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be his assistant?’
    â€˜It certainly looks like it,’ Danny said. ‘If we drink up, we might be able to catch the bus as far as the Cross. I’m starved for my supper.’
    â€˜Nothing like a letter from the wife to restore a man’s appetite.’ Griff knocked back the remains of his whisky. ‘Precious little going on here tonight, anyway. I’m not tempted to hang around to listen to some learned gentleman lecturing us for the umpteenth time on the political situation in Albania. Are you sure the bus is running?’
    â€˜Aye, the army’s cleared the road as far as the railway station. We can catch it outside if we hurry.’
    The bus was an ancient charabanc with a square roof and a door at the rear like a Black Maria. According to Mr Pell it had been the first motorised vehicle on regular service in the Vale of Evesham and should have been pensioned off years ago.
    There were no lights in the streets of the market town. Snow scalloped the eaves of the fine old buildings and moulded the pavements between the snow-carpeted gardens that flanked the road to the railway station. The station exit was lit by a single dim blue light. A solitary female figure was huddled under it, a suitcase by her side.
    The bus ground to a halt. The conductor, a taciturn old fellow, fumbled with the door handle and put down a short wooden ladder to enable the female passenger to climb aboard. She pushed the suitcase into the aisle between the benches and, in a cloud of cold air, followed it.
    The conductor retrieved the ladder, closed the door and from beneath the skirt of his coat fished out a machine like a mousetrap from which he extracted a ticket. The woman paid her fare and settled on the bench opposite the men. The bus shuddered, lurched round in a circle and prowled uphill past the deserted market square.
    Half hidden by a hood, the woman’s solemn features were just visible in the faint light. Her ungloved hands, slender and long-fingered, were clenched in the lap of her coat. She continued to look down at her hands until the bus stopped by the Cross where the road to Deaconsfield branched off into stark, silent orchards and icy fields.
    â€˜Is this as far as you go?’ she asked, looking up.
    In this weather, the conductor told her, it was.
    Griff was fast off the mark.
    â€˜Are you getting off here, miss?’
    â€˜Yes, it seems I am.’
    â€˜Allow me to assist you with your suitcase.’
    The conductor opened the door and dropped the ladder. Danny signalled Griff to exit first then courteously took the young woman’s arm to help her alight.
    She gave a little nod of gratitude and stepped down into the swirl of powdery snow that blew off the hedges.
    They stood together, all three, and watched the bus swing back towards the High Street and disappear.
    â€˜At the risk of being inquisitive,’ Griffiths said, ‘might I ask who you are and what you’re doing at Deaconsfield Cross all alone on a cold winter’s night?’
    â€˜Katarina Cottrell. I expected to be met.’
    â€˜Met where? Here? No chance of that, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜No, at the station. I have papers.’
    â€˜Papers? What sort of papers?’ Griff said.
    They huddled close, facing each other. She had slipped the hood and Danny could make out dark hair and dark anxious eyes. She had the trace of an accent and might, he thought, be a Russian, a Pole or a refugee from some country in the Balkans.
    â€˜I’ve come to work at Wood Norton. I was told I’d be met by a welfare officer.’
    â€˜There’s obviously been a cock-up somewhere,’ Griff said. ‘I think we should take a look at these papers of yours.’
    The hooded garment was neither coat nor jacket but a light half-length thing. She had a scarf at her throat but no gloves and her shoes, Danny noticed, were quite inadequate for negotiating icy country roads.
    She crouched by the suitcase,