take deep breaths. Just a dream. She hadn’t fallen. Maybe out of bed, maybe that accounted for the sudden stabbing pain, but she was fine. She found the light. Sniffy looked up at her, blinking, from her place on the rug. Then she gave a lazy wag of her tail. Nothing to worry about. She’d take some more painkillers, maybe get a hot drink and go back to bed. Everything was fine.
Except Springsteen was still singing.
Somewhere in the house, music was playing. And not just any music. It was the tune that meant more to her than any other. The track she could never listen to, the one that had her switching off the car radio on the occasions it was played, because she simply couldn’t hear it without crying.
Biting her lip, Evi made her way round the bed and towards the door. Then she turned back and called to the dog. Sniffy got up reluctantly, not remotely concerned about either the phantom music or the intruder who must have broken in to put the CD in the music system.
Evi’s CD player was in the sitting room. The hallway was in darkness. She released her hold on Sniffy’s collar and the dog stayed by her side. The door to the sitting room was closed. Evi turned the handle and reached in to find the light switch.
The music stopped. The room was empty.
‘Go see,’ she whispered. Sniffy looked at her. The only possible hiding place in the room was behind the curtains covering the large front windows. The dog would know, surely, if there was anyone there. There were no lights on the music system. It made a faint twanging noise when it was switched off: she would have heard it.
Now that she thought about it, she didn’t even have the Springsteen CD.
Clutching tight to Sniffy’s collar, Evi limped across the room and pulled back the curtains. No one there. Sniffy cocked her head, as if to say,
‘I was dreaming, wasn’t I?’ said Evi. ‘There was no music, was there?’
Sniffy’s tail waved left and then right. One ear drooped, the other stayed pert.
Evi set off back again. She was halfway across the bedroom when she stopped. She knew, beyond any doubt, that someone was watching her. She turned on the spot. Curtains drawn, doors closed, she was completely alone. She’d reached the bed when she heard the voice directly behind.
‘Evi fall,’ it said.
Sunday 20 January (two days earlier)
NEXT MORNING I felt massively better. After several hours of completely dreamless sleep, whatever germs I’d been fighting off appeared to have thrown in the towel. There was certainly no sign of any surreptitiously administered illegal drugs. Evi had been right to be cautious; luckily she’d been wrong.
I’d also had an idea. Bryony might have struck the match that nearly killed her, but clear evidence that she’d bought the petrol herself would indicate intent like nothing else. Lighting a match under the influence of drugs was one thing. Getting yourself to a petrol station, filling a can and paying for it was another entirely. I doubled-checked the CID report into the investigation following Bryony’s suicide attempt. As I remembered, the receipt for a can of petrol had been found in Bryony’s desk. I found the name of the petrol station and the date and time of the can’s purchase. Then I got dressed and went out.
The snow had put a lot of motorists off leaving their houses and the garage on Station Road was quiet. A thin trickle of people coming in to buy milk and papers was exactly what I needed. Enough custom to be distracting, but not so much the counter staff would feel stressed. A young Asian man behind the counter watched me walk the length of the shop. I gave him an appraising look, figuring he was just about good-looking enough to be taken in by it. Then I grinned. He grinned back.
‘Hi,’ I said, when I was close enough to lean on the counter and pout. ‘I’m Laura. I’ve come to look at your CCTV footage.’
His smile faded just perceptibly. ‘Sorry?’ he said.
I dug into my pocket and pulled out my university ID. ‘No, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Here are my credentials. So you know I’m not a villain or anything. I’m doing a research project into how petrol stations are taking over from corner shops. I arranged with Mr Watson to pop in for ten minutes this morning. Just to do a random viewing of your recorded CCTV footage.’
‘First I’ve heard of it,’ he said, bristling.
‘Really?’ I said. ‘You know, I’m not surprised. I’ve had ten places to visit this week and in over half the message didn’t get through. Trouble is, I have to submit the results tomorrow. Still, not your fault. Bye.’
I was almost at the door and thinking it hadn’t worked when he called me back.
‘Do you just need to look at some stored footage?’ he asked me.
I nodded. ‘I’ve got some random dates and times that our software programme generated. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.’
Forty minutes later I left. I’d watched the footage twice to be sure. Bryony had not been in the petrol station anywhere close to the time the petrol can had been bought. The only possible candidate for the purchase had been a tall bloke, who’d kept his face hidden beneath a hooded sweatshirt the whole time he’d been in the shop. He’d also kept whatever he was buying very close to his chest – literally – but when he turned to leave the camera got a pretty good shot at the thing he was clutching. Looked a lot like a petrol can to me.
By three o’clock I was back at Nick’s house, standing outside the falcons’ shed, having some sort of harness fitted round my shoulders.
‘You’re sure you’re OK to do this?’ he asked me for the third time. ‘I can take the second lot out later while you’re catching up on the
‘I don’t believe your house even has electricity,’ I said.
Nick lowered a square wooden frame over my shoulders and fastened it to the harness. On it, I’d been informed, I would carry three falcons. Nick would do the same. He disappeared into the shed and brought out a bird with a medieval-style leather hood covering its head. It settled on the wooden frame in front of me, its talons tied with thin leather strips. It ruffled its feathers in response to the cold but otherwise seemed completely at ease.
Ten minutes later, accompanied by the two pointers, Nick and I were striding down the snow-covered farm track further into the Cambridgeshire countryside.
‘Why are they hooded?’ I asked, as we climbed a stile into a ploughed field. Nick leaped over it as though he didn’t have a live cargo slung around his waist. I went slowly, terrified of falling into a snowdrift and hurting one of the tiny creatures.
‘Stops them getting distracted,’ he said. ‘If they weren’t blind, the minute we see any game they’d all want to be off. It’d be chaos.’
‘So they take it in turns?’ I asked. ‘What happens, do we let them off and see what they can find? How long do they get before we give up and let another one have a go? And what stops them flying away and not coming back?’
‘Lot of questions at once,’ he replied. ‘It’s not uncommon for birds to be lost. You just have to give them enough of an incentive to come back. This lot have been trained since they were infants to associate me with food. That’s why they come back, usually. As far as the hunting is concerned, they don’t find the game, they just catch it.’
‘So who finds it?’ I asked.
We passed through a gate and Nick closed it behind me.
‘We’re on Jim Notley’s land now and he’s happy for me to hunt here, so we can start,’ he said. ‘OK, this is how it works. The dogs find the game. Watch them now.’
At a signal from Nick, Merry and Pippin ran on ahead and started sniffing around. Pippin disappeared from sight into a drift, occasionally sending up fountains of snow. Merry stayed where we could see him, poking his nose into rabbit holes, beneath brambles, under logs.
