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the sensational news, because she did not have a mobile phone.
    He paused beside the newly hewn archway in the wall between the delicatessen and the old shoe shop, soon to become Pagford’s newest café, and checked the industrial-strength clear plastic that prevented dust from settling in the delicatessen. They were planning to have the café open before Easter, in time to pull in the tourists to the West Country for whom Howard filled the windows annually with local cider, cheese and corn dollies.
    The bell tinkled behind him, and he turned, his patched and reinforced heart pumping fast from excitement.
    Maureen was a slight, round-shouldered woman of sixty-two, and the widow of Howard’s original partner.‘Heard the news?’
    She frowned at him interrogatively.
    ‘Barry Fairbrother’s dead.’
    Her mouth fell open.
    ‘
No!
How?’
    Howard tapped the side of his head.
    ‘Something went. Up here. Miles was there, saw it all happen. Golf club car park.’
    ‘
No!
’ she said again.
    ‘Stone dead,’ said Howard, as though there were degrees of deadness, and the kind that Barry Fairbrother had contracted was particularly sordid.
    Maureen’s brightly lipsticked mouth hung slackly as she crossed herself. Her Catholicism always added a picturesque touch to such moments.
    ‘Miles was there?’ she croaked. He heard the yearning for every detail in her deep, ex-smoker’s voice.
    ‘D’you want to put on the kettle, Mo?’
    He could at least prolong her agony for a few minutes. She slopped boiling tea over her hand in her haste to return to him. They sat together behind the counter, on the high wooden stools Howard had placed there for slack periods, and Maureen cooled her burnt hand on a fistful of ice scraped from around the olives. Together they rattled through the conventional aspects of the tragedy: the widow (‘she’ll be lost, she lived for Barry’); the children (‘four teenagers; what a burden without a father’); the relative youth of the dead man (‘he wasn’t much older than Miles, was he?’); and then, at last, they reached the real point of departure, beside which all else was aimless meandering.
    ‘What’ll happen?’ Maureen asked Howard greedily.
    ‘Ah,’ said Howard. ‘Well, now. That’s the question, isn’t it? We’ve got ourselves a casual vacancy, Mo, and it could make all the difference.’
    ‘We’ve got a …?’ asked Maureen, frightened that she might have missed something crucial.
    ‘Casual vacancy,’ repeated Howard. ‘What you call it when a council seat becomes vacant through a death. Proper term,’ he said pedagogically.
    Howard was the Chair of the Parish Council, and First Citizen of Pagford. The position came with a gilt and enamel chain of office, now reposing in the tiny safe that he and Shirley had had installed at the bottom of their fitted wardrobes. If only Pagford District had been granted borough status, he would have been able to call himself Mayor; but even so, to all intents and purposes, that was what he was. Shirley had made this perfectly clear on the homepage of the council website, where, beneath a beaming and florid photograph of Howard in his First Citizen’s chain, it was stated that he welcomed invitations to attend local civic and business functions. Just a few weeks previously, he had handed out the cycling proficiency certificates at the local primary school.
    Howard sipped his tea and said with a smile to take off the sting, ‘Fairbrother was a bugger, mind, Mo. He could be a real bugger.’
    ‘Oh, I know,’ she said. ‘I know.’
    ‘I’d have had to have it out with him, if he’d lived. Ask Shirley. He could be an underhand bugger.’
    ‘Oh, I know.’
    ‘Well, we’ll see. We’ll see. This should be the end of it. Mind, I certainly didn’t want to win like this,’ he added, with a deep sigh, ‘but speaking for the sake of Pagford … for the community … it’s not all bad …’
    Howard checked his watch.
    ‘That’s nearly