Before Serena could respond, Waters said, ‘Madame, we have not spoken to anyone who met Sylvie at that time. We were told about her singing indirectly, by a third party – someone who had been told about it by someone else.’

  He had to look away to check the road, but when he glanced into the mirror again she was still watching him. If in doubt, be honest, young Waters…

  He said, ‘It is a complicated investigation. Detective Chief Inspector Freeman will meet with you later today, and I know she wants to share with you everything we have found out. She will answer any questions you have.’

  Chloe Favreau nodded eventually but her eyes were still upon him when Waters turned his attention back to the road. Gradually he eased the speed up closer to seventy miles per hour.

  Serena had telephoned Reverend Gray yesterday afternoon and told him they would be bringing the sister of the young woman to see where she had lain for twenty years. This might have been taken as a polite formality, but by the time the three of them were out of the car, the door to the vicarage had opened and Gray was on his way towards them – this time wearing a tweed jacket and dusty dark trousers, though his clerical collar was still firmly in place. Waters introduced him, and once more the Frenchwoman held out her hand in greeting. Ignoring the police officers, Gray offered to show her where her sister had been buried. She accepted and the two of them set off, followed by Serena and Waters. Somehow it seemed appropriate – that for a few minutes this might be handled as a religious matter and not as part of a murder investigation.

  The morning was as glorious a one as on Waters’ previous visit, and who would disagree that sunshine in the middle of June shows off the English countryside to its greatest advantage? The dappled light beneath those immemorial elms lit up the mosses and lichens on the gravestones they passed, nature’s own script in memoriam, written by the slow hand of time, and above their heads a party of screaming Swifts circled the church tower in an ecstasy of the old excitement.

  The detectives stopped by the side door of the building and allowed Gray to take Chloe the final short walk to the graveside. He had been as good as his word – it was tidy now but as he had told Greene and Waters that day, the grave would not be filled in until he was sure she would not return. Stout boards had been secured across the space and on them someone had placed a small black marble vase which contained spikes of fresh flowers, some blue and some white. They were larkspur – Waters would not have known that eighteen months ago but he was getting rather good at flowers these days. And they all have their own symbolic meanings. He would ask Miriam about these.

  For some minutes there was conversation at the graveside – they seemed to be asking each other questions. At one point Gray had turned to his right and then his left, indicating the trees that enclosed this place of peace, and Chloe Favreau had nodded at what he was saying. Then the vicar was walking back towards them alone, leaving her beside the place where her sister had been buried.

  He stopped and stood by the two officers, looked back at the woman who was facing away from them now, and said, ‘She is someone of strong faith. She tells me they were both brought up as Roman Catholics. She will find strength and support in that.’

  Waters nodded but said nothing – not a matter upon which he could usefully comment. Serena said to Gray, ‘Well, I’m sure she can see that you have taken good care of her sister, and I’m sure she is grateful.’

  He looked at her in surprise – ‘Yes, she said as much… A Christian duty, of course.’

  He didn’t leave them then as he might have done, and Waters thought, he’s an odd kettle of fish but there’s something steadfast about him, something as solid and set as those old marble gravestones – he won’t leave this place while Chloe Favreau is here. He’s watching over her.

  She walked away from the graveside, further along the path among the trees. After some ten yards, she turned and looked back at it, seemingly oblivious to the presence of the other people, and then she went to her left along the path that circled the perimeter of the cemetery. Twice they saw her pause and do the same thing – look back towards the spot where Sylvie had been until a fortnight ago.

  The Reverend Gray looked up at Waters then and said, ‘I feel I should apologise to you.’

  Waters asked why, and the answer was, ‘When we first met, I was not being very cooperative. In fact, I was rather rude at times. I think I made it plain that I did not… However, today, in bringing this woman here, well, I think it is a good thing to have done. The right thing. And I’m assuming that the only reason you were able to do this stems from examining her – examining Sylvie’s remains. And so you and your colleague were right and I was wrong.’

  It would have been a simple matter to dismiss this in an offhand way but instead Waters thanked him – surely the more respectful thing to have done. Gray told them she had asked to have a few minutes alone, and then, ‘I shall go into the church and pray for them both. You are welcome to come in and sit while you wait for her.’

  They declined his offer and he smiled, the first genuine smile since they had known him. He said, ‘It’s all right. You would be perfectly safe. I will not lock the door and refuse to let you go until you have repented all those sins. It works the other way around – “Behold, I have set before thee an open door, and no man can shut it.”’

  When Gray had gone into the building, Serena blew out her cheeks a little and said, ‘Phew! That was close. They always scare me a bit, the really serious ones.’

  Waters said, ‘No doubt with good reason. All those sins you must have to repent.’

  ‘No more than anyone else! Even the Saint Christophers of this world have their guilty secrets, don’t they?’

  Sylvie had arrived back at her sister’s grave. She stood still for a moment and then raised either a handkerchief or a tissue to her face, dabbing at her eyes. Waters looked at Serena and said perhaps they should see if she was all right, but the answer was quick and clear – ‘No. She’s dealing with it as she needs to. Wait until she finds her own way back here.’

  You see, Waters? Just like I always told you – the best teams are usually one of each. Pearl and plain, pearl and plain…

  Serena was saying, ‘Watching her though, it’s weird, isn’t it? It’s like we’re seeing a ghost by that grave. What did she say? Science cannot tell them apart? If they’d swapped places, who would ever know?’

  This was an unusually deep and philosophical question for Detective Constable Serena Butler. Waters looked at her to see if she was all right, but she shrugged that off and said, ‘When are you off to Wales? Do you know yet?’

  Still with his eyes on Chloe Favreau, he said, ‘Thursday. I’ve had a text from Tom. The local force have confirmed the place is still lived in by people called Collinson.’

  ‘Whoa, really? Leadsom was straight, then. Who’s going with you?’

  When he told her it was John Murray, she said that made sense, and added, ‘We’re close, then. Maybe you’ll bring him back. You’ll be invited by the Super to the golf club’s Christmas dinner if you do.’

  Chloe was making her way towards them now. Waters said, ‘You’re forgetting DC’s alphabet of policing for beginners. The first letter is A – A for Assume Nothing.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  They had allowed five hours for the journey, setting off from the car park at Lake Central at half past six in the morning – in the event, they had crossed the border in less than three hours, and there had been time for breakfast at a roadside café which had a distant view of Mount Snowdon itself. At least it did on a clear day, according to the owner as she took their order – toast and coffee for Waters and a not-quite-full-English for John Murray, who declined the black pudding so he could honestly say to Maggie that he hadn’t had a full English breakfast. He said by way of explanation, ‘I don’t get many opportunities these days, so I have to make the most of them.’

  Waters said there was no need to apologise, and that he would happily countersign the expenses form – it was important to keep the big frame of Lake’s largest police officer in good shape, especially prior to possibly making an arrest. As they ate, they talked about their experiences of Wales. Waters had had a couple of family holidays there when he was young, but that was in Pembrokeshire, far to the south of where they were heading today. Murray’s contribution was typically less predictable; he said he’d once played in a rugby team with a couple of Welshmen and that they were hard little buggers and quick with it. He thought this was because of all the hills they had to walk up and down. Waters pointed out that the south of the country was much less mountainous than what they could now see on the horizon but Murray was ready for him – yes, he said, but in the south they had the coalmines and slag heaps, didn’t they? That made them as tough as old boots…

  Less than an hour later, the end of their journey had appeared on Waters’ satnav screen. He had also set the destination on his phone using what3words to see if it was as effective as some people claimed, and Murray was checking that from time to time – one way or another they would arrive at Tyn-y-Capel and they would still be ahead of the schedule they had set themselves. The result of that might involve some waiting around because a meeting had been arranged with members of the local constabulary, the North Wales force – there appeared to be no limits to the reach of Detective Inspector Greene, who had liaised so effectively that there had been the offer of a squad car on standby while the English detectives went onto the premises, and this had been accepted. Waters had tried to arrange a specific meeting point but a message had come back saying, just drive along the top road and you’ll see them; if he and Murray were very early, he might be driving up and down the top road for quite a while.

  There was, obviously, no sign reading ‘the top road’ but by the time they were within two miles of Tyn-y-Capel the single track highway was climbing steeply. There were some remarkably tight corners as it wound its way back and forth across the slope, which had dense, stunted oak-woods at first but which then suddenly opened up onto rough pasture and then patches of purple heather among the criss-crossing of drystone walls. There seemed to be no passing places other than the odd gateway into a field but they met no other vehicles on the climb. And then they were on the top, and the views were extraordinary – even Murray gave an appreciative grunt to himself and stared out of the passenger window. Waters kept his eyes on the narrow road but the immense beauty of the place crept in at the corners of his vision – describing this to Miriam would be a challenge, he thought to himself.

  After that next rise, they should be there, whatever there looked like. In the distance he had noticed a few buildings – some might be houses, others were farm sheds, but it was plain that few people lived up in these hills now. On the next descent the track passed through a small, dark conifer plantation on a sharp left-hand bend, and when it straightened out into open ground again, he could see up ahead the rear of a marked police car parked in a small layby.

  He pulled in behind and they both got out as two uniformed officers did the same, and the four of them stood in the road and exchanged names. Waters showed his ID but no one was particularly interested. Both uniformed men were shorter and stockier than their English counterparts and Waters couldn’t help being reminded of Murray’s “hard little buggers” – as if to complete the caricature, the older man, a sergeant, had told them his name was Rhys Davies. After the introductions and the inquiries as to whether they had found the place easy – Smith would have been intrigued by the adjective used as an adverb – Davies pointed to an entrance thirty yards further along the road and said, ‘Well, that’s it. Got the gate locked, they have, so you got a bit of a walk. But you can’t miss it – Tyn-y-Capel is the only place up there. Now. You’re murder boys, aren’t you?’

  Waters admitted the fact, and saw the respect in the other younger officer’s face; it wasn’t something he much considered these days, having done the job long enough to take it for granted, but it was true – he was a murder detective. A detective sergeant in a murder squad, and when someone pointed this out, it seemed like a good thing to be.

  Davies went on, ‘And you’ve come a long way. I been told to say we’ll come in with you, if you like. Bit of back up. But if you think it’s something you wants to be doing just the two of you, I got no problem with that.’

  Waters thanked him and said that in the first instance, they would go to the farm alone, but if they needed help he- ‘Got it, boy. So then, me and Gareth are going to stay by the gate until we hears from you. We’ll have a word with anyone who wants to go in or out, just to keep it tidy. Before you go, let’s swap our numbers, in case you wants us in after all.’

  They did so and then walked up to the gate. In addition to the locked metal five-bar gate, there was a small swinging gate that allowed one person at a time through onto a signposted footpath. On an adjacent signboard was a picture of what appeared to be a stone monolith and underneath that was some information written in Welsh. Waters asked what this was about.

  ‘Oh,’ Davies said, ‘I’m sorry about that. Should be another board, see, written in English but someone removes ’em. Nationalists. Anyway, Tyn-y-Capel has this monument thing on it. Quite famous, it is, gets visitors.’

  Gareth spoke up for the first time. He said, ‘It’s a Neolithic burial chamber. Apparently the old farmers used to pen a sheep or two in it until someone realised what it was. It’s quite interestin’ and you-’

  ‘As you can see,’ Davies said, ‘young Gareth’s the brains of the operation. We’ll post ourselves here and keep any visitors out while you’re conducting your business – OK?’

  At first there was nothing but the bare track climbing the hillside. This was land that had never seen a ploughshare. The soil was vanishingly thin and the grass short and tough like the native people – Murray’s taciturn remarks had a way of embedding themselves – but looking across the slopes into the distance there was also a dusting of purple heather. Occasional boulders lay half-exposed in the sunlight like the bleached bones of the landscape that first formed here more than half a billion years ago, long before the glaciers came. Somewhere there were sheep – they could hear them in the distance – and a Skylark was singing in the blue above the two men as they reached the top of the hill.

  The track dropped away steeply into the cwm, and nestled in its shelter was a huddle of buildings – grey stone and grey slate, squat, low buildings around a concrete yard. Long ago someone had planted conifers as a hedge around two sides as some sort of protection against the elements in winter but these were too tall now, out of control, and out of place. There was the sound of an engine coming across the space between where they stood and the far side of the cwm where the land began to rise again, and then they could see a small tractor labouring noisily up the slope, and behind it a contraption was spinning grass that had previously been cut. The figure was tiny but they could tell it was a man. Waters and Murray exchanged glances and then began to walk down the track to Tyn-y-Capel.

  When they were close to the farm buildings, they saw another sign pointing to the left, and a well-worn footpath leading across the slope. Murray pointed and said, ‘That’s the way to your Neolithic burial site.’

  Waters nodded but said nothing – two dogs had emerged from the farmyard. One of them was barking and both were running towards the interlopers. Believe it or not, dealing with this is part of the training one receives – a surprising number of villains keep a dog for the sole purpose of deterring police officers. They both stopped walking and stood still and straight, watching the dogs without making eye contact. For a minute or so there was much circling and barking at a safe distance, before matters quietened down and the younger-looking dog approached. Either stand tall or squat right down – Waters did the latter and made a fist which he held out for the dog to sniff. It was more than likely the animal could smell Ben – at any rate, he spent some time exploring the fist and then the sleeve in front of him. There was silence now, and some tail-wagging.

  Both dogs had Welsh collie ancestry but neither looked like a pedigree; they were too tall and rangy. Their coats were matted and unbrushed, and there wasn’t much fat between the fur and the bone beneath it. All the while the older dog was hanging back, as if life had taught it lessons the younger one had yet to learn.

  Waters stood up slowly, checked with Murray and then they continued walking towards the buildings at a steady pace. There were a couple of desultory barks before the dogs lost interest and wandered away. One would think the noise would have brought someone to a doorway. When they were through the metal gate that was hanging on a single hinge and which scraped the concrete as it was opened and then closed, they could see the back door of the house was open. A ginger cat appeared there, took one look and then bolted away into the shadows of the open-sided barn to their left.

  At the doorway, Waters and Murray stood and listened. They could still hear the tractor, the note of the engine rising and falling as it performed a turn on the slope, and they could still hear sheep somewhere, though they had yet to see one. From the house itself came only silence.

  Waters took a look inside. There was an old, long-outdated kitchen with what seemed to be an original stone sink and drainer. The floor was also made of stone slabs, those closest to him worn smooth and slightly hollow by the footsteps of generations. Leaning in a little, he noticed there was water standing on the slabs, and frowned. An ancient washing machine had been pulled out of its place beneath a work surface and it stood at an odd angle, the door hanging open. Putting one hand on the door frame and leaning in further, now he could see a pair of legs protruding from the machine – someone was lying on the stone floor behind it.

  It seemed superfluous now, but he knocked on the open door before he said hello. The legs bent at the knees and someone was struggling to stand up, rolling first onto their front. A woman appeared, bare-footed and wearing denim dungarees that didn’t fit her at all – either they were too long or she was too short. She stood with one hand on the washing machine, and she looked annoyed.