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‘Oh – I’m sorry to bother you,’ he said, politely, removing his sunglasses for a moment. ‘I’m Oliver Harcourt – my wife and I have recently moved into Cold Hill House. I thought I would just pop round and say hello as we’re neighbours.’

‘Well, how jolly nice of you! And welcome to Cold Hill – hope you’ll be jolly happy here. Excuse my appearance, I’ve been throwing pots.’

Ollie wondered for a moment if she was bonkers, then he realized what she meant. ‘Clay? You’re a potter?’

‘Yes, I’ve got my wheel and kiln out in the back. Tell you what, I’ll make you and your wife—?’

‘Caro.’

‘Caro! I’ll make you and Caro a vase, as a moving-in present. My name’s A

‘Are you a famous potter?’

She laughed. ‘Good God, no. Most of my stuff explodes in the damned kiln anyway – but every now and then something survives! Do you like elderflower cordial?’

‘Not sure I’ve ever tried it.’

‘Got some of my own homemade in the fridge. Jolly good it is, too. Come in and have a glass and tell me a bit about yourselves. I hear you’ve a little girl. Nice to have a young couple come to the village – too many old fogeys like myself here!’

What little he saw of the interior house as he followed her through into the rear garden was as dilapidated as the exterior, although evidently good quality. There was a threadbare Persian hall carpet and a handsome grandfather clock. On one wall was a photograph of a man in naval uniform next to a frame containing a row of medals, and on the opposite wall, a couple of fine seascapes in ornate frames, and a black-and-white photograph of a modern warship. Several gaily painted vases and mugs were arranged on shelves in the kitchen, which they passed through on their way out to the unkempt rear garden. It was filled mostly with vegetables, Ollie noticed, rather than flowers, and there was a row of cloches. At the far end was a shed that looked in imminent danger of collapse, which presumably housed her pottery studio.

They sat at a small round metal table on hard chairs, under the glare of the sun, and he gratefully sipped the sweet but refreshingly cold cordial. It was several minutes of being pumped with questions by A

‘So how long have you lived here, A

‘In Cold Hill? Gosh, let me think. About thirty-five years. We bought this place as a bit of a retirement dream – my late husband and I. But you know how things work out.’ She shrugged.

‘I’m sorry – did you split up?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that.’ She looked sad, suddenly, for the first time. ‘No, Angus died in the Falklands War – his ship was hit by one of those Exocet missiles.’

‘I’m really sorry.’

She shrugged. ‘That’s how life goes sometimes, isn’t it?’ She pointed at a small bed planted with tall sunflowers. ‘They always make me smile, sunflowers!’

‘They make everyone smile,’ Ollie said.

‘Daft-looking things. Daft but happy. We all need a few daft things in our lives, don’t you think?’

‘I guess!’ He smiled and sipped some more of his drink, wondering whether it would be polite or rude to ask any more about her life. ‘This is delicious.’

She beamed. ‘Good, I’ll give you a couple of bottles to put in your fridge. I always make far too much of the bloody stuff! I give it out to several people in the village. The shop want me to go into mass production so they can stock it, but I can’t be bothered with all that!’

‘You must know most of the people here, I imagine?’ Ollie said.

‘Oh, everybody, dear. Everybody. Well, nearly everybody. Most people who come here stay – for a good long while, at any rate. So, are you all happy in the house?’

After a moment Ollie said, ‘Yes, yes, we are. Very. Well, my daughter, Jade, is a bit miffed about being separated from all her friends. We lived in the centre of Brighton previously – well, Hove, actually. Are there any young girls, around twelve, here in the village? I’d like to try and find her some friends.’



‘There’s one other family with young children, in the Old Rectory – that Victorian house at the far end. You might not have noticed it, because it’s behind gates, set back quite a long way, like your house. The Donaldsons. He’s some bigwig corporate lawyer who commutes to London, a bit aloof, but his wife is very friendly. She comes along to the informal pottery classes I hold every now and then. I’ll introduce you. I know most people around here.’

‘Thank you, I’d appreciate that. There’s a chap just thundered past in a tractor a few minutes ago, going up the hill. Who’s he?’

She gri

‘I waved at him and he just blanked me.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that – he ignores me, too. He only speaks to locals, and in his view you’re not a local unless you were born here!’ She smiled. ‘Some of the older country people have strange views. But, anyhow, you’re settling in?’

‘Yes. Sort of.’ He shrugged.

She saw his hesitation. ‘Oh?’

‘Actually,’ he went on, ‘there’s one person I’d like to ask you about. An old boy I met in the lane. He had a pipe and walking stick. He was very odd.’

She frowned. ‘A pipe and a walking stick? Doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘He’s a local, he told me.’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t think who you mean. Can you describe him a bit more?’

Ollie sipped some more cordial then put the glass down, thinking hard. ‘Yes, I would guess in his late seventies, quite wiry, with a beard and very white hair. Oh yes, he had a briar pipe in his mouth and a very gnarled stick. We had a conversation – he asked me where I was from and when I told him Brighton, he shook his head and said something that made me smile. He said he’d never been there – he didn’t like big cities!’

‘He sounds like a rambler. A bit nutty?’

‘He was definitely odd.’

She shook her head. ‘There’s really no one around here I can think of who fits that description.’

‘He’s very definitely a local. He said he used to work at our house years back.’

‘I honestly can’t think who you mean. There’s definitely no one in the village of that description. I know everyone, trust me.’

13

Monday, 14 September

‘I’m being shown a house,’ Kingsley Parkin said, totally out of the blue.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Caro said to her client.

‘A house! I’m being shown a very big country house – not far from Brighton!’

Caro’s modern office, in the centre of Brighton, had a window that looked directly down on the courtyard in front of the city’s Jubilee Library. Not that she ever had time to take in the view. From the moment she arrived in her office, in the small law firm in which she was a junior partner, before 8.00 a.m. every morning, she was full-on, reading documents, drafting and redrafting transfers and leases. At 9.00 a.m. the phone would begin to ring, incessantly, until the switchboard closed at 5.00 p.m. Some clients would email or phone her – or both – several times a day, anxious about properties they were buying or selling.

Additionally, she had meetings throughout the day both with existing clients and to take new instructions. Mostly she enjoyed face-to-face meetings, they were her favourite part of her work. She had a natural instinct to help people, and she enjoyed the challenge of pointing out pitfalls in property transactions. But with the way her days stacked up, she needed to keep her client meetings as brief as possible and to the point; there was little time to spare for small talk.