'Is this where Dr Blackwell lives?' Madden could see the house at the end of an avenue of limes. He only knew it from the other side.
'Yes, sir. We've got a man inside, but Mr Boyce sent me over to watch the gates. The doctor was bothered by the press this morning, they wanted to know about the little girl.'
A mile further on he came to a signpost for Oakley, turned left and followed a road that led through a saddle in the wooded ridge down to the broad open plain he had seen the day before from the top of Upton Hanger. Another signpost directed him on to a dirt road and he drove through fields where the corn had already turned golden from the long, rainless summer.
The hamlet of Oakley comprised no more than a dozen houses grouped around the church tower. Madden brought the car to a stop beside a whitewashed building with the picture of a stage-coach and the name 'Coachman's Arms' painted in faded lettering on the wall. As he was setting the handbrake a police sergeant stepped out of the doorway of a cottage across the road. He looked at Madden inquiringly. The inspector got out of the car and produced his warrant card.
'Gates, sir. From Godalming.' The sergeant touched his helmet. 'It's this Highfield business. I've been sent over here to talk to the locals. They don't rate a village bobby.'
'You'll ask them if they've seen any strangers?'
Madden drew him into the shade of a chestnut tree growing in front of the church.
'Yes, sir. And anything out of the ordinary they might have noticed these past few days.'
'We're specially interested in any cars that might have passed through the village.'
'Shouldn't be too many of those, sir. Mind you, it was a bank holiday.'
'Also cars parked at the roadside. Perhaps even off the road where they mightn't be noticed.' Madden became aware that Gates was looking over his shoulder. His glance had turned to a flat, hard stare.
The inspector turned his head and saw a man standing in the doorway of the Coachman's Arms with his hands in his pockets watching them.
He faced the sergeant again. 'I'm going to take a walk through the fields, but I'd like a word with you before you leave. How long will you be here?'
'An hour should do it, sir. Then I've got to go to Craydon — that's a few miles away — and ask the same questions there.'
'Have you any transport?'
'Just a bicycle.'
'Wait for me here. I'll give you a lift over.'
Madden walked back the way he had come, on the dirt road, and continued along it until he found an even rougher track, which branched off through the fields towards the wooded ridge. The deep treads of tractor tyres were graven in mud that had dried and set like marble. Ditches a foot wide criss-crossed the rutted surface. At one point the track petered out entirely and the tractor marks continued across ploughed furrows until they picked up the path again.
Stackpole had been right. No car could have passed this way.
Feeling the sun like a weight on his back, Madden took off his jacket and walked steadily towards the ridge. Passing a small spinney he heard a jay call, and another answer. He was tempted to stop for a cigarette — the wood looked cool and inviting — but instead he pressed on and arrived at the foot of the ridge.
He saw that it was steeper on this flank than on the Highfield side and also less densely wooded. Standing in the shade of an oak tree he marked the upward zigzag line of a footpath as it traversed the slope above. He looked left and right along the hillside, but could see no sign of any other pathway in the vicinity.
The inspector began a careful examination of the area where he stood, scanning the ground in a gradually widening circle, and then extending his search along the base of the ridge at the woodline, looking for the tell-tale sign of a cigarette stub. He found several, but none were of the Three Castles brand.
The footpath up the slope proved equally bare of clues. The dusty surface bore the marks of blurred footprints — it looked like a well-used way — but none showed the distinctive damaged heel outline discovered in the stream bed. It took him twenty minutes to scale the ridge, and half that time to make the return journey.
He sat down then in the shade of the oak tree and took out his cigarettes. The green leaves overhead seemed to remind him of something: the image of Helen Blackwell in her patterned blouse came into his mind with a pleasant jolt. He lit a cigarette.
Far away, beyond the golden fields, a faint blur on the horizon showed where the downs began. He watched a hawk circling in the air above. Etched clear against the brilliant blue sky, it wheeled and wheeled in ever- tightening turns. Wheeled… and dropped!
Wheatstalks shivered and were still. The hunter had its prey.
Madden extinguished his cigarette. He'd yet to catch the scent of his.
In Oakley, the door of the Coachman's Arms stood open. Sergeant Gates was seated at one of the tables in the taproom. Smoke-blackened beams supported the grubby ceiling. The smell of stale beer and tobacco soured the air. The man Madden had seen standing in the doorway earlier lounged over the bar, his elbows resting on the stained surface. He was in his early thirties with black slicked-back hair and a knowing smile.
'This is Inspector Madden,' Gates said tonelessly.
'Sir, this is Mr Wellings, the landlord. I was about to question him.'
'Go ahead, Sergeant. Don't mind me.' Madden sat down.
Wellings directed his smile at the inspector. 'Still half an hour to opening time, I'm afraid. But if Sergeant Gates is prepared to turn a blind eye, I dare say I could draw you a pint.'
'No, thank you, Mr Wellings.' Madden didn't return the smile.
'We're interested in any customers you might have had over the weekend,' Gates began. 'Visitors, not locals.'
'Starting when?'
'Saturday.'
'I had the Farnham Wheelers Club through here at midday. About a dozen of them. They parked their bikes outside and came in for a drink. And there was a party of four in a motor-car. Two men and their wives, I reckon. They had the ploughman's lunch.'
'Was that all?' Gates looked up.
'No, there was another couple in the evening. Bloke on a motorbike with his girlfriend on the pillion.
Took me aside, he did, and asked me if I had a room for them. I told him I didn't run that kind of establishment. I did say he could try his luck in Tup's Spinney.' Wellings smirked.
Madden waited to be enlightened, but Gates went on: 'Sunday, then?'
'There were more. Quite a few. Four parties in cars between midday and two o'clock. Six men and four ladies, as I recall. Two of the parties were travelling together, heading for the coast. And then in the evening there was one other car with a man and his wife and their son. But all they wanted was directions.
They'd lost their way.'
'Did you see any other cars during the day? Travelling through the village, but not stopping?'
'Or motorcycles?' Madden said.
Wellings paused, frowning with exaggerated concentration.
He shook his head. 'No, I can't say that I did. But, then, I'm stuck in here during opening hours. Don't see too much of what's going on outside.'
The smile was back.
Sergeant Gates looked at Madden, who nodded.
'Thank you, Mr Wellings.' He closed his notebook.
'What did you think, sir?' he asked Madden outside.
'I thought he was lying.'
'I agree, but about what?' The sergeant wrinkled his nose. 'He's a right sow, if you'll pardon the expression. The last two landlords quit because they couldn't make the place pay. But somehow he manages to, and you have to ask yourself how.'
'After-hours drinks?'
'That, and he'll sell you a carton of fags at below market price, or so I've been told. We think he handles stolen goods, but we haven't been able to lay a finger on him thus far.'
