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must say as little as possible. And to begin with, we must deny any knowledge of the body. After all, how do we know whose skeleton they’ve found? They probably won’t be able to identify it – Athol wasn’t English and he had no friends in Breckham. We’ll be all right if we keep our heads.’
    â€˜Yes … that’s it.’ He reached out his hand and stroked her hair. ‘We’ll be all right as long as we stick together. We’ve proved that, haven’t we? We’ve been through hell together, but we’ve come out the other side and nothing’s going to break us up now. Is it?’
    The Aingers stood clasped together for a few moments, Gillian’s anguished eyes looking in one direction, Robin’s handsome face staring bleakly in another. And then the door opened.
    â€˜Is the kettle boiling yet? I want me cup o’tea.’

Chapter Four
    The over-spiced smell of canned oxtail soup drifted down the hall as Gillian Ainger opened the front door to Chief Inspector Quantrill. She greeted him almost gaily: ‘Hallo again. Come in, you’re just in time to join us for lunch.’
    Quantrill, exuding cold air, protested politely but was glad to take off his outdoor clothes and follow her into the kitchen. It was a large square room, more comfortable than efficient. Robin Ainger stood by the Aga, upright and handsome in dark grey suit and clerical collar, stirring the contents of a saucepan. ‘Just in time,’ he said, his voice as bright as his wife’s. ‘It’s only a scratch meal, because we both have meetings to go to, but you’re welcome to share it.’
    â€˜Very kind of you.’ Quantrill rubbed some warmth into his hands and watched Gillian Ainger as she moved about the kitchen, putting wholemeal bread and cheese and fruit on the table. She had exchanged her old tweed skirt and sweater for a woollen dress, and had applied more lipstick. Her cheeks were warm, her eyes shining. But her brightness was obviously forced; her eyelids were swollen with crying.
    She caught his glance, and smiled brilliantly. ‘Robin and I were saying, just before you arrived, that we feel almost as though we’re on holiday. This is the first time since Dad’s been living with us that we’ve had lunch without him. He loves his food, but he couldn’t wait for it today and he stuffed himself so full of cake half an hour ago that he’s asleep now.’
    Her husband brought the soup to the table in pottery mugs.
    â€˜He’ll be livid when he wakes up and finds that he’s missed a meal and we’re both out.’
    â€˜It won’t hurt him to forage for himself for once – he’s not helpless yet, thank goodness, though he sometimes likes to give that impression. Let’s make the most of having a meal without him.’
    â€˜I’m sorry to have interrupted this occasion, then,’ said Quantrill. ‘You must have little enough time to yourselves.’
    The Aingers’eyes met for a second, and then they both dismissed his apology. ‘It’s not that we’re wanting to be on our own,’ Robin assured him, laughing. ‘Good heavens, we’ve been married for sixteen years. It’s just that poor old Henry’s conversation gets us down, doesn’t it, dear? Well, yes, that’s an understatement … as you say, let’s make the most of his absence. Now, Mr Quantrill, cheddar – or would you like to tackle some very ripe Camembert? This was a gift from one of my parishioners –’
    For the next few minutes the conversation was social, with Ainger dominating it. He had a strong, musical voice, and was obviously accustomed to a captive audience. Quantrill guessed that he was working on the reassumption of some of the status he had lost when he stood sick and shivering in the snow, looking at the human remains.
    Quantrill himself felt unusually cheerful. The