human
posterior in mind.
Gloria too sat herself down on the hard white sofa, her large bright blouse spreading around her like a parachute. After a
shaky start she was just getting into her stride.
‘Let’s see, what day is it today? Friday.’ She wrinkled her brow in an impressive display of thought. ‘I reckon that BMW was
up at the Old Vicarage a couple of times on Wednesday and I saw a yellow sports car going up there in the late afternoon.
And then the BMW was there yesterday in the middle of the morning. There was a little red carthere too, and after that had gone a yellow one shot out of the drive – it might have been the sports car but I didn’t see
clearly. Then later on all hell broke loose and the police started dashing up and down the lane, so I wouldn’t have been able
to hear anything going down the drive for all the commotion,’ she finished disapprovingly.
Rachel stood up, unable to trust the seating any longer. ‘Thank you, Mrs Treadly, you’ve been very helpful. We might have
to come back some time and talk to your husband as well.’
Gloria Treadly looked mildly affronted. ‘Alec’s not my husband. He’s my son.’
‘I’m sorry. But we’d still like a word with him.’
Gloria pressed her lips together and nodded warily. Rachel guessed that at some point in Gloria’s past the police had not
been welcome visitors.
‘Just one last thing,’ Rachel said casually as Steve was putting his notebook away. ‘Have you or your son ever been up to
the Old Vicarage?’
‘No. Never,’ was the sharp reply as Gloria opened the front door wide to let them out, avoiding any eye contact and anxious
to see the back of them.
When they were a few yards down the road, Rachel turned to Steve. ‘Do you think she was telling the truth when she said she’d
never been up to the Old Vicarage?’
‘No way,’ Steve answered with an unpleasant grin. ‘She was lying through her teeth – and they’re probably false and all.’
Rachel nodded. It would be worth keeping an eye on Gloria and Alec Treadly.
Lewis Hoxworthy could hear his mother in the kitchen. The clattering of plates and pans told him that she was washing up.
It would never have occurred to Lewis to offer to help: washing up was her job and he had better things to do.
He glanced at the poster above his bed, at the mounted knight in his gleaming armour riding off to some unnamedmedieval battle. Then he closed his eyes and the sights and sounds of battle swirled in his head; the clash of steel, the
panicked whinnies of the horses, the terrified cries and rough oaths of desperate men facing death or mutilation.
He could almost smell the fear. Fear was something he knew well. He had experienced it many times when they had picked on
him at school.
But not any more. Everything would change now.
He checked the pocket of his coat. He was only taking one: just a sample to whet the appetite of the man he was to meet. He
looked at his wristwatch, a sleek, black, expensive birthday present. The ferry was due to leave Derenham for Tradmouth in
fourteen minutes. It was time to go.
He crept downstairs, the soles of his soft white trainers making no sound on the brightly patterned carpet, and when he left
the house, he shut the front door softly behind him. As he trudged down the lane towards the river the old barn loomed up
on his right and he averted his eyes, trying not to look at the place. He hadn’t been near it since that day when he had made
his discovery; when he had seen that vision of hell itself.
A couple of vehicles passed him on the road: a battered yellow Mini that had seen better days and a gleaming Range Rover.
He glanced back as they came to a halt by the old barn. Something was going on: probably those archaeologists his dad was
talking about last night before he went out to the Red Bull.
But Lewis hurried on. Digging up the past interested him – although he would never dream of
posterior in mind.
Gloria too sat herself down on the hard white sofa, her large bright blouse spreading around her like a parachute. After a
shaky start she was just getting into her stride.
‘Let’s see, what day is it today? Friday.’ She wrinkled her brow in an impressive display of thought. ‘I reckon that BMW was
up at the Old Vicarage a couple of times on Wednesday and I saw a yellow sports car going up there in the late afternoon.
And then the BMW was there yesterday in the middle of the morning. There was a little red carthere too, and after that had gone a yellow one shot out of the drive – it might have been the sports car but I didn’t see
clearly. Then later on all hell broke loose and the police started dashing up and down the lane, so I wouldn’t have been able
to hear anything going down the drive for all the commotion,’ she finished disapprovingly.
Rachel stood up, unable to trust the seating any longer. ‘Thank you, Mrs Treadly, you’ve been very helpful. We might have
to come back some time and talk to your husband as well.’
Gloria Treadly looked mildly affronted. ‘Alec’s not my husband. He’s my son.’
‘I’m sorry. But we’d still like a word with him.’
Gloria pressed her lips together and nodded warily. Rachel guessed that at some point in Gloria’s past the police had not
been welcome visitors.
‘Just one last thing,’ Rachel said casually as Steve was putting his notebook away. ‘Have you or your son ever been up to
the Old Vicarage?’
‘No. Never,’ was the sharp reply as Gloria opened the front door wide to let them out, avoiding any eye contact and anxious
to see the back of them.
When they were a few yards down the road, Rachel turned to Steve. ‘Do you think she was telling the truth when she said she’d
never been up to the Old Vicarage?’
‘No way,’ Steve answered with an unpleasant grin. ‘She was lying through her teeth – and they’re probably false and all.’
Rachel nodded. It would be worth keeping an eye on Gloria and Alec Treadly.
Lewis Hoxworthy could hear his mother in the kitchen. The clattering of plates and pans told him that she was washing up.
It would never have occurred to Lewis to offer to help: washing up was her job and he had better things to do.
He glanced at the poster above his bed, at the mounted knight in his gleaming armour riding off to some unnamedmedieval battle. Then he closed his eyes and the sights and sounds of battle swirled in his head; the clash of steel, the
panicked whinnies of the horses, the terrified cries and rough oaths of desperate men facing death or mutilation.
He could almost smell the fear. Fear was something he knew well. He had experienced it many times when they had picked on
him at school.
But not any more. Everything would change now.
He checked the pocket of his coat. He was only taking one: just a sample to whet the appetite of the man he was to meet. He
looked at his wristwatch, a sleek, black, expensive birthday present. The ferry was due to leave Derenham for Tradmouth in
fourteen minutes. It was time to go.
He crept downstairs, the soles of his soft white trainers making no sound on the brightly patterned carpet, and when he left
the house, he shut the front door softly behind him. As he trudged down the lane towards the river the old barn loomed up
on his right and he averted his eyes, trying not to look at the place. He hadn’t been near it since that day when he had made
his discovery; when he had seen that vision of hell itself.
A couple of vehicles passed him on the road: a battered yellow Mini that had seen better days and a gleaming Range Rover.
He glanced back as they came to a halt by the old barn. Something was going on: probably those archaeologists his dad was
talking about last night before he went out to the Red Bull.
But Lewis hurried on. Digging up the past interested him – although he would never dream of
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