grunted, looking at his watch.
'So what happens next?' I asked. 'Will you check if the DNA from the body matches a sample from the house?'
He regarded me. 'You seem to know a lot about it.'
I could feel my face reddening. 'Not really.'
I was glad when he didn't pursue it. 'We don't know this is a crime scene yet anyway. We've got a woman who may or may not be missing, that's all. There's nothing to link her to the body that's been found.'
'What about the dog?'
'Could have been killed by another animal.'
'From what I could see the wound in its throat looks like a cut, not a tear. It was made by a sharp edge.'
Again he gave me that appraising look, and I kicked myself for saying too much. I was a doctor now. Nothing else. 'I'll see what the forensic boys say,' he told me. 'But even if it was, she could have killed it herself.'
'You don't really think that.'
He seemed about to retort, then thought better of it. 'No. No, I don't. But I'm not going to jump to conclusions, either.'
The house door opened. The sergeant emerged, giving a shake of his head. 'Nothing. But the lights had been left on in the hallway and lounge.'
Mackenzie nodded, as if that were what he'd expected. He turned to me. 'We'll not keep you any longer, Dr Hunter. Someone'll be around to get your statement. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk about this to anyone.'
'Of course not.' I tried not to feel annoyed that he'd even asked. He was turning away, speaking with the sergeant. I started to go, then hesitated.
'Just one thing,' I said. He glanced at me, irritably. 'That mole on your neck. It's probably nothing, but it might not hurt to get it checked out.'
I left them staring after me as I went back to the car.
I drove back to the village feeling numbed. The road cut past Manham Water, the shallow lake or 'broad' that each year lost a little more of itself to the encroaching reedbeds. Its surface was mirror still, fragmented only by a flight of geese that descended onto it. Neither the lake nor the choked creeks and dykes that cut through the marshes to it were navigable, and with no river close to the village Manham was bypassed by the boat and tourist traffic that descended on the rest of the Broads during summer. Although only a few miles separated it from its neighbours, it seemed to belong to a different part of Norfolk, older and less hospitable. Surrounded by woodland, bog-like fens and poorly drained marshland, it was a literal as well as figurative backwater. Apart from the occasional birdwatcher the village was left to itself, sinking further into its isolation like an antisocial old man.
Perversely, this evening Manham looked almost cheery in the sunshine. The flowerbeds in the church and village green were like punches of colour, so bright they hurt. They were one of Manham's few sources of pride, scrupulously maintained by old George Mason and his grandson Tom, the two gardeners I'd met when I'd first arrived. On the edge of the green, even the Martyr's Stone had been garlanded with flowers by the local schoolchildren. It was an annual event, decorating the old millstone where in the sixteenth century a woman had supposedly been stoned to death by her neighbours. The story went that she'd cured an infant of some palsy, only to be accused of witchcraft. Henry joked that only Manham could martyr someone for doing a good turn, and claimed there was a lesson there for both of us.
I didn't feel like going home, so I headed for the surgery. I often went there, even when I didn't have to. At times my cottage could feel lonely, whereas at the big house there was always at least the illusion of work, if nothing else. I let myself into the back door that led into the self-contained clinic. An old conservatory, dense and humid with plants that Janice lovingly tended, served as a reception and waiting room. Part of the ground floor had been converted into Henry's private living quarters. But that was at the other end of the house, which was more than big enough to accommodate all of us. I'd taken over his old consulting room, and as I closed the door behind me the scent of old wood and beeswax was calming. Even though I'd been using it almost every day since I'd arrived it was still more a distillation of Henry's personality than mine, with its old hunting oil, roll-top desk and leather-seated captain's chair. The bookshelves were filled with his old medical books and journals, as well as less obvious subjects for a village GP. There were texts by Kant and Nietzsche, and an entire shelf given over to psychology – one of Henry's hobby-horses. My only contribution to the room was the computer monitor that hummed quietly on the desk, an innovation Henry had disgruntledly acquiesced to after months of persuasion.
He never had recovered enough to return to work full-time. Like his wheelchair, my temporary contract had developed into something more permanent. It had been first extended, then changed into a partnership when it became apparent that he would no longer be able to run the practice solo. Even the old Land Rover Defender I now drove had once been his. It was a battered old automatic, bought after the car crash that had left him a paraplegic and killed his wife Diana. Buying it had been a statement of intent, when he still clung to the hope of being able to drive – and walk – again. But he never had. Or ever would, the doctors had assured him.
'Idiots. Put someone in a white coat and they think they're God,' he'd scoffed.
Eventually, though, even Henry had to accept that they were right. And so I'd inherited not just the Land Rover, but bit by bit most of the practice as well. We'd split the workload more or less equally to begin with, but increasingly more and more of it had been left to me. That didn't stop him remaining 'the proper doctor' in most people's eyes, but I'd given up minding long ago. I was still a newcomer as far as Manham was concerned, and probably always would be.
Now, in the late-afternoon heat, I tried visiting a few medical websites, but my heart wasn't in it. I stood up and went to open the French windows. The fan on my desk whirred, noisily stirring the turgid air without cooling it. Even with the windows open, the difference was purely psychological. I stared out across the neatly tended garden. Like everything else it was parched; shrubs and grass almost visibly withering in the heat. The lake ran right up to the garden's border, with only a low embankment as protection from the inevitable winter flooding. Moored to a small jetty was Henry's old dinghy. It was little more than a glorified rowing boat, but Manham W
ater wasn't deep enough for anything else. It was hardly the Solent, and there were still areas that were too shallow or clogged with reeds to venture into, but both of us enjoyed going out on it even so.
There was no chance of raising a sail today, though. The lake was so still there was no movement at all. From this angle there was only a scribble of distant reeds separating it from the sky. All was flatness and water, an emptiness that, depending on your mood, could be either restful or desolate.
I didn't find it restful now.
'Thought I heard you.'
I turned as Henry wheeled himself into the room. 'Just sorting out a few things,' I said, pulling my thoughts back from where they'd wandered.
'Like a bloody oven in here,' he muttered, stopping in front of the fan. Except for the non-use of his legs he looked the picture of health; creamy-white hair over a tanned face and keen dark eyes.
'So what's this about the Yates boys finding a body? Janice was full of it when she brought my lunch.'
Most Sundays Janice would deliver a covered plate with whatever she'd cooked for herself. Henry insisted he was capable of cooking Sunday lunch himself, but I noticed he rarely put up much of a struggle. Janice was a good cook, and I suspected her feelings for Henry went beyond those of housekeeper. Unmarried herself, I guessed her disapproval of his late wife stemmed mainly from jealousy, although she'd hinted more than once at some old scandal. I'd made it clear I didn't want to know. Even if Henry's marriage hadn't been the idyllic affair he now seemed to recall, I'd no interest in raking over the bones of gossip.
But I wasn't surprised that Janice knew about the body. Half the village would be buzzing with the news by now.
'Over by Farnham Wood,' I told him.
'Some birdwatcher, probably. Yomping around with a backpack in this heat.'
'Probably.'
His dark eyebrows went up at my tone. 'What, then? Don't tell me we might have a murder? That'd liven things up a bit!' His smile faded when I didn't join in. 'Something tells me I shouldn't joke about it.'
I told him about my visit to Sally Palmer's house, hoping talking about it might make it seem less of a possibility. It didn't.
'Good Christ,' Henry said heavily, when I'd finished. 'And the police think it might be her?'
'They didn't say one way or the other. I don't suppose they can, yet.'
'God, what a bloody thing to happen.'
'It might not be her.'
'No, of course not,' he agreed. But I could see he didn't believe it any more than I did. 'Well, I don't know about you, but I could do with a drink.'
'Thanks, but I'll give it a miss.'
'Saving yourself for the Lamb later?'
The Black Lamb was the village's only pub. I often went there, but I knew that this evening the main topic of conversation wouldn't be one I wanted to join in.
'No, I think I'll just stay at home tonight,' I told him.
My house was an old stone cottage on the outskirts of the village. I'd bought it when it became obvious I'd be staying longer than six months after all. Henry had told me I was welcome to stay with him, and God knows Bank House was certainly big enough. Its wine cellar alone could have swallowed my cottage. But I'd been ready to move into my own place, to feel I was putting down permanent roots rather than continue as a lodger. And as much as I enjoyed my new work, I didn't want to live with it. There were times when it was still good to be able to close the door and walk away, and hope the phone didn't ring for a few hours at least.
This was one of them. A few people were drifting up the churchyard path for the evening service as I drove by on my way home. Scarsdale, the vicar, was in the church doorway. He was an elderly, dour man I couldn't pretend to like very much. But he'd been here for years and had a loyal, if small, congregation. I raised my hand to acknowledge Judith Sutton, a widow who lived with her adult son Rupert, an overweight hulk who always trudged along two paces behind his overbearing mother. She was talking to Lee and Marjory Goodchild, a prim couple of hypochondriacs who were regulars at the surgery. They regarded me as on-call twenty-four hours a day, and I hoped I wouldn't be flagged down now for an impromptu consultation.
But this evening neither they nor anyone else stopped me. I parked on the baked earth at the side of the cottage and let myself in. It was stuffy inside. I opened the windows as wide as they'd go and helped myself to a beer from the fridge. I might not have wanted to go to the Lamb, but I still needed a drink. In fact, realizing just how badly I needed one, I put the beer back and poured myself a gin and tonic instead.
I broke some ice into the glass, added a wedge of lemon and drank it at the small wooden table in the back garden. It looked out across a field onto woods, but if the view wasn't as spectacular as from the surgery, neither was it quite such a daunting landscape. I took my time over the gin, then cooked myself an omelette and ate it outside. The heat was finally ebbing from the day. I sat at the table as the sky slowly deepened and the stars began making their first hesitant appearance. I thought about what was going on a few miles away. The activity there would now be around the once peaceful stretch of country where the Yates boys had made their discovery. I tried to visualize Sally Palmer safe and laughing somewhere, as if thinking about it would make it so. But for some reason I couldn't hold a picture of her in my mind.
Putting off the moment when I would have to go to bed and face sleep, I stayed there until the sky had darkened to velvet indigo, pierced by the brilliant flickering of stars, a random semaphore of long-dead flecks of light.
I jerked awake, sweat-drenched and gasping. I stared around, with no idea where I was. Then awareness draped itself on me again. I was naked, standing by the open bedroom window, its lower edge pressing into my thighs as I leaned out into space. I backed away, unsteadily, and sat on the bed. Its crumpled white sheets were almost luminous in the moonlight. The tears dried slowly on my face as I waited for my heart to slow back to normal.
I'd had the dream again.
It had been a bad one. As always, it had been so vivid that waking seemed like the illusion, my dream the reality. That was the cruellest part. Because in the dreams Kara and Alice, my wife and six-year-old daughter, were still alive. I could still see them, speak to them. Touch them. In the dreams I could believe we still had a future, not just a past.
I dreaded them. Not in the sense that you would fear a nightmare, because there was nothing fearful about them in themselves. No, it was exactly the opposite.
I dreaded them because I had to wake up.
Then the shock of grief, of loss, would be just as fresh as when it first happened. Often I would wake to find myself somewhere else, my somnambulent body having operated without any awareness on my part. Standing, like now, by the open window, or at the top of the steep and unforgiving stairs, with no memory of getting there or what subconscious urge might have steered me.
I shivered, despite the cloying warmth of the night air. From outside came the lonely barking of a fox. After a while I lay down and stared at the ceiling until the shadows faded and the dark ebbed away.
4
The mist was still rolling off the marshes when the young woman closed the door behind her and set off on her morning run. Lyn Metcalf ran with an easy athleticism. The pull in her calf muscle was healing nicely, but she still took it easy at first, falling into relaxed, loping strides as she ran along the narrow lane from her house. Partway down she cut off onto an overgrown track that led across marshland to the lake.
Long grass stalks whipped at her legs as she ran, still wet and cold with dew. She took a deep breath, savouring the feeling. Monday morning or not, she couldn't think of a better start to a new week. This was her favourite time of day, before she had to worry about balancing the accounts of farmers and small businesses who resented her advice, before the day developed a less optimistic shape, before other people had a chance to sully it. All was fresh and sharp, reduced to the rhythmic thump of her feet on the track and the even rasp of her br
eathing.
At thirty-one Lyn was proud of her condition. Proud of the discipline that kept her in shape, and meant she still looked good in the tight shorts and cropped top. Not that she would be smug enough to admit that to anybody. Besides, she enjoyed it, and that made it easier. Enjoyed pushing herself, seeing how far she could go, and then trying for that extra bit further. If there was a better start to the day than pulling on a pair of running shoes and putting in the miles while the world came alive around her she'd yet to find it.
Well, OK, except sex, of course. And the edge had gone from that lately. Not that it wasn't still good – just the sight of Marcus showering off the day's plaster dust, the water flattening the dark hair on his body to an otter's pelt, could still produce a coiling in her belly. But when there was a point behind it besides pleasure it tended to blunt the enjoyment for both of them. Especially when it had come to nothing.
So far.
She leapt over a deep rut in the track without breaking stride, careful not to lose her rhythm. Lose my rhythm, she thought, sourly. I wish. When it came to rhythms her body was as regular as clockwork. Every month without fail, almost to the day, the hated flow of blood would begin, signalling the end of another cycle and a fresh disappointment. The doctors had said there was nothing wrong with either of them. For some people it just took longer than others; no-one knew why. Keep trying, they said. And they had, eagerly at first, laughing at being given medical approval for doing something they both enjoyed anyway. Almost like getting it on prescription, Marcus had joked. But the jokes had gradually petered out, replaced by something that wasn't quite desperation, not yet. But the embryonic beginnings of that, if nothing else, were forming. And it was starting to colour everything else, to taint every aspect of their relationship.
Not that either of them admitted it. It was there, though. She knew Marcus found it hard enough that she earned more from her small accountancy practice than he did as a builder. The recriminations hadn't started yet, but she was frightened they might. And she knew she was as capable of hitting out as Marcus. Outwardly, they'd reassured each other that there was nothing to worry about, that there was no rush. But they'd been trying for years, and in another four she'd be thirty-five, the age she'd always claimed would be her cut-off point. She did a quick sum. That's forty-eight more menstruations. It seemed frighteningly close. Forty-eight more potential disappointments. Except that this month was different. This month the disappointment was three days late.
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