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a squad car to be sent out here first thing that morning, and for a second I wondered what the hell it was doing there. Then I remembered. The inside lights of the car were on, and, with automatic annoyance, I recognized a PC called Cleaver. Cleaver was slumped in the front seat, drinking out of a flask as if he had happened upon the house and had stopped to admire the view. When Cleaver saw our car, he got out and cupped his hand over his face, peering at us through the snow.
    I stared at the house rising in front of us. ‘A long time ago,’ I said, ‘Hurst might have been involved in something else. Nothing was ever proven, mind, and we had to keep it to ourselves in case anybody got wind of it.’
    â€˜Got wind of what, sir?’
    â€˜Well, it was a lot, lot worse than a dead wife.’ I paused and then said very quietly, ‘Two girls went missing.’
    â€˜What? Around here?’
    â€˜Yes,’ I said.
    Graves swung around in his seat.
    â€˜Two of them,’ I said. ‘In just two weeks and in broad daylight too.’
    â€˜Jesus,’ Graves said.
    It seemed to take a while for it to sink in, because a few seconds later Graves drew to a sudden stop: the gravel flew up in the air, and I was pitched forward in my seat.
    â€˜But you didn’t say anything about any missing girls,’ Graves said.
    I smiled. Of course Graves had an absolute right to be angry. I should have told him, but had quite deliberately decided not to. I took another long look at him, very carefully gauging his reaction. He didn’t look bored or resentful any more. No, Graves was furious. Good.
    â€˜I wanted to wait until we’d got to the house,’ I said. ‘You’ll know why when you get a better look at it. Anyway, they were both local, like I say. Names were Gail Foster and Elise Pennington.’
    â€˜Runaways?’
    â€˜No,’ I said. ‘Too young.’
    â€˜How young?’
    â€˜Gail was thirteen. Elise was even younger. Twelve.’
    â€˜And they never found them?’
    I shook my head. ‘No. Whoever did it was quick, and they didn’t leave a single trace. Did it twice and never again.’
    â€˜That’s unusual,’ Graves said thoughtfully. ‘Hurst?’
    I undid my seatbelt and took a long look up at the house before opening the car door. I didn’t answer straightaway.
    â€˜But what did Hurst have to do with it?’ Graves repeated.
    â€˜I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Tell Cleaver over there that we’re going to have a look inside. Then I’ll tell you what I think I know.’

8
    Dashwood Manor had been built in the eighteenth century, and the tiles on the roof now looked grey under the wide sweep of dark sky. Its neoclassical design was unusual around here: most of the larger manor houses were often hundreds of years older and characterized by the yellow Cotswold stone of the walls and roofs. The façade of Dashwood Manor was a very dark grey interspersed with patches of rust-coloured brown, especially near the windows of the upper floor. Leaves had piled up along the base of the stone walls on either side of the driveway, and there was an earthy smell of rotting vegetation together with the smell of smoke. Someone, somewhere, must have tried to light a bonfire despite the snow.
    Though the house was not vast, by English country-house standards, it was big enough; neat and compact and nearly symmetrical, it seemed to cower behind the guard of two enormous yew trees, which stood on either side of its grey limestone front. Dwarfed by Meon Hill, the house almost seemed to be receding towards it, as if merging with the hill’s overpowering mass.
    It cast a long, cold shadow on the gravel driveway. Hurst’s old, battered and apparently immortal Land Rover was parked at the front, which meant, as I had thought, that yesterday Hurst had simply hopped over his garden wall at the back and then climbed up