himself off in the heavy darkness. ‘It might be worth looking into, just
out of interest, if nothing else. We’ll come back again with some proper torches so we can see what we’re dealing with.’
‘Good idea,’ Wesley said, relieved to be going at last.
Neil lit his last match and held it up. In the brief flare of light Wesley thought he could make out something that looked
like graffiti gouged into the stone behind the effigies.
Neil had seen it too. ‘Bloody vandals get everywhere,’ he muttered before stepping out into the church and shutting the tower
door firmly behind him.
The woman stood near the fountain at the entrance to the memorial gardens and stared across the road at the police station.
She was a lady of a certain age, with the svelte look of one who had the money to take good care of herself. She wore a simple
cream wool coat with a neatly tied silk scarfat the throat and her blonde hair had been expertly cut into a neat bob. Every so often she raised her left hand to push an
imaginary strand of hair off her face. It was a nervous reaction … but then Janet Powell felt nervous.
Janet had never had anything to do with the police before, apart from attending a neighbourhood watch meeting a week after
her return to England. Even then she had never actually talked with the plump and amiable community constable who was obliged
to be present at such functions. Her only knowledge of the police was from the television … and from what she had been told.
And it was the latter source of information which made her fearful now. She felt bad about what she had failed to do all those
years ago – her sin of omission – even though that omission hadn’t been her fault. But at least she could put things right
now.
Posting the letter had seemed like a good idea at the time … rectifying matters while staying out of it herself. But the moment
it had disappeared into the letterbox she realised that the action had been foolish and cowardly. The police needed statements,
evidence, not just unverifiable hints. If she was to make amends for her silence, she had to face them.
And as for the most awkward question of all, why she hadn’t come forward at the time, she would simply tell the truth: until
a month ago she knew nothing of Chris Hobson’s conviction. By the time he was arrested she’d already been in the States with
her husband for several weeks, all contact with Hobson severed: he hadn’t even known which city she was in – she’d thought
it was best that way.
For twelve not very happy years she’d been living in New York. But then the years before that hadn’t been particularly happy
either … perhaps that was why she had thrown caution to the wind and taken up with Chris Hobson. Chris had been a member of
what her soon-to-beex-husband habitually called ‘the criminal classes’: he had been the ultimate defiance.
Her mouth was dry and her heart pounded in her chest as she walked across the road. A van narrowly avoided her and the driver
wound the window down and shouted something that she couldn’t quite hear, but she was sure it was obscene. Oblivious to everything
but her coming ordeal, Janet Powell pushed at the swing-door of Tradmouth police station and it opened smoothly to admit her.
A large policeman with a short, neat beard stood behind the reception desk. He had three stripes on his arm and looked the
gentle-giant type; not the sort of man to subject her to hours of fierce interrogation. But then what happened to her in that
building probably wouldn’t be up to him. She thought of the tales Chris Hobson had told her about the police and suddenly
lost her nerve. She was about to turn and leave when the large sergeant addressed her.
‘Can I help you, madam?’
His voice was warm with a distinct Devon accent and his expression was sympathetic. She swallowed hard. It was too late to
back out now.
‘Er … is Inspector Norbert …
out of interest, if nothing else. We’ll come back again with some proper torches so we can see what we’re dealing with.’
‘Good idea,’ Wesley said, relieved to be going at last.
Neil lit his last match and held it up. In the brief flare of light Wesley thought he could make out something that looked
like graffiti gouged into the stone behind the effigies.
Neil had seen it too. ‘Bloody vandals get everywhere,’ he muttered before stepping out into the church and shutting the tower
door firmly behind him.
The woman stood near the fountain at the entrance to the memorial gardens and stared across the road at the police station.
She was a lady of a certain age, with the svelte look of one who had the money to take good care of herself. She wore a simple
cream wool coat with a neatly tied silk scarfat the throat and her blonde hair had been expertly cut into a neat bob. Every so often she raised her left hand to push an
imaginary strand of hair off her face. It was a nervous reaction … but then Janet Powell felt nervous.
Janet had never had anything to do with the police before, apart from attending a neighbourhood watch meeting a week after
her return to England. Even then she had never actually talked with the plump and amiable community constable who was obliged
to be present at such functions. Her only knowledge of the police was from the television … and from what she had been told.
And it was the latter source of information which made her fearful now. She felt bad about what she had failed to do all those
years ago – her sin of omission – even though that omission hadn’t been her fault. But at least she could put things right
now.
Posting the letter had seemed like a good idea at the time … rectifying matters while staying out of it herself. But the moment
it had disappeared into the letterbox she realised that the action had been foolish and cowardly. The police needed statements,
evidence, not just unverifiable hints. If she was to make amends for her silence, she had to face them.
And as for the most awkward question of all, why she hadn’t come forward at the time, she would simply tell the truth: until
a month ago she knew nothing of Chris Hobson’s conviction. By the time he was arrested she’d already been in the States with
her husband for several weeks, all contact with Hobson severed: he hadn’t even known which city she was in – she’d thought
it was best that way.
For twelve not very happy years she’d been living in New York. But then the years before that hadn’t been particularly happy
either … perhaps that was why she had thrown caution to the wind and taken up with Chris Hobson. Chris had been a member of
what her soon-to-beex-husband habitually called ‘the criminal classes’: he had been the ultimate defiance.
Her mouth was dry and her heart pounded in her chest as she walked across the road. A van narrowly avoided her and the driver
wound the window down and shouted something that she couldn’t quite hear, but she was sure it was obscene. Oblivious to everything
but her coming ordeal, Janet Powell pushed at the swing-door of Tradmouth police station and it opened smoothly to admit her.
A large policeman with a short, neat beard stood behind the reception desk. He had three stripes on his arm and looked the
gentle-giant type; not the sort of man to subject her to hours of fierce interrogation. But then what happened to her in that
building probably wouldn’t be up to him. She thought of the tales Chris Hobson had told her about the police and suddenly
lost her nerve. She was about to turn and leave when the large sergeant addressed her.
‘Can I help you, madam?’
His voice was warm with a distinct Devon accent and his expression was sympathetic. She swallowed hard. It was too late to
back out now.
‘Er … is Inspector Norbert …
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