'Yes, can I help you?'

The uniformed man was peering at her from behind a glass window. The expression on his face suggested that he found her attractive. That was all right, she knew she was an attractive woman, with her film star’s hair, her smart clothes, her nice figure, and it was something she could use to her advantage. Yes, she could manipulate this one, all right.

'Is Chief Inspector Thompson here at the moment?'

'I'm afraid not. Can anyone else help?'

'I need to speak to Chief Inspector Thompson.'

'Is it a police matter?'

'Yes and no.'

'Tell me the 'yes' part and I'll give you an honest opinion.'

'On?'

'On whether or not I should try to contact CI Thompson on your behalf.'

Vanessa smiled. It seemed a fair enough offer. Five minutes later she had persuaded the desk sergeant to part with Thompson's address rather than bother him himself. He was, after all, a busy man, with a mountain of paperwork and it would be something of a help if she went to see Thompson herself. Even though Thompson was well-liked at the station, sympathy for him was beginning to wane.

Outside, the steady rain had begun to turn heavy. There was a driving wind, making it feel much cooler than of late, and she decided that her visit to Thompson should take place before the weather turned any worse.

She found the house easily enough. The door was opened by a young girl about thirteen years old, pretty, with long dark brown hair, blue eyes and a disarming smile.

'Come in, I'll fetch Daddy for you.'

Vanessa stood in the hall, unsure whether to take off her raincoat or to wait for his reaction to her request for an interview.

'Daddy, there's a lady to see you.'

'Coming.'

He came downstairs, unsmiling, his welcome in complete contrast to the one she had received from his daughter. He had not changed significantly in all those years.

'I'm sorry to trouble you, Inspector. I hope this won't take up much of your time, I'll come straight to the point. My name is Vanessa Lake, and I'm the new owner of the Manor House in Sharringford.’

'You’re Alison Farmer's sister-in-law?' he said, remembering the young woman who had lived in the Manor House and died in the terrible fire that had swept through the village. She regarded him coolly. He evidently did not remember her from 1986.

'Sister-in-law, yes. But I wanted to talk to you about Kim Catchpole.’

‘What about her?’

‘I understand she was murdered.’

Thompson frowned.

‘There isn’t much I can tell you, I’m afraid, Miss Lake, I’m not handling this case. I’m actually on sick leave.’

‘I know, I’m sorry to bother you, it’s just that they said you were there, where they found her body this morning.’

‘I was, but I don’t really know anything about the murder.’

‘But you were involved in the arrest of Donald Clitheroe, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, but what has that to do with you?’ She could see from his eyes that he was lying. He had already made the connection. Thirteen years ago. Thirteen years ago he had been part of the team that had been responsible for bringing Donald Clitheroe in for questioning. Vanessa remembered. She had been there too.

Chapter Two

Summer of 1986

One

The killing began, as far as anyone could tell, with a page torn from a cookery book, born on the storm force winds of late May in 1986. In the sense that it touched other people's lives, it would not end for another ten years. The page contained the recipe for the fruit cake Alison Bailey wanted to bake for her parents' wedding anniversary the following weekend. Steve Wilson, who considered himself her boyfriend, though he was not, did not want her to spend the afternoon cooking, he wanted to take her to the cinema, where he could sit with her in the back row. And so the row developed into something extraordinary, ending in him snatching the book and taking it out into the back yard, ripping the page from the book and throwing it high into the sky where it was born aloft by the heightening winds that had already overturned the green plastic dustbin in the yard and pulled the front gate off its hinges. He never saw her alive again. On the morning of May 24th her body was found in the cool, swirling waters of the Wensum, face down, naked, strangled. She had not been sexually assaulted.

Mary chased after the screwed up paper, seeing it catch in a thorn hedge, tear itself free, and down the lane that led to the quarry, disused for as long as she could remember. The faster she ran, the faster the wind blew, so that she never had any chance of catching it. Her make-up began to run, causing rivulets of mascara to streak her cheeks. As she came to the edge of the quarry and peered over, she was out of breath, panting heavily. Her body, generously-curved as it was, was not built for running. What it was built for was what had caused her to have the row with Steve in the first place. For his idea of a pleasant way to spend Saturday afternoon was to sit in the back row of the Hollywood Cinema in the High Street, his arm around her, cupping her breast, his other hand on her thigh, hoping that might lead to other things.

She saw the page, now untangled but creased where he had screwed it, caught in the bramble some forty or so feet below her. She started to scramble down the face, ripping her shorts and tee shirt on the flints that jutted from it, and ended up sitting down, sliding down through the sandy earth until she sat exhausted and winded at the bottom. She had not given a single thought to the problem of climbing out. But she could still see the page, fluttering in the comparative stillness of the amphitheatre of the quarry. Rubbing her shin where she had banged it hard against the flints, she stood up, aware that she must now look a sight, and caring not at all.

Mary was not particularly tall. She hobbled painfully to the bramble, aware that she had damaged her ankle and that the left side of her tee shirt was in ribbons, far worse than she had first thought. Beneath the tee shirt and shorts she was naked. And scratched.

She had no chance of reaching the shiny paper, and began to cry again, her nose running. But still she stretched and started up the slope, pulling on tree roots to haul herself up the side of the bramble bush, knowing that she had no hope of reaching the paper without plunging into the thorns, driven on by a stubbornness born of desperation, the need to try tempered with the secure knowledge that it was a futile gesture. Her hands closed on a root and she pulled, then screamed as a hundred tiny barbs ripped into her palms, lacerating the skin and sending a shower of droplets of pale blood down her arm and over her face. The police would later surmise that she had been attempting to flee from the murderer. Her foot slipped on loose stones and she fell back a yard or so, her hand still entangled in the bramble root. Her head banged against a rock jutting from quarry face and she sank into unconsciousness. It was just thirty-five minutes after eleven.

It was exceptionally hot that weekend in Sharringford, and with the heat came the frayed tempers that led to misunderstandings and tears. The weekend had begun normally enough. Mary's parents were going to London on business, and would have been away for most of the coming week, except that events forced their early return. Mary went shopping that Saturday morning in the Budgens supermarket in the nearby town, built on the site of the old printing works, buying everything she needed for the cake. She was eighteen, still in the sixth form at the high school, where she was studying English, History and French. She was a bright enough pupil, expected to do well enough to earn her a place at a university, somewhere, and she was well-liked by pupils and staff alike.

She unloaded her purchases, taking care to put the margarine in the refrigerator, and helped her parents with the loading of their weekend luggage into the car, an old Vauxhall Cavalier, top-of-the-range SRi with tinted electric windows and alloy wheels. At a little after ten-thirty Mary watched them get into the car.

'Have a good time.'

'You too. Mrs Shaw will keep an eye on you.'

'Mum, there's no need!'

'Just in case. You can't be too careful. No parties. Be careful.'

Mary nodded and bent to kiss her mother on the cheek. The window slid silently up. Her father gazed at her with the worried expression of paternity and nodded. She ran round to the other side of the car impulsively and planted a moist kiss on his cheek.

'I'll be fine, Daddy,' she said, squeezing his hand.

'You be careful.'

'I promise.'

'Have some friends round. What will you do this evening?'

'Go to the cinema, I expect. With Steve.'

'Well - you know.'

'Daddy, stop worrying! Have a good time. Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself.'

'Just be careful.'

Mary stood up, smiling, nodding. He started the car and put it noisily into reverse. How many times had she heard him say the clutch needed doing? She waved them out of the drive then went back into the house, changing into shorts and a tee shirt. The warmest May on record, they said, and already it was hot, hotter than it had been during the whole of last summer, she thought.

Steve Wilson would not have been Mary’s parents’ first choice for their daughter, but then what boy is ever that for a daughter of caring parents? He arrived almost before the Baileys' car was out of the main road, dressed in a Led Zeppelin UK Tour '85 tee shirt and blue denims, a work shirt thrown casually over his left shoulder. His hair was cropped short. A small scar ran from beneath his eye to the top of his cheek where he had fought over another girl outside the Rampant Horse Inn one Saturday night two years previously. He was three years older than Mary, and worked at the swimming pool company in the small industrial area which housed, among other things, four printing works, all set up with redundancy payments from the closure of the printing works in the town. There were also three car tyre firms, a haulage company and a small independent bakery.

He found Mary in the kitchen and swept her into his arms. She already had the ingredients for the cake laid out on the work surface. Her young breasts squashed against his chest and he kissed her, full, on the mouth.

'They've gone, then?' he said, breaking free.

'Yes, that's enough!' she breathed, struggling to free herself. But he was strong. At last she managed to pull away from him and turned round, her back to him.

'We have the place to ourselves, then!'

'Of course.'

'Can I stay tonight?'

'I'm not sure. I haven't thought about it.'

'I have!' His hand went beneath her armpit and cupped her right breast. She pushed it away, irritated.

'Steve, stop it!'

He frowned. This was not what they had agreed.

'You're backing out?'

Her hands covered in flour, she glanced at him.

'I'm not sure.'

'You don't want to.' It was an accusation rather than a question.

'I'm not sure,' she said again.

'Well, that's great! I could have gone to the football!'

'You can still go,' she said, ignoring him and carrying on with the preparations for the cake.

'You promised!'

'I did not!'

He scowled and opened the fridge, taking a can of lager from it. Mary frowned and turned to the cupboard above the fridge, where she had put the mixed fruit. Again his hand touched her breast and she felt the nipple stiffen momentarily, but she was not in the mood, and besides, she had already decided what she wanted to do. She pushed his hand away, wondering how she could ever have been attracted to him in the first place. He was so immature..... If there was anyone she wanted to spend the weekend with, it would be Kieron Dixon. Nearly twice her age, Dixon was mature, responsible, caring, unselfish,

married

all the things Steve Wilson was not. Somehow she had to tell him it was over, then, when he had gone, she could ring Kieron and tell him it was safe to come over and spend the night with her.

'What are you doing, anyway?' he demanded.

'I'm making a cake. Can't you see?'

He scowled again, and picked up the St Michael recipe book that lay open on the white worktop. Family cakes. He tossed it away so that it shut. Mary frowned and opened it again, her hands covered in flour.

'I wish you would go to the football,' she said.

'Maybe I will.'

'Go on, then. You're beginning to annoy me.'

'You've got someone else lined up, haven't you!' he said accusingly.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' she said in her lilting Norfolk accent. Steve seized her arm and pulled her roughly to him. His breath smelt faintly of mint, and she guessed he had been chewing gum.

'You're hurting me!'

'Who is it, then?'

'Who? What are you talking about? Let go of me! I'll kick you!'

He thrust her away, and she knocked her hip painfully against the worktop. A bright flare of pain flashed through her brain and her hip started to tingle, faintly, with a dull ache. She glared at him through her tears. How could she tell him it was over? How could she tell him about the others and how much better lovers than him they were? How could she tell him anything? She turned away, sobbing. He emptied the remainder of the lager down his throat and crushed the can, tossing it angrily to the kitchen floor. With a sudden impulse of rage he kicked out at the cupboard door, splintering the edge of the veneered chipboard.

'Don't make a fool out of me!' he whispered. 'No-one does that!'

'Grow up!' she said, and pulled the recipe book to her, reaching also for the bag of flour. His hand lashed out then, quickly, catching her on the side of the head, and she fell heavily, sending flour everywhere. Steve Wilson stared down at her, then calmly picked up the recipe book and tore the relevant page out, screwing it into a tight ball. He opened the kitchen door and went out into the yard as Mary scrambled to her feet and charged after him.

'Give it back!' she screamed. There were no other houses in the vicinity. The Baileys' house was a lone building on the edge of the heath next to the patch of ground that would soon become the household waste disposal site, which in turn skirted the remains of the old quarry, now disused.

'Give it back!' she screamed again, and ran at him. But he was much taller than she was, and held it aloft in his right fist, grinning, as she tore into him.

'Give it back!'

He opened his fist as a gust of wind blew up from the north, and she watched in dismay as it was borne aloft and out of the yard.

'You bastard!' she muttered.

'You stupid cow!' he said, pushing her away. 'You're useless! You don't need a book to make a cake!'

'What would you know about it?' she said, glaring at him through her tears, and ran out of the yard.

'Who is it?' he bellowed after her. 'Who is it? Who are you having it off with?'

'Someone who's much better at it than you are!' she flung back over her shoulder. He stared at her fleeing figure, open-mouthed, then shrugged his shoulders, and started off on the long walk back to town. In the coming days he would be interviewed three times by the police, and allowed to go. There was nothing to link him to the murder of Mary Bailey other than the fact that he had been in the house an hour or so before she had been killed. At the time of her death seven people had seen him in the town centre, and with his third and final release from police custody, Steve Wilson passed out of this story. A year later he was killed in a motorcycle accident at the notorious Stibbard crossroads.