For after letting her get a good head start, Duncan started out after her. She might not become his willing source of information, but he was convinced that wherever she went, a story was bound to follow. And he wouldn’t rest until he’d found out what she and the old vulture were up to in the village of Middle Fenton. Most of his fellow hacks thought that the Iris Carmody case was all but done and dusted, with the suicide verdict of the dead girl’s boyfriend and the coppers all but vacating the village. But Duncan’s nose told him differently, and he was willing to spend some time and effort in proving his hunches right. And he’d be very surprised indeed if little Miss pure-of-heart didn’t lead him to a very nice and exclusive scoop that would warm the cockles of even his editor’s arctic heart.
For the next few days at least, he was going to keep close. And if he could also think up a way of getting back in her good books … well, even better! He wasn’t prepared to admit that Trudy Loveday was actually managing to get under his skin, mind, but there was no denying that she challenged, annoyed, intrigued and aggravated him in a way that no other woman had yet done.
Angela Baines kept casting looks of pleasure and satisfaction at her daughter over her morning bowl of cornflakes, but her relief was tempered by a persistent sense of unease.
When Janet had finally come home last evening, apologetic and intent on appeasing her with a tale of being waylaid by an old school friend in dire need of succour and a sympathetic ear, she’d been so relieved that she hadn’t really questioned it much.
Now, seeing the dark circles under her daughter’s eyes, and the quick, slightly jerky movements of her hands as she pushed her cereal around her bowl without actually eating any of it, she felt yet more twinges of alarm.
‘Did you sleep all right, love?’ Angela began softly.
‘Yes, fine Mum,’ Janet lied; her voice distracted and almost mechanical.
‘Only you look rather pale.’
Janet forced a smile and reached for her glass of orange juice, taking the tiniest sip. She thought she might choke if she had to actually swallow anything of real substance. ‘I shouldn’t worry, I feel perfectly well.’
‘Are you going to volunteer at the shop today then?’ Angela persisted.
‘Yes, I think so,’ Janet again lied, her thoughts chasing each other around in her head like demented hamsters on a wheel. She wished, oh how she wished, that her mother would just stop talking …
She had spent the night thinking and thinking and thinking and still not arriving at any definite plan of action. Now she felt almost unreal, as if, instead of not catching a wink of sleep, she had fallen asleep after all, and was now in the midst of a dream. Nothing felt quite real, somehow, and yet she knew that it was.
And with the arrival of the dawn light, she knew she had to face the fact that, now, her life had changed irrevocably, and nothing she could do or say would allow her to go back to how things had been. She could only go forward and try to fight for her future.
For some time now, she’d felt a growing discontent with her life – the sameness of it all, the constant surveillance of her mother, the limited choices, this nosy village, the sheer boredom of her existence. How she’d envied and then hated Iris, because she was probably going to make her own silly dreams of a life as an actress or model in London come true. And now Iris was dead. Bright, full-of-life, clever, cruel, beautiful Iris. Soon they would release her body and she would be buried in the churchyard and the years would eventually pass and she’d slowly cease to matter to anyone except her parents.
And here she was, Janet Baines, feeling very much alive, scared witless and yet just a little excited too, on the edge of a precipice, trying to decide at which point to step off. Because she was going to have to do something.
Was she in actual danger?
That thought had been one of many that she had chased around in her head, over and over, during the night.
And even if she was, could she let it stop her from getting what she’d always wanted …?
‘I think it might rain,’ Angela Baines said, watching her daughter’s face nervously. ‘I think you should stay away from the city today, and keep close to home. No point getting caught in a shower, Janet.’
Janet didn’t reply. For once, she hadn’t heard her mother’s voice, and her mother knew it.
Chapter 28
Trudy and Clement had no trouble finding Rhys Owen at home, in a rather nice semi-detached villa in Osney Mead, although it took him rather a long while to answer the summons of his doorbell.
He wasn’t a big man, but he somehow had a big presence, even when he was clearly hung-over. He had a lot of shaggy, curly hair of an indeterminate shade of brown, a pair of puppy-dog, big, brown eyes, and an oddly feminine mouth set in a jaw that reminded Trudy of Desperate Dan in the Beano.
‘Hullo, what brings a lovely thing like you to a man’s door then?’ were his first words, aimed, (Clement was relieved to note) at Trudy. Had his eyes not been so blood-shot as he looked at her, she might even have felt flattered.
His sing-song accent was noticeably Welsh, but Clement had the feeling that he’d probably lived in England for longer than he’d lived in Wales.
‘Mr Owen? Rhys Owen?’ Clement said crisply.
With some reluctance, the man turned to regard Clement Ryder. He blinked once or twice as he did so, for he had to look some way up. His relatively short stature meant
