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aware of every part of her body at the same time – her mouth, her tongue, her nipples on his chest through the thin dress, her vertebrae beneath his fingers and the glorious curve of her bum…
    He kissed her neck, her shoulders, popped the buttons of her dress which she shrugged to the floor, nuzzled her breasts, greedily sucking the swollen nipples into his mouth… They were like puppets, their movements pre-ordained.
    Bed, and she groaned softly as he eased his way inside her, then again as she climaxed.
    They lay awhile in sweaty post-coital regret, then they did it again.
    Later, she propped herself up, looked down into his face.
    ‘That was beautiful, Fraser.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘But it didn’t happen.’
    ‘No.’
    She quickly dressed and left.
    And when they’d driven back the next morning, she’d chatted more freely than on the way up, but had never once made recognisance of what had happened.
     

 
     
    (ii)
     
    Three months later, John Somersby was thinking about beer and its beneficent effect on mankind. The best thing of all about it, he decided as he walked home, was its levelling effect. Not up or down, he thought, just levelling – he was a convivial man and had just spent a convivial couple of hours playing skittles in the Rising Sun.
    He sensed the lights of the car coming behind him at the same time as he heard its engine and stepped to the side of the narrow lane to let it pass. It slowed down and dipped its lights when the driver saw him, but then, to his astonishment, it accelerated and drove straight at him. He tried to jump out of the way, but it hit him a glancing blow on the legs. He was knocked into the steep bank and rebounded into the road.
    He felt no pain and was dimly aware that the car had stopped and was reversing. It somehow came as no surprise when, instead of stopping beside him, it quite deliberately ran him over.
    His wife, Barbara, phoned the pub at just before midnight, knowing they occasionally let customers stay late, but was told that John had left at just after eleven. She found a torch and set off to look for him. She had been a nurse and knew as soon as she saw him that he was dead; nevertheless, she felt for his pulse, then touched his cheek gently before getting slowly to her feet. It was only when she became aware that she was running that she realised it couldn’t help him. She didn’t stop, though.
    She was interviewed at home by a dark-haired and petite inspector called Lyn Harvey, while other police sealed off the area round the body and the surgeon pronounced him dead. Then the Scene of Crime team got to work, taking photographs and samples.
    The pathologist arrived and examined the body. He took his time, but all he would say was: ‘I’ll tell you more when I do the PM.’
    Thus, it wasn’t until the next day that the police realised they were dealing with murder.
    ‘He was hit here,’ the pathologist said, indicating, ‘and the blow broke his left leg, but didn’t kill him. He would have been thrown against the bank and fallen back into the road. Then, the car reversed back over him, then forward over him again, and it was this that killed him.’
    His pelvis and most of his ribs had been broken and his liver and spleen were ruptured.
    ‘So he would have survived the first injury?’ Lyn Harvey asked.
    ‘Almost certainly.’
    ‘Any chance that the rest could have been accidental?’
    The pathologist snorted. ‘That’s your department, but I’d think it was pretty unlikely, wouldn’t you?’
    The only thing he could add was that he thought the car had a low ground clearance, such as found in a sports car.
    The case was handed over to Superintendent Garrett of Criminal Investigations. The first thing he did was to interview Barbara Somersby again. Their house (hers now) was a pretty cottage a little way off the road and their married daughter had come to stay with her.
    ‘I’m very sorry to have to trouble you at this time,’ Garrett said. He