His legs felt stiff when he got up, a testament to the hours he’d spent sitting at the kitchen table, and his neck was in agony, but he felt good about himself despite it all. He was working. Working on something good.

  ?Hello??

  ?Rob? It’s Michael. How are you getting on??

  He smiled to hear the familiar voice. ?Great. Better than great. I’m working on something new and although it’s early days, I think you’re going to like it. I’ve been

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  writing since eight this morning, and I’ve only just stopped. I think this might be my best work since The Pyramid Man, I really do.?

  ?Good, I’m glad to hear it.?Michael didn’t need to mention that the sales figures for his latest book hadn’t been as high as expected. Rob was painfully aware of that fact. Still, it was hardly losing money, even if it had just missed the top ten spot in the bestseller lists. Maybe the paperback would pull it back.

  ?So how’s country life? Bumped into any old flames back there? I hear Janine is missing you.?Rob didn’t miss the hint of sarcasm in his agent’s voice, and he smiled wryly. He’d seen the papers. Janine had moved on pretty instantaneously to some up-and-coming pop star.

  ?No, no old flames, thank you very much. I think I’ve earned a break from women. Seriously though, I’m just keeping pretty much to myself.?He didn’t mention bumping into Jason yesterday. After all, Jason didn’t really qualify as an old flame. And anyway, weird though it was, he hadn’t expected to bump into him at all, as if he belonged to a Streatford stuck in another time and shouldn’t be in the here and now. On top of that, it had looked as if Jason hadn’t wanted to be bumped into. Not by him at any rate.

  ?You should come down and visit for a few days. It’d be great to see you. Just give me a couple of weeks to sort the place out properly.?

  ?Yeah, I’d like that. Anyway, I’d better go. Deals to do and all that jazz.?

  ?Okay, just as long as they’re deals for me. I’ll call you in a few days.?

  After saying good-bye and hanging up, Rob started to make himself a ham sandwich. Yes, it would be nice to see Michael, but not just yet. That’s why he’d come out with the small white lie about getting the house ready. The house was fine. He was just enjoying having it to himself for a little while. He wasn’t ready to share his peace and quiet yet. Not even with Michael, who was probably the

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  best friend he’d had since … well, since Jason. And after their awkward meeting yesterday, it was hard to believe that they’d once been best buddies, their friendship bravely crossing the gulf of the ‘70s class divide. Maybe that’s why it was doomed not to last. Maybe that’s why Jason had done that shit in class about Rob’s dad; maybe he’d been glad that Rob’s world wasn’t so perfect after all.

  As an adult he could see it clearly, but at the time he hadn’t forgiven Jason, even if he’d said he did. The cracks in their friendship were pretty huge by the end of that summer, even before all the weird crap that happened with Gina. Yeah, their friendship was fatally damaged when it was only the good stuff going on. They just hadn’t realized it yet. But that was all just part of growing up. You make friends. You break friends.

  He turned the radio on for company while he ate his sandwich, and instantly wished he hadn’t. It was the local station and the news had been dominated by the story of the woman from Gallows Hill who’d murdered her family and then herself a couple of days ago. The reporter was saying that it might have been brought on by guilt over an extra-marital affair.

  Turning it off, he went into the lounge to light the fire. It seemed like there was nowhere in the world safe from these awful tragedies anymore, and he didn’t really want to hear about them if he didn’t have to. He’d set the fire first thing that morning and was glad of it now, only having to light the scrunched up newspaper at the base to start it blazing. The work he’d done today was catching up with him. His head was drained and tired. He thought about sitting in the armchair and having a snooze for half an hour or so to revitalize him. Then the thump of a paper hit the carpet in the hall, and he went to see what it was.

  Of course, he thought as he picked up the thick tabloid-sized newspaper. The Citizen’s Companion. How could he have forgotten? Delivered every Thursday afternoon. Always had been and always would be, he suspected. Still, it

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  was a lot thicker now than he remembered it. No doubt full of motor or property supplements, the scourge of the modern newspaper world. He took it back into the warming lounge and sat in his armchair, laughing a little, because he suddenly felt like an old man. All he needed to complete the picture were some tatty slippers and a pipe. If only Janine could see him now.

  The main part of the front page was taken up with a photo of a woman with a fat, sad face and greasy hair. He didn’t recognize her, and even when he’d read and reread the name written in bold underneath, he still didn’t recognize her. Despite the fire, a chill had settled on him, a chill that started deep inside him and worked its way out, and it took a few seconds before he could bring himself to accept the words that his eyes were reading. He looked at the picture again. Could that really be Carole Anne? Could it? Not their CaroleAnne. Surely not. The picture swam a little before him. But there was something in those eyes that was familiar, and maybe the shape of the mouth. He looked at the name again. CaroleAnne Locke. So she’d really gone and married that arsehole Jimmy. Why the hell had she done that?

  He took a cigarette from the packet on the mantelpiece, lit it with shaky hands and inhaled deeply before starting to read the article. ?Jesus, Carrie,?he muttered to himself. ?What the hell have you done??

  He read the words without really accepting what they were telling him. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. She would never have done anything like this. She didn’t even swat flies, for Christ’s sake.

  Apparently, she killed her husband and two sons by poisoning their dinner with a highly toxic weed killer, before poisoning herself. She left a cryptic note that led police to believe that she may have been having an affair with one of the teachers at her boys’ school. However, all staff vehemently denied the allegation, and there was now suspicion that Mrs. Locke was suffering from some kind of

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  delusional fantasy that got out of control. Sources reveal that the message, which was believed to have been written on the family fridge, read, ?TEACHER. WE GOT IT WRONG.?

  As he stared at those words, Rob felt as if his sandwich was about to come up. He read it over and over again, feeling twelve once more, feeling helpless in the presence of the words. CaroleAnne had left the message for them, she had to have. No one else knew about Teacher. No one. But Jesus, what had driven her to this? How could something from so long ago have made her do this?

  The butt of his cigarette burned his fingers for a second or two before he realized and threw it into the fire, shaking away the pain. What the hell was going on here? He’d dreamed of Teacher. That was what made him think of coming home, and now this. Could it just be a coincidence? God, he needed to talk to someone. But who?

  Before the answer had consciously come to him, he’d gone to the kitchen and picked up his notebook. There was only one person who would get this, and he needed to talk to him whether he liked it or not. He dialed the number, and it rang twice before someone answered.

  ?Hallo??

  ?Jason? It’s Rob. Have you seen the paper??

  Jason sighed wearily at the other end. ?What? About Carrie??His voice was slightly slurred, and Rob got the distinct feeling that wherever Jason was, he was drinking.

  ?Yes, about CaroleAnne. Did you see the message she left? She was talking about Teacher.?

  ?I’m not really interested, Robster. It’s all a long time ago. I haven’t really seen her since, well, since school. Since you and Gina left. She may as well be a stranger now. Just like she is to you. I didn’t notice you going to any great lengths to keep in touch over the years.?

  Rob let the slurred knock go unnoticed. ?Yeah, well I guess I just thought you two would end up together.?

  Jason laughed, although there was no humor in it.

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  ?Well, I’m fucking glad we didn’t! Didn’t you see that photo? She’s looked like that for years. It was all downhill for her as soon as she started shagging that wanker Jimmy Locke. So, no. We were never going to get together.?He paused for a second before he added softly, ?Anyway, we were both in love with Gina, weren’t we? Carrie never really got a look in.?

  Rob wondered whether it was as hard for Jason to mention Gina’s name as it was for him to hear it. He let out a sigh of his own. ?Look, you know when you asked me yesterday why I’d come back to town? Well, there was more to it than just coming home.?He waited for a second, but Jason said nothing. ?I’d been dreaming of Teacher. Bad dreams. I didn’t think anything of it, but now with this …? His voice trailed off. ?Maybe we should get together and talk about it.?

  Jason’s laugh was a bark. ?Why? So you can write another book about the shit that happens to people around you? Like you did with The Pyramid Man? I don’t think so, mate.?So he’d read that book, even if he hadn’t gotten the point of it. Maybe he had. Maybe he just had his own guilt on that score. There was a tired exhale on the other end of the line. ?Look, I’ll see you at the funeral. When they issue a date that is. And that’s if I go. I’m not sure I will yet, but if I do, then we can talk there. Will that do you??

  Rob muttered a yes.

  ?Good. ‘Cos that’s all you’re going to get.?The phone clicked off. Still cradling the receiver to his cheek, Rob chewed the inside of his mouth. Why the hell did Jason sound so scared? And if he thought he could fool Rob with all that crap about not giving a shit, then he was wrong. Rob knew him too well, even after all these years. He’d been in love with Carrie in his schoolboy way long before Gina came along. And Gina, well it was never quite real love, was it? She was too ethereal, too strange, too beautiful to really love. And too goddamn weird.

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  It seemed like the floodgates of his memory were about to open, and he locked them shut. Not today. He didn’t want to remember all of that today. Yes, Jason would be at the funeral. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from saying good-bye. Couldn’t if he wanted to.

  He went back into the sitting room, and threw the newspaper onto the fire. Watching it burn, he thought for a moment, that he was going to cry.

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  The new shears he’d bought a few days ago from the young O’Neale boy sliced easily through the overgrowing greenery at the bottom of his rambling garden. It was the joints in Judge Matthews’s hands that were struggling, the pain causing him to occasionally grunt quietly to himself as he worked, a constant reminder that the best of his days were over, and now he was left playing the waiting game with God. Not that he believed much in all that heaven and hell preaching; although sometimes, as the nights silently ticked sleeplessly by, he wished he did. There seemed to be little comfort in old age.

  A satisfyingly large piece of blackberry bush fell by his feet, and admiring his handiwork, he decided that within another forty minutes or so he’d be able to see the river from his conservatory as he liked to, all through the approaching winter. He rolled his creaking shoulders, feeling the twinges there. It didn’t seem so long ago that he’d have had this job done in twenty minutes, and something in that thought made his heart ache, but only for a moment. He wasn’t a man who liked to dwell too much on

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  things that he couldn’t do anything about. It was hard to stay down with fresh air in his lungs and the sweet mingling smells of the countryside dancing in his nostrils. On the other side of the water, a herd of cows was grazing in the fields, their quiet sounds keeping him company, and there was something about it that made old age seem the most natural thing in the world, which, he guessed on reflection, it was. The last of the summer midges darted about his head, and he blew them away.

  There were plenty of people who would think him a fool for being out here working at his age, for not hiring someone, but he didn’t care. As long as he could do for himself, he’d be damned if he’d let anyone look after him. And anyway, that young doctor down at the surgery had told him the best thing for his rheumatism was to try to keep himself active. Some gentle walking. Keep himself as flexible as possible. He snorted out loud as he snipped away at the brambles. Not that that young tyke could know anything about the soul-destroying pain of rheumatoid arthritis. But then, Ernest Matthews consoled himself, should the young GP reach his ripe old age, then more than likely he’ll have firsthand experience.

  He smiled, peering over the section of trimmed bushes at the river beyond. The young always looked at the old as if they were from a different species. Aliens; tolerated, but not really understood. They never seemed to realize that the walking stick and reading glasses were really only a blink of an eye away. Still smiling, he shook his head. Still, that was the way it always had been, and always would be. It was how it should be. If you couldn’t believe in eternity when you were young, then what was the point of it all? What would be the point of your hopes, your dreams? They would all grow up in time, and sooner than they expected. Just look at those two boys he saw in Brown’s this morning … He pushed that thought away, working vigorously with his shears.

  Seeing those two had unsettled him, brought him out

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  into the garden to work away his unease, although why they should have bothered him he didn’t know. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen Jason Milburn plenty since the Grace case, mainly in the dock just like his father before him. It must have been seeing him with the writer that had brought back the old memories. Seeing the two of them all grown up, men now, no more carefree days racing around town on bikes for them. It was like seeing them, but not them. The children he’d known briefly all those years ago, the ones he had talked to, in his own way tried to reassure, were long gone. Strangers with only shadows left behind. In the case of poor CaroleAnne Bradley, she was gone forever.

  His work was almost done, and something in his newly clear view distracted him from his immediate thoughts and took them down a new road. Looking to his left, he heard himself take a sharp breath. Surely that couldn’t be right. He’d have noticed it before. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? He’d lived here thirty years and more; he knew every inch of the view across the river. So why was he only seeing it now? Putting the unwanted shears down on the lawn, he stretched his back and stared, puzzled.

  The top of the house on Toombes Meadow was clearly visible, even the chimney stack, unused for so many winters now. He blinked a few times, to clear his mind as well as his vision, but every time he opened them, it was still there, clear as day. ?Well, I’ll be,?he whispered, not sure what to make of it. Maybe it had always been there and he just hadn’t noticed it. That had to be the case; there was no other alternative. Maybe it was seeing those boys today that made him spot it. After all, it wasn’t exactly right in front of him or anything. It was possible he could have missed it for all these years, if he wasn’t looking for it. Or maybe he was just a useless old man with rheumy eyes and couldn’t trust his sight anymore. He wasn’t convincing himself very well.

  He was sure he never used to be able to see the house

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  from here. He’d have remembered a thing like that, forgetful though he may be these days. As he stood there, his brain worked overtime to find a logical reason for this new information, and when it came up with one, he grabbed it and clung on.

  Someone must have cut a few trees down over there. Or maybe they had come down in those gales a few weeks ago. Yes, that must have been it. That was why he could see the house now. Feeling a rush of relief, liking his explanation, he let the world settle back to normal around him. His mind was still his own; he wasn’t joining the drooling brigade just yet.

  Calmer now, he squinted at the house for a few moments longer, cursing whoever had cleared the view. He’d never understood why old man Cowley had wanted to build on that land in the first place. He’d even asked him, to which Cowley, canny businessman that he was, had laughed and given him that big, open smile of his, and told him, ?Because it’s cheap, Ernie, because it’s cheap.? He was a good man, Cowley, and God knew he himself had never been prone to superstition, it wasn’t a good quality in a judge, but that meadow had been unused common land for so many centuries, there was almost something sacred about it. Still, Cowley was right. He’d gotten himself a big, private house for his family for half the money he’d have paid anywhere else. Not that Cowley couldn’t afford it, but he always was a man who liked a bargain. At least he’d never let his wealth give him airs and graces, like that son-in-law of his, who’d turned out to be not quite so well off as he liked people to believe. People were strange; his life on the bench had taught him that, if nothing else. There was no accounting for folk, as the old saying went.

  Feeling his melancholy settling back in, he bent down?slowly to pick up his shears and put them in the shed, not wanting to dwell on events so long past. He’d liked Camilla. She’d been a lovely girl, and it had hurt his heart

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  when she came up in court before him, but there was no doubt about it: She’d killed Philip Grace—no matter what she said—and he’d had to judge her for it.

  Locking the shed, he sighed. Still, that place out by Ashburtle probably hadn’t treated her too badly over the years. They’d be giving her the care she needed, and mainstream prison hadn’t been the place for a fragile woman like her. By the time the trial was over, and he’d made it as swift as possible, all Camilla would do was giggle into her hands and rock backward and forward. Backward and forward for hours and hours. Lost in her own world. She was probably still lost there now. It had been the little girl that he’d most felt sorry for. Her guilty eyes, as if the whole sorry tragic episode were her fault, trying to take the blame herself. Kids were strange creatures. As strange as the adults they would one day become, that much was for sure.