unexpected strokes or heart attacks. Willie's fingers had known that too, had felt it coming, whatever it was.
'Soon, huh?' Moira said. Joel Beard said, 'Here? In my… in the churchyard?'
He and the policeman were standing in the church porch, the wet afternoon draining into an early dusk.
'It's a possibility, vicar,' Ashton said, it's something we have to check out, and the sooner we do it the less likely we are to attract attention. You haven't had any Press here, I take it?'
Joel Beard shook his curls. 'Why would they come here?'
'They would if they knew what we were proposing to do, sir, and these things have a habit of leaking out. So… I don't know if you've had experience of an exhumation before, but what it involves is screening off the immediate area and confining it to as few people as are absolutely necessary. You can be there yourself if you like, but I assure you we'll be very tidy. Now, the lights…'
'Lights? You mean you want to do it tonight? I thought these things took…'
'Not much more than a phone call involved these days, sir. We're under quite a lot of pressure to find this thing, as you can imagine.'
Joel said, 'It all seems so unlikely.'
It didn't, though. It connected all too plausibly. 'Inspector, how do you suppose that this was actually done? Without anything being seen?'
'This was what I was planning to ask you. Country churchyard, even at night somebody sees something, don't they? Perhaps they saw and they kept quiet, mmm? When was the grave dug?'
'I don't know,' Joel said, 'I imagine the day before. The Rector was in charge then, but he… he's in hospital. He's had a heart attack.'
'That's unfortunate,' Ashton said. 'No, you see, what's been suggested to us is that the grave was dug deeper than is normal and then the body was brought here and covered with earth and then the funeral went ahead as normal, with Mr Castle's coffin laid on top of the bog body.'
'That's preposterous,' Joel said.
It wasn't, though. Somehow there was a link here with the old woman and the bottle she'd been attempting to secrete into Castle's coffin.
'You see, our information is that there was a request from some people here for the body to be returned to the bog. And when it seemed unlikely that was going to happen, somebody decided to pinch it. Would you know anything about that, Mr Beard?'
'Good Lord,' Joel said. 'No, I certainly wouldn't. You know, I think, on the whole, that I should like to be there when you… do it.'
'I thought you might,' said Ashton. Moira felt weary and ineffectual, and she had a headache. Walking, head down, into the Rectory drive, she was speared by lights.
Cathy parked her father's VW Golf crookedly in front of the garage.
'How is he?'
'He's OK,' Cathy said quickly, unlocking the front door. 'I'm sorry, I didn't leave you a key, did I? I'm hopelessly inefficient.'
About her father – Moira saw she was playing this down.
Cathy unloaded plastic carrier bags and her long university scarf on to the kitchen worktops, all stark, white butcher's-shop tiling. 'I went into Manchester afterwards. Had to get away somewhere crowded, to think. Got loads of cold things from Marks and Sparks. You don't mind, do you? Pop sees to the cooking as a rule. I'm a disaster in the kitchen. Did you get to see Ma Wagstaff?'
'Yes,' said Moira.
'Did she talk to you?'
'No,' Moira said. 'I'm afraid not.'
Then Cathy discovered the sugar bowl was empty and went into the pantry, the little room under the stairs, for a new bag.
'Oh,' she said. 'The little scumbags.'
'Huh?'
Moira peered over her shoulder. Cathy was holding a brick. There was a small window in the pantry and the brick had clearly been used to smash it.
'Little bastards,' Cathy said. 'You know, this never used to happen. I know people say that all the time… 'Oh, things were different when I was a kid and you could get in the cinema for sixpence. None of this vandalism in those days, kids had respect.' But it's true. Even – what? – six months ago it was true in Bridelow. They did have respect.'
Cathy put the brick down on the floor. Now there's graffiti in the toilets at the parish hall. A week or two ago somebody had a… defecated on the seat inside the lych-gate. Can you believe that? In Bridelow?'
'You better check the house,' Moira said.
Cathy had a cursory look around the downstairs rooms. Everything seemed to be in order. 'Little sods. Everybody knows Pop's in hospital.' She looked at Moira. 'Oh. Yes. That's another thing. They're sending him to a convalescent home.'
'I thought it wasn't too serious.'
'Coronary,' Cathy said despondently. 'That's serious. They're sending him – committing him is how he sees it – to this Church nursing home down in Shropshire. At least a month. Which means Joel's got to move in here.'
'With you?'
'You're joking,' Cathy said. 'Even if I could bear to have him in the house, he's much too proper to countenance it. No, I'll go back to Oxford. Come up at weekends and see Pop. I mean, I expect you'll be wanting to be off, won't you?'
Moira said. 'Look, you got any cardboard in the garage or somewhere? We can block up this window.'
'Never mind, Alf Becket'll fix it tomorrow.'
Moira said, 'Cathy… um… something bad's happened.' Because of the Post Office's strict security regulations, Milly Gill's front door had two steel bolts and a fancy double lock, which she'd always thought was damn stupid in a place like Bridelow. Tonight, though, first time ever, Milly was glad to turn the key twice over and slide the big bolts. Even though she knew there were some things no locks could keep out.
The urgent banging on the door shook her. Willie Wagstaff never used the knocker. Willie would beat out his own personal tattoo with his fingers.
'Oh, Mother,' Milly Gill said, clutching her arms over her breast. 'I'm not going to be up to this.'
It was an hour since the doctor'd had Ma taken away, Across the Moss. He'd said there might have to be a post-mortem, probably no more than a formality, it was most likely natural causes. But if there was reason to think she might have fallen accidentally, there'd have to be a public inquest.
Pity Bridelow didn't have a resident doctor any more; this was an Asian gentleman from Across the Moss who couldn't be expected to understand. Milly had pleaded with him not to let them cut Ma up if there was any way it could be avoided. It was important that all of Ma's bits should be returned to Bridelow for burial, not tissue and stuff left in some hospital waste bin.
More crashing at the from door.
'Who is it?' Milly shouted. Didn't recognize her own voice, it sounded that feeble.
'It's me. Alf.'
Milly tut-tutted at her cowardice. Why she should think there might be something abroad because something that happened to hundreds of pensioners every week had happened to Ma Wagstaff…
She undid the bolts and turned the key twice. 'I'm sorry, Alf. Not like me to be nervy.'
But, if anything, Alf Beckett looked worse than she felt. There was a streetlamp outside the door, a converted gas lamp with an ice-blue bulb. Its light made Alf look quite ill, eyes like keyholes.
'Milly,' he said. 'We're in t'shit.'
'Come in, luv,' Milly said. Her responsibility now, this sort of problem, keeping up community morale. She sat Alf down on the floral settee. He was ashen.
'Now then, come on,' Milly said, it's all right. We'll get over this. We've had bad patches before.'
'No…' Alf shook his head. 'Listen…'
'It's my fault,' Milly said. 'We always left too much to poor old Ma. We thought she were immortal. Thought we could sit back, everybody getting on with their lives, foreign holidays, videos. Didn't seem to matter like it used
