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tree-thwaite names. I think they’re wonderful. Limethwaite. Thornthwaite. Like tongue-twisters. I even know what “thwaite” means,’ she added proudly. ‘And I’ve only been here a year.’
    The girl looked at her warily. ‘Oh?’ she murmured.
    ‘Yes. And I’ve been dreadfully slow in getting to know my way around. I’m determined to make up for it this summer.’
    ‘Right. Well …’
    ‘Sorry. You want to go. See you tomorrow, then.’
     
    She drove back to Troutbeck wondering at her own sudden exuberance. It had begun the previous day, with the blue sky and the humming bees. There was so much to look forward to, with the lengthening days and the general lifting of pressure. Only with hindsight did she grasp how difficult the winter had been. Without Melanie and Ben, she couldn’t see how she’d have got through it. But Melanie and Ben were temporary presences in her life. They were young and would move on. She had relied on them more than was wise.
    So who could she rely on? Her parents inevitably came to mind, in spite of Russell’s words on the subject. And Ninian Tripp, who was at least her own age and unlikely to move away. But Ninian was not a man to lean on. He was far too limp and fey for that.
    The only person – and the realisation made her shiver – who was fully and persistently reliable was DI Nolan Moxon.
    But there would be no necessity to make any further use of his trustworthiness, she assured herself. He had only crossed her path because horrible crimes had been committed. That wasn’t going to happen any more. Even Ben Harkness would have to concede that.
    She drove up the winding road from the lakeside into the village of Troutbeck, thinking of the weeks when an inconvenient rota had been established to drive her up and down to work, when she was still too convalescent to do it herself. Her father and Melanie had been the primary chauffeurs, but once or twice her friend Julie had been summoned into service, and there had even been mornings when the only choice was to call a taxi. As soon as she had been allowed to get behind the wheel again, Valentine’s Day had demanded a dramatic return to driving, not least several challenging journeys to Coniston and back.
    Her route took her through a tiny settlement named Thickholme, with a famous bridge over the Trout Beck. Woods and farms and unpredictable levels gave the little journey an ever-changing fascination, which Simmy fully acknowledged. The new sheen of green over the hedges proclaimed another miracle of revitalisation after the greys and browns of winter. Fields fell away to her right, edged by sturdy stone walls, and empty of animals. There was moss and dead wood and rutted tracks all adding to a sense of timelessness, where technology had made almost no impact. The imposing old farmhouse at Town End, with its mad collection of hand-carved furniture and weird cylindrical chimneys, reinforced the feeling that not muchchanged on these hillsides over a century or two.
    But then she became aware that something was happening, in a farmyard close by. Two police cars were parked in such a way as to make it almost impossible to get past. A uniformed officer was talking into a phone. The sight brought memories and associations that thoroughly spoilt Simmy’s mood. Hunching her shoulders and averting her gaze, she crawled past, with the side of her car almost scraping the wall bordering the little road. Nobody stopped her. Nobody took any notice of her.
    With a sense of a lucky escape, she sped home to her cottage and thought no more about it.
     
    Her garden was full of the westering sun and she sat outside on her tiny patio with a glass of juice and thought about Bonnie and Melanie and the necessity of change. In the past month or two she had acknowledged to herself that she was very nearly in a new relationship, with all the complex decisions and compromises that would be likely to accrue as it progressed. Melanie approved and Ben did