from any of those plastic badges with funny slogans on them.”
“That’s true,” said Fell.
“You must be hungry.” Maggie headed for the kitchen, calling over her shoulder. “I’ll make us something to eat.”
“No. Wait!”
Maggie went back into the sitting room. “I feel like getting out of here.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“It’s a bit late, but there’s that place on the motorway we went to before’. ‘That’ll do’. ‘Right. Let’s see if we can set the burglar alarm.”
¦
Half an hour later, they were sitting eating chicken and chips. “I remember,” said Fell, “when chicken used to taste quite different. We always had chicken for Christmas when I was very small. Roast chicken. And it had such a flavour.”
“It’s all the junk and hormones they put in things these days. It’s not very nice, is it? But it’s great to get out. And there’s air-conditioning here.”
“I keep wondering if we should get air-conditioning,” said Fell.
“Waste of money. We won’t see another summer like this for a long time.” Maggie sighed. “Dandelion summer. Are you feeling better, by the way?”
“Why do you ask?”
“When you came back this morning, you looked shattered.”
“Oh, it’s just because all this is getting on top of me,” lied Fell. He found he could not conjure up a picture of Melissa. He was so badly hurt that his mind shrank away from any image of her.
“So do we go on?” asked Maggie.
“With the investigation? Yes, I think we should.” Anything to keep his mind off health shops and Melissa, thought Fell.
“Where should we start?”
“Johnny Tremp, I think. We’ll try that address in the phone book tomorrow.”
¦
As they set out the following morning, the news reader on Maggie’s car radio was warning of water shortages. There was a hosepipe ban. There had been more fires on the Malvern Hills. In the village of Broadway in Gloucestershire, a famous beauty spot, the river had sunk to an all-time low. Meanwhile Scotland was suffering from flash floods and torrential rain. “Isn’t it amazing,” said Maggie, “that such a small country as Britain should have such diverse climates? I wish they’d send some of their water down here.”
“Turn left here,” said Fell, who was studying a street map. “Let me see. Right. That’s it. Go slowly. Yes, that’s the place right here.”
It was a rundown-looking council house among other depressing-looking houses. In most of the housing estates in Buss, the residents had bought their houses, put into new windows, painted the outside, planted pretty gardens, but here, there was a sad feeling of neglect all around.
Fell and Maggie walked up to a chipped and scarred door. Fell knocked. After a few moments, the door was opened by a tired-looking girl. She was holding a baby on her hip and two toddlers were hanging on to her skirts. Her black hair was cropped close to her head and her figure looked too thin and emaciated to have borne three children.
“We’re looking for Mr. Tremp,” he said.
“He don’t live here no more, not for a couple of years.”
“This address is still in the phone book.”
“I ain’t got a phone and that’s his business.”
“So do you know where I can find him?” asked Fell patiently.
“Heard he’d gone to some village over in Gloucestershire. Funny name. Somethink about hedges.”
“Had he any friends in this street, any family who might know where he’s gone?”
From the interior of the house, the opening music of a soap could be heard.
“Gotta go,” she said quickly and slammed the door on them.
“So what do we do now?” asked Maggie as they walked to the car.
“Try next door.”
This time it was a surly man smelling of stale beer. Fell explained they were looking for Johnny Tremp. “Blessed if I know,” said the man. “He kept hisself to hisself, know what I mean?”
“We heard he’d gone to some village, something like Hedges.”
“That’d be Bramley-in-the-Hedges, t’other side o’ More-ton.” His eyes sharpened. “You the social?” he asked truculently. “Well, let me tell you, I never laid a hand on those kids.”
“No, we’re not from the social security.”
“So who are you?”
Fell explained about the robbery.
“Oh, you’re that pair. Saw a bit about you in the
“No, no,” said Fell quickly. “Still just asking questions.”
“Doubt if he had anything to do with it, mate. Had a dirty old car on its last legs. Never did anything to the house.”
“Thanks,” said Fell, taking Maggie’s hand and backing away. Maggie could feel something like an electric shock running up her arm and was relieved when Fell released her hand at the garden gate.
“Do you know where this Bramley-in-the-Hedges is?” asked Maggie, once they were in the car.
“Wait; I’ve got the road map here.” Fell always had lots of maps. He loved maps. He used to pore over them when his parents were alive: all those roads leading away from Buss.
“I’ve found it,” he said. “Go to Moreton-in-Marsh and make a right after the bridge and I’ll direct you from there.”
¦
Bramley-in-the Hedges turned out to be one of those long villages mainly consisting of one main street, full of winding bends to enrage the motorist. Maggie suggested they stop at the village’s general store in the centre and ask for directions. The shop, like all converted village shops, was a sort of tiny supermarket. There were several people chatting and shopping.
They went up to the counter. “Can I help you?” asked the woman behind the counter. She was round and plump with a friendly, cheerful face. Maggie smiled. “Can you direct us to where Mr. Johnny Tremp lives?”
The woman’s eyes hardened. Behind them in the shop was a sudden silence.
“Are you friends of his?”
“Not exactly,” began Fell. “You see…”
“Then don’t come in here asking for people’s private address. If you don’t want to buy anything, get along with you.”
They made their way out, aware of hostile stares from the shoppers. Outside, Fell ran his long fingers through his thick grey hair in bewilderment. “What was all that about?”
“I don’t know,” said Maggie. “We’ll take a look around. It seems a pretty small village. Can you remember what he looks like?”
“It was years ago. He was a small man with black hair. Oh, I remember, he had very thick lips. They used to fascinate and repel me.”
“Not much to go on. But let’s try to find him anyway.”
“There’s a phone box,” said Fell. “We could try to get his number from directory enquiries.”
“Good idea.”
It was one of those old-fashioned red telephone boxes, hot and stifling on the inside. Fell dialled 192 and asked for the phone number of a Mr. J. Tremp, Bramley-in-the-Hedges.
“That number is ex-directory,” said the operator.
For the next hour, they walked up one side of the main street and down the other and then up several lanes
