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absently munched through two of the peanut butter cookies which had come with the tea. ‘Nothing new,’ she said, closing the file.
    Neither said anything more for a moment and then, as if continuing that previous thought of his own, she said casually, ‘The promotion board’s been fixed for next month.’
    He breathed a silent, selfish and entirely unworthy wish that she might not be successful, then cancelled it. It wasn’t possible she wouldn’t be, anyway. He, and everyone else, would just have to get used to not seeing her energetic, sparky presence about the place. He’d miss her quick intuition and her capacity for unquestioning hard slog when it was necessary – even her sometimes too blunt outspokenness. On a more frivolous note, attractive faces and shining bronze hair were thin on the ground in CID – and there was no one else who could deal with Farrar at his most obnoxious, though Farrar was, if anyone dared hope, becoming less of a pain. At least treading more circumspectly since his long-awaited appointment to acting sergeant.
    God, what was he thinking of? He’d always known Abigail wouldn’t be with him for ever – she was university-educated, a high-flyer on her way up. He’d been lucky that she’d stayed here so long, he supposed – without flattering himself that it was due to the attractions of the Lavenstock Division. Or even his charisma as a boss. Part of the reason why she’d stayed was because promotion would almost certainly mean a move away from the area, and that would mean a move away from that journalist, the editor of the local newspaper. Which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, in Mayo’s admittedly jaundiced opinion.
    However, though her own ambitions were paramount, he, Ben Appleyard, probably was a factor in Abigail’s decision to apply for promotion. Mayo suspected a certain conflict of interest had arisen between them over the reportage of the Fermanagh murder. Actually, he knew it had. Alex, who was close friends with Abigail, had told him there was a coolness between Ben and Abigail lately, and she was certain that was the reason. Left to himself, Mayo might never even have thought of it, but when it
was pointed out to him, he couldn’t help noticing certain signs that confirmed it.
    Then, coming very opportunely, a vacancy had arisen for a detective chief inspector in the next Division, in Hurstfield, which wasn’t more than a spit and a jump away. And since Detective Superintendent Glenda (‘Flossie’) Nightingale had retired, there’d been nothing to stop Abigail applying for the job. Mayo couldn’t visualise any way she would ever have worked voluntarily again under Nightingale, after having been compelled to do so when the woman had been seconded here a couple of years ago. As it was, now, she wouldn’t need to. There was nothing to stop her getting the promotion, and therefore the job, he was convinced. And so, evidently, was she. Like the old toothpaste ad, she had that ring of confidence about her. She was going to need all her not inconsiderable powers of push, but when had that ever stopped Abigail from doing anything?
    ‘Good luck,’ he said and yes, he really did mean it.
    ‘Thanks.’ She looked radiant. ‘Maybe it was tempting fate, but I stopped and looked in Tixall’s Estate Agents in Sheep Street on the way here this morning. My God, you should see what houses round here are fetching!’
    ‘So now’s the time to sell.’
    ‘Looks like that, but I don’t know if I could bear to – I’ve put my soul into that house.’ She smiled ironically, though it was near the truth. She’d bought her cottage for a song, against all advice, when it was a near ruin, and she’d never regretted putting all her spare money into having it gradually repaired and restored. She’d had to make do with scouring markets and car boot sales for furnishings, but she’d had great fun learning how to do them up. It was a long way from perfect yet, but it was