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  Councillor Frederick Start, the well-known local builder, has assumed the role of Master of The Bricklayers. Councillor Start is a founding member of The Bricklayers, a charitable organisation.

  The article was accompanied by a small grainy photograph that could have been of almost anyone.

  She hadn’t heard of The Bricklayers. A further Google search revealed nothing about them. Whoever they were, The Bricklayers certainly didn’t court publicity. Yet more intriguing was that, although a ‘charitable organisation’, they weren’t registered as a charity. She wondered if they acted as some kind of obscure trade association, but she was pretty sure that would make them eligible for charitable status. They seemed to model themselves on the Freemasons, but she knew Masons always registered their Lodges as charities. If The Bricklayers engaged in similar activities, you’d expect them to want to claim similar benefits; if they didn’t, the most likely reason would be a desire for secrecy. Charities had to publish their constitutions or Trust Deeds and also their accounts. Perhaps The Bricklayers didn’t need to eke out their funds and thought that refusing charitable status was a price worth paying for lack of transparency. From Juliet’s point of view, such secrecy suggested they sailed close to the law, if they weren’t actually breaking it. And since they were so secretive, why the casual little piece in the local press? Had this been an accident, or placed there for a specific reason?

  Juliet was keen to investigate further, but knew she’d have to ask Tim to let her spend the time on it. As far as she could tell, The Bricklayers had nothing to do with Councillor Start’s interest in Philippa Grummett. Nothing would irritate Tim more than if she let herself get sidetracked, despite the lip-service he always paid to her hunches. The Starts’ connection with Spalding High School was possibly relevant, though still tenuous, given that Philippa didn’t attend the school. Juliet wondered if Verity Tandy’s conviction that Philippa had a double who was a pupil at the school could be significant, before swiftly berating herself for chasing hares. Still, the report that an undesirable had been seen hanging around the school had to be taken seriously and Verity’s account of the headmaster’s casual attitude to the sighting was unsettling. She herself hadn’t much liked Richard Lennard when she’d heard him speak at Fenland Folklore.

  “Ah, Armstrong, I was hoping you’d be back,” said a familiar voice at her shoulder. “Can you give me a report on your progress with the cold case file? I need to feed something back pretty swiftly. As in ‘today’,” he added, gimlet-eyed, as Juliet turned to answer him.

  Juliet swallowed uncomfortably.

  “I’ve only been able to spend limited time on it so far, sir,” she replied. “I’ve been helping DI Yates with the Sutterton Dowdyke case.”

  The Superintendent’s brow darkened.

  “Indeed. I thought I’d made it clear . . .”

  “But I’ve been through the file and selected the case I think I should work on,” she added quickly.

  “Good, good. Write me a couple of paragraphs on it, will you?”

  “It’s the one about the . . .”

  “I don’t mind which one it is. Just write me a few sentences about why you think it should be reopened, including some estimate of our chances of solving it, and get it to me, will you? In, shall we say, half an hour?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  TIM ARRIVED HOME well before Sophia’s bath time that evening. His frustration at not being able to interview either Ruby or Kayleigh Grummett until he had fixed an interview with the enigmatic Mr Dixon had its compensations. He’d get on to Dixon tomorrow, or perhaps ask Juliet to do it for him. If the solicitor turned out to be a clever bastard, Juliet would schmooze him better than Tim could.

  “Hello! You’re early,” said Katrin, coming into the hall to meet him with Sophia in her arms. She lifted her face for a kiss.

  “You sound disappointed,” said Tim. “I thought I’d get back for bath time.”

  “It’s always great when you do. It means I can cook properly and we get more evening to ourselves afterwards. As long as your bête noir doesn’t pester you, that is.”

  “My what? Oh, you mean Thornton. It’s not likely he’ll ring tonight. I’ve reached stalemate in the Grummett case until I can involve their solicitor and as far as I know there’s nothing else that Thornton wants me for at the moment, besides some cold cases that Juliet’s working on. We haven’t got very far with those, either.”

  “I want to believe you,” said Katrin, “despite all my previous experiences!” She laughed. Tim stood back and regarded her appreciatively. She seemed to be regaining some of her old bounce and sparkle. He hoped it would last.

  “Talking of Juliet, how is she? Did she cope with going back to the hospital the other day? I thought it might be a bit traumatic for her: she was so ill when she was admitted there last year.”

  “She’s fine. I listened to what you said about the hospital and asked her if she was okay about it. It didn’t seem to worry her at all. She was a bit tentative with the doctor who treated her, a woman called Louise Butler who by chance has also been looking after Ruby Grummett, but after they’d gone off for a meeting Juliet seemed happy about that as well.”

  “Oh, yes?” said Katrin archly. “Tell me more. I’m curious.”

  “I can’t think why. It was a fairly routine meeting. I tried to get some sense out of Bob Grummett while she went off to talk to Dr Butler about how serious Ruby’s illness was and, more to the point, when we’d get to interview Ruby about the accident. Dr Butler said today and we’ve now managed to get a few details from her. Also Bob Grummett has decided to involve a solicitor. Do you know him, by the way? His name’s Dixon. I can’t say I’ve ever come across him, which is odd. I thought I knew most of the lawyers working in this area.”

  “I don’t know a solicitor called Dixon. I once met a barrister of that name. But surely someone like Bob Grummett wouldn’t hire a barrister? It would be taking a sledgehammer to crack a nut. And it would cost an arm and a leg.”

  “You’re full of old wise-woman sayings tonight!” Tim laughed. “But you’re right. It’s highly unlikely that this guy’s a barrister. Bob wouldn’t want to spend the money on him, even though he could afford it, if that money in the pyjama case belongs to him. Why were you so intrigued when I mentioned Louise Butler? You don’t know her, do you?”

  “No, but I’ve met her. She went to the funeral that was held for the skeletons found in the de Vries cellar last year. It wasn’t all that long after Juliet came out of hospital. I went to the funeral partly to support her, partly because I did some work on that case myself. I could have sworn there was more between Dr Butler and Juliet than just a professional relationship. They seemed to be having some kind of tiff, as well. Juliet was quite upset.”

  Tim’s eyes widened in amazement.

  “Are you saying that Juliet’s gay? No, surely not. I don’t believe it. She’s never struck me as being in the least like a dyke. Besides, I thought she was sweet on the bloke next door. Nick something. I think he was a Greek.”

  Katrin exploded into a fit of giggles.

  “Really, Tim, you’re an utter disgrace! There’s no shame in it if Juliet is gay. And what do you mean, that she ‘isn’t like a dyke’? What exactly do you think dykes are like? I’d say they probably come in all shapes and guises. And even you can’t really believe that her neighbour is called Nick and that he’s a Greek. I think his name is Nick, but I’m pretty certain he’s Polish, or of Polish origins. Actually, he’s probably British.”

  “Whatever,” said Tim huffily. “I wasn’t implying anything. You know how much I respect Juliet. I just don’t think she’s gay, that’s all. Or Louise Butler, either. Let’s change the subject. How did you come to meet this Dixon the barrister? What was he working on?”

  “It was before I came to Lincolnshire. I was working in London – it was my first job as a pol
ice researcher – and I was trying to find out more about a cache of photographs that had been discovered.”

  “What sort of photographs?”

  “Soft porn. They weren’t illegal, but the Met thought the people distributing them were probably engaged in flogging the hard stuff, as well. Charlie Dixon was one of the people who was interviewed. He was representing a client, not there on his own account. I was just observing – I can’t remember why. Oh, yes, it was because the client was a woman. Dixon wanted another woman present in the room if his client was going to be interviewed by a man. We must have been short of WPCs at the time, because my boss – it was Terry – asked me to stand in.”

  “Was Dixon helpful?”

  “Not in the slightest. He was the worst kind of lawyer from the police point of view – charm itself, but Teflon-coated when it came to protecting his client. She was a bit of a scrubber, to be honest, but she must have had some money behind her, because I understood Dixon was very expensive. I seem to recall that he got her off.”

  “God, I hope it isn’t him, then,” said Tim. “The background of the case you mention sounds interesting, though, especially the bit about the client coming from a rough background. They don’t come much rougher than Bob Grummett and his family – all except the younger daughter that I told you about.”

  While they were talking, Sophia had fallen asleep in Katrin’s arms. She suddenly startled and woke up in alarm. She began to yell.

  “Give her to me,” said Tim. “A bath will settle her. Then we can have a nice evening together. What’s for supper?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  JULIET WAS PREPARING for her second Fenland Folklore meeting in four days. For the first meeting, she’d dressed carefully to look smart but inconspicuous. Tonight, she decided to wear something more flamboyant. Knowing it would be cold at Moose Hall, she chose a cashmere sweater with broad horizontal stripes in pastel colours and teamed it with black jeans.

  The bell of Juliet’s flat rang punctually at 6.15 p.m. She felt like a schoolgirl on her first date. When she opened the door, Louise was standing there laughing and holding out a bottle of wine. Her hair, normally tucked into a smooth chignon for work, flowed onto her shoulders.

  “Friendship present,” she said. “I thought you might like a glass later, when I bring you home. I’ll only be able to have a small one myself, of course. I won’t be breaking any laws!”

  “Thank you,” said Juliet, smiling. She’d never seen Louise like this before – giggly and light-hearted. At the hospital her demeanour was serious and dignified, almost austere. “Come in for a moment?”

  “Better not,” said Louise, glancing at her watch as Juliet took the wine. “We ought to go if we’re to get there in time. You’re looking very nice. I love that jumper.”

  Juliet felt her face flush. “I’ll just grab my coat.”

  Seated in the semi-circle of hard chairs arranged round the small dais at Moose Hall were mostly the same people Juliet had met previously. She couldn’t see Richard Lennard. Perhaps he’d been held up, or maybe he was meeting the speaker somewhere before the meeting started.

  The slight, very pale woman who’d been given a bit of a put-down by Richard Lennard on the last occasion left her seat and came across to talk to them.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Veronica Start. I was going to introduce myself to you on Monday, but you disappeared too quickly. You’re Juliet Armstrong, aren’t you? And I’m guessing this must be Dr Butler.”

  “Yes,” said Juliet. “But how do you know?” She’d had no inkling that this woman was Councillor Start’s daughter-in-law. She seemed not to be the kind of person who would agree to accept a sinecure. Perhaps she really did work for the company.

  “No mystery. I’m the membership secretary. Yours are the only two applications we’ve had this month.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Louise, holding out her hand. Juliet noted that she’d resumed her usual reserved manner.

  “You’re a teacher, I believe?” said Juliet. “At the High School?”

  “Yes. I teach modern languages. Now it’s my turn to ask you how you know!”

  “There are some biographical details in the Fenland Folklore literature. So Richard Lennard is one of your colleagues?”

  “Rather more than that! He’s my boss.” She pulled a self-deprecating face. “Talking of Richard, I can’t think where he’s got to. I knew he was taking Miss Ferguson for tea before the meeting, but they both should have arrived by now. Richard’s usually a stickler for punctuality. Should we sit together?”

  She led them to the far side of the horseshoe of chairs.

  “I need to be able to get out,” she explained. “Richard or Miss Ferguson might need my help.”

  The statement seemed to make her nervous. As Juliet and Louise squeezed past her somewhat awkwardly, she tucked one leg behind the other in a convoluted movement and removed a pair of spectacles from her handbag. As she did so, she pushed back the sleeves of her jumper. For a moment Juliet was transfixed by the revelation of an ugly red mark on her arm. She looked away, but not before Veronica Start had noticed. Pulling the sleeve down to her wrist, she gave a false little laugh.

  “I see you’ve noticed my scald. Stupid of me! I was draining a pan of potatoes and managed to pour boiling water right over me.”

  Louise leaned over and gently pushed back the sleeve again.

  “You should really go to A & E with that, or at least visit your GP,” she said. “It looks nasty to me.”

  Again the mirthless laugh. “It’ll be fine. I did it a couple of days ago. It’s getting better now, honestly.”

  “Still . . .”

  “I’ll just go and see if everything’s ready for coffee afterwards,” said Veronica.

  “That’s not a scald,” Louise whispered to Juliet. “It looks as if she’s been burned with an iron to me.”

  “Do you mean it wasn’t an accident?”

  “Could have been, though if the edge of the burn shows the mark of the tip of the iron, as I think, it’s pretty unlikely. And why try to hide what kind of accident it was, anyway?”

  Juliet looked grave. Evidence of domestic abuse both distressed and infuriated her.

  The audience remained unentertained for a further ten minutes, gradually growing more and more restless. One or two of its members had already left, disgruntled, when a dumpy little woman came bursting in, looking cross and dishevelled. She was wearing a checked coat in some shaggy fabric and had a trilby-style hat pulled low over her forehead. As far as her bulk and build would allow her, she strode to the front of the hall and negotiated the considerable step-up to the podium.

  “Is anyone in charge here?” she demanded. She removed the hat, showing a scarlet-veined face under flattened grey curls.

  Veronica Start appeared from somewhere, looking anxious and appeasing.

  “Miss Ferguson?” she said. “Didn’t you manage to find Richard?”

  “As you can see, I did not ‘manage to find him’, as you put it, because he wasn’t there. Spalding station’s not exactly Clapham Junction, is it? I would’ve seen him if he’d turned up.”

  “There must have been some mistake – perhaps it’s my fault. I apologise.”

  “Well, I’m here now. I took a taxi in the end. And I’d like a cup of tea. Then I’ll get on with my talk.” She turned to the audience and said in a gentler voice. “I’m very sorry to have kept all you good people waiting.”

  While Veronica hurried away, Miss Ferguson unloaded a large sheaf of papers from the capacious bag that she carried and arranged them on the lectern. She placed a pair of wire-framed glasses at the end of her nose and humorously observed the audience over the top of them.

  “There’s no need to look so worried. Bark’s worse than my bite. Since there doesn’t seem to be anyone here to introduce me, I’l
l just get on with it. I’d like to talk to you about local place names. You have some truly extraordinary ones round here. You can hear the magic in them, can’t you? Pode Hole, Gedney Drove End, Sutterton Dowdyke . . .”

  It was an engaging talk: Mary Ferguson had soon captured the audience’s attention. They hung on her words as she discussed the etymological roots of local place names and what they could disclose about the remote history of the area. Ten minutes after she’d begun to speak, almost everyone had forgotten about the small contretemps that had heralded her arrival and lost sight of the fact that Richard Lennard was still not present.

  After she’d delivered the speaker’s tea, Veronica Start returned to her seat. Turning away from Juliet, she took out her mobile and rapidly tapped out a series of text messages. Juliet pretended to be entirely absorbed in the lecture, but flicked a glance or three sideways. She guessed at Veronica’s purpose. She wondered if whatever it was Richard Lennard was doing had either made him too preoccupied to remember the Fenland Folklore event or, since no reply seemed to be coming through, if it had separated him from his phone.

  Veronica was finding it hard to concentrate on what Mary Ferguson was saying. She scribbled a few notes. Juliet was also having difficulty in paying attention, even though the subject was fascinating. She glanced at Louise, who had seemed a bit fidgety at first, but now the speaker had moved from place names based on topography to ones based on the names of early inhabitants, she was entirely engrossed.

  The lecture lasted about three quarters of an hour. Veronica Start rose to her feet and was about to deliver a vote of thanks when Mary Ferguson, having taken a large gulp from her glass of water, asked if there were any questions. Immediately four or five hands shot up. Veronica’s reaction of anguish mixed with impatience was almost palpable. She sighed, slid her mobile out of its pouch and pressed a few keys quickly. Juliet decided she must be re-sending one of the messages she’d composed earlier. Once more, there seemed to be no reply.