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which was pink with cold. Her knee-length boots were shabby and she walked with her chin tucked into the yellowed fleece of a long-service sheepskin coat.
    Then, conscious of his gaze, she raised her head and looked at him. Her cheeks coloured suddenly, redder than her nose, but she said nothing more.
    â€˜Whose was the car, Mrs Ainger?’ he asked her gently. ‘We’ve been making enquiries, you see, and I know that a red Datsun car with an Australia sticker in the rear window was often parked in St Botolph’s Street last summer. But when your husband and I were talking about Athol Garrity’s comings and goings, he didn’t mention it.’
    She lifted her chin. ‘There was no reason why he should. The car wasn’t Athol’s. It belonged to another Australian, a friend of mine, Janey Rolph. She didn’t like Athol, and as far as I know she never even gave him a ride. If my husband didn’t mention the car, that was why. It didn’t seem relevant.’
    â€˜I’d have been glad if he’d told me about the girl, though. As I said, we need to talk to someone who knew Garrity.’
    â€˜But Janey’s no longer in this country. That would be why Robin didn’t tell you about her. She was doing a post-graduate course at the university, at Yarchester. She’d finished her thesis, and she left the country at the end of July.’
    â€˜That doesn’t prevent us from having her questioned, if we need to. We can get her home address from the university.’
    Gillian Ainger gave him a startled look, as though that possibility had never occurred to her. Then she said, ‘But Janey wasn’t going back to Australia. She was moving on to the United States.’
    â€˜Do you know where she is now?’
    â€˜No. No, I haven’t heard from her since she left.’
    Her chin was tucked into the collar of her coat again, but Quantrill could see a tightening of the muscles at the side of her jaw.
    â€˜What was Janey Rolph’s relationship with Garrity?’ he asked.
    â€˜They originated from the same small town, somewhere near Brisbane. Athol looked her up, in Yarchester, when he came to this country, and scrounged a bed space in her room.’
    â€˜Were they lovers?’
    â€˜Good heavens no! I told you, Janey didn’t like him. She felt a kind of home-town obligation to him, that’s all.’
    â€˜Tell me about her?’ Quantrill suggested.
    She was obviously reluctant to do so. ‘There’s not a great deal to tell. We met by chance last spring, and I invited her to visit us. She came quite often after that. She was twenty-two, and homesick, and I enjoyed her company.’ She looked as though she was about to add something, then decided against it.
    â€˜I heard that she stayed with you for most of July.’
    Gillian’s head came round with a jerk. She reddened again, but her voice stayed level. ‘Yes, she did. I imagine that was why Athol came here. He said that he was interested in brass-rubbing, but I think that he’d lost the roof over his head when Janey moved out of her room, and he was really looking for somewhere to pitch his tent.’
    â€˜And did they spend much time together while they were both in Breckham?’
    â€˜Virtually none. Janey avoided him whenever she could. She spent her time with us, finishing her thesis. Goodness knows what Athol did – he came and went as he pleased, and we rarely saw him or knew whether he was still in Breckham. Or cared, quite frankly. He was probably out drinking most of the time.’
    Their slow walk through the remains of the snow had carried them along the length of the old churchyard, and the walled Rectory garden. They had reached the gate to the drive and Gillian Ainger stood fidgeting with the latch, obviously anxious to go indoors and get on with her busy life.
    â€˜You say that Janey Rolph left the country at the end of July. When,