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such fascination for evil and crime. Joanna’s aunt had started the collection and now whenever Joanna was free she would scour the local flea markets and salerooms as well as the antique shops for some new criminal figure.
    She picked the nearest one out. Palmer the villain, Palmer the poisoner. But not even he could distract her from the welcome memory of Matthew’s voice. And now she wished she had said yes.
    It was a cloudy night on the moors, the temperature a little above freezing. A fine rain washed the ground, rinsing the snow off the red dress, washing her face, her legs, her hair. When the first light broke, the body would be visible from the road.
    The stocking salesman smiled to himself as he remembered the shoe he had so carefully placed in the box in the boot of his car.

Chapter Three
    It was a farmer, driving his tractor to reach sheep sheltering from the weather, who was the first to spot her. He peered through the morning gloom and saw a patch of red in the melting snow. Shouting to his dog, he pulled off the road, switched off the spluttering engine and crossed the field.
    Joanna sat up in bed, peered out of her bedroom window and knew there was no excuse not to use her bike this morning.
    It felt good to be slipping on her shorts and tracksuit, to feel the wind in her face again. And although the wind felt raw as she wheeled her bike out of the garage, she knew she would soon be warm.
    She turned out on to the main road, then faced the hill climb towards the town. The hill was a challenge and she pedalled steadily in a low gear. Halfway up, she slowed and grimaced. A couple of days’ laziness had their price. Her legs were aching. And so was her back.
    â€˜Come on ... Keep going.’
    She had a companion. Tall and slim with beautiful white teeth and quick, strong legs. He slowed down to keep abreast of her. ‘I’ve missed you the last couple of days,’ he said cheerily. ‘The snow put you off?’
    â€˜Just a bit,’ she admitted.
    â€˜Tough getting back in the saddle.’ He grinned.
    Panting, she agreed.
    â€˜Name’s Stuart,’ he said.
    â€˜Joanna.’
    They reached the top of the hill together just as a lorry thundered past.
    â€˜Work in Leek?’ he shouted.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜What do you do?’
    A natural reluctance to divulge her profession always made her say she worked in an office. ‘And you?’
    â€˜Nuts and bolts man myself.’
    He glanced at her bike. ‘And that’s a nice bike, Joanna.’
    â€˜Thanks.’
    He gave her another flash of white teeth. ‘Do you live in the village cottages?’
    Something stopped her then. She lived alone and usually felt quite safe. But weren’t the police always warning women to be careful, to keep their addresses and telephone numbers from all but close and trusted friends? She looked at him.
    â€˜In Cheddleton.’
    â€˜Whereabouts?’
    â€˜In the village,’ she said vaguely.
    He took the hint. ‘I see,’ he said, then grinned again. ‘I’ve noticed you lots of mornings, cycling in to work.’
    â€˜Oh.’
    â€˜I always notice a good bike,’ he said, ‘and a good pair of legs.’
    She was silent until they reached the outskirts of the town and Joanna gestured. ‘I have to turn off here.’
    â€˜I know. I’ve seen the way you go.’
    Again Joanna felt the vague apprehension and remembered a plaque from her childhood. It had begun ‘Christ is the head of this house’. But it had been the rest that she had found disturbing.
    â€˜The silent listener to every conversation.
    The unseen guest at every meal.’
    It had been the concept of an unseen watcher that had unsettled her during meal times. She felt the same apprehension now.
    She had never noticed him before. And she too noticed a good bike – and a good pair of legs.
    â€˜Bye,’ she said as she approached the