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morning . . .’
    â€˜It wouldn’t appear that she was killed at the property,’ Patrick said. ‘Otherwise, surely, we would have noticed bloodstains.’
    â€˜Aye,’ Carrick said on a gusty sigh. ‘But who knows what went on in the garden? It’s pretty secluded because of the trees. Scenes-of-crime are going to rig up lights and work through the night on the entire property.’
    â€˜There’s a blackbird’s nest in the white lilac,’ I told him.
    â€˜I doubt they’ll need to actually fell anything,’ he pointed out.
    â€˜I wouldn’t mind having another look round when they’ve finished,’ Patrick said.
    â€˜I expect that could be arranged,’ James said, albeit guardedly. ‘But—’
    Patrick spread his hands, palms out. ‘Peace, Oh, son of the North. I have no intention of interfering with your case. Just professional interest.’ He gave the other a sunny smile.
    James did not appear to be reassured.
    â€˜But I’ve never stuck my nose into his investigations – unless invited to,’ Patrick said later that night.
    â€˜It’s just his natural caution,’ I said. The atmosphere was still strained. I knew that Alexandra had phoned him earlier but he had not disclosed anything about their conversation.
    The story of the body’s discovery had been all over the evening papers with a photograph of Carrick, looking stern, making a statement to the media outside the house. Seemingly unaware that the property would be out of bounds to everyone but the police for at least a week someone at the estate agency, obviously with a bad case of jitters, had rung me to ask if I wanted to carry on with the purchase. I had told them I would let them know the next morning.
    Did I really want to go ahead?
    I could not sleep, seeing those rotting eyes, smelling death and decay that still seemed to linger around me even though I had showered and washed my hair. And that other thing; Patrick saying that he had slept with Alexandra, almost certainly not true after what he had related to me when we got back together again. Even if it was not there was no point in my getting upset about it as we had been divorced at the time.
    But I was.
    For several restless hours my thoughts went uselessly round and round. When I did at last sleep it was to dream that several Alexandras with empty eye sockets were chasing me around the house waving large knives. They all cornered me in the scullery and the blades were raised, glittering.
    â€˜God, you gave me a shock!’ Patrick exclaimed in the pale light of early dawn.
    I had woken with a start, sweating, wrapped tightly, like the corpse, in the duvet. ‘What?’ I muttered.
    â€˜You screamed.’
    â€˜I had a nightmare.’
    â€˜And you have all the bedclothes.’
    This matter was grimly dealt with and he promptly went back to sleep.
    I surveyed him, his body as lean and sinewy as the day I had fallen in love with him on that summer’s day on Dartmoor. We had been as children then in those more innocent times, he eighteen, I fifteen, when my parents had not been concerned that their daughter was walking in wild places with the clergyman’s son. Why should they have been? Patrick’s interests were well known to be singing in the church choir and going fishing in the River Tamar. So that afternoon when we had eaten our picnic and Patrick had made us laugh until we cried – he is still a brilliant mimic – hugging one another in the hot sunshine and I felt the way his body moved under the thin material of his shirt . . .
    Children one moment and as close as human beings can become the next. A crash course in adulthood. I had decided, there and then, that here was the man I wanted, for ever and ever.
    And now?
    Patrick announced at breakfast that he was fulfilling the rest of his promise to accompany Alexandra on her house-hunting. I could