In truth, I could have easily parked my Jaguar at the library, and I was pretty sure from its name that parking in Willow Close wouldn't be a problem, either. I probably hadn't needed to ask Isabella to drive me, but it felt more like an adventure with someone else to share it.
Willow Close, when we finally found it, was deep in a housing estate off the Salisbury Road in the southwestern corner of the town. There were twenty or so houses in the close, all little detached boxes with neat open-plan front gardens, each one indistinguishable from those recently built in Lambourn. I feared for the individual character of villages and towns with so many identical little homes springing up all over the countryside.
"Which number?" Isabella said.
"I've no idea," I said again.
"What are we looking for?" she asked patiently.
"I've no idea of that either."
"Useful." She was smiling. "Then you start at one end and I'll start at the other."
"Doing what?" I asked.
"Asking if anyone has any idea why we're here."
"Someone threw a brick through the window of one of these houses, and I would like to know why."
"Any particular brick?" she asked sarcastically.
"OK, OK," I said. "I know it sounds odd, but that's why we're here. I'd like to talk to the person whose window was smashed."
"Why?" she asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer. "What is this all about?"
It was a good question. Coming to Hungerford had probably been a wild-goose chase anyway. I didn't particularly want to tell Isabella about Roderick Ward, mostly because I had absolutely no intention of explaining anything to her about my mother's tax situation.
"The young man who's been accused of throwing the brick is a soldier in my platoon," I lied. "It's an officer's job to look after his troops, and I promised him I would investigate. That's all."
She seemed satisfied, if a little uninterested. "And do you have a name for the person whose window was broken?"
"No."
"And no address," she said.
"No," I agreed, "but it was reported in the local newspaper as having happened in Willow Close, Hungerford."
"Right, then," she said decisively. "Let's go and ask someone."
We climbed out of the car.
"Let's start at number sixteen," I said, pointing to one of the houses. "I saw the net curtains in the front room twitch when we arrived. Perhaps they keep an eye on everything that goes on here."
I'm not buying," an elderly woman shouted through the door of number sixteen. "I never buy from door-to-door salesmen."
"We're not selling," I shouted back through the wood. "We'd just like to ask you some questions."
"I don't want any religion, either," the woman shouted again. "Go away."
"Do you remember someone throwing a brick through one of your neighbors' windows?" I asked her.
"What?" she said.
I repeated the question with more volume.
"That wasn't one of my neighbors," she said with certainty. "That was down the end of the close."
"Which house?" I asked her, still through the closed door.
"Down the end," she repeated.
"I know," I said, "but which house?"
"George Sutton's house."
"Which number?" I asked.
"I don't know numbers," she said. "Now go away."
I noted that there was a Neighborhood Watch sticker on the frosted glass next to the door, and I didn't really want her calling the police.
"Come on, let's go," I said to Isabella. "Thank you," I called loudly through the door at the woman. "Have a nice day."
We went back to the Golf, and I could see the net curtains twitching again. I waved as we climbed back into Isabella's car and she drove away down towards the end of the close and out of the woman's sight.
"Which house do you fancy?" I asked, as we stopped at the end.
"Let's try the one with the car in the drive," Isabella said.
We walked up the driveway past a bright yellow Honda Jazz and rang the doorbell. A smart young woman answered, carrying a baby on her hip.
"Yes?" she said. "Can I help you?"
"Hello," said Isabella, jumping in and taking the lead. "Hello, little one," she said to the child, tickling its chin. "We're trying to find Mr. Sutton."
"Old Man Sutton or his son?" the young woman asked helpfully.
"Either," Isabella said, still fussing over the child.
"Old Man Sutton has gone into an old-folks nursing home," the woman said. "His son comes round sometimes to collect his mail."
"How long has Mr. Sutton been in a nursing home?" I asked.
"Since just before Christmas. He'd been going downhill for quite a while. Such a shame. He seemed a nice old chap."
"Do you know which home he's in?" I asked her.
"Sorry," she said, shaking her head.
"And which house is his?"
"Number eight," she said, pointing across the road.
"Do you remember an incident when someone threw a brick through his window?" I asked.
"I heard about it, but it happened before we moved in," she said. "We've only been here eight months or so. Since Jimbo here was born." She smiled down at the baby.
"Do you know how I can contact Mr. Sutton's son?" I asked her.
"Hold on," she said. "I've got his telephone number somewhere."
She disappeared into the house but was soon back with a business card but without little Jimbo.
"Here it is," she said. "Fred Sutton." She read out his number, and Isabella wrote it down.
"Thank you," I said. "I'll give him a call."
"He might be at work right now," the woman said. "He works shifts."
"I'll try him anyway," I said. "What does he do?"
She consulted the business card that was still in her hand.
"He's a policeman," she said. "A detective sergeant."
So why, all of a sudden, don't you want to call this Fred Sutton?" Isabella demanded. We were again sitting in her car, having driven out of Willow Close and into the center of Hungerford.
"I will. But I'll call him later."
"But I thought you wanted to know about this brick through the window," she said.
"I do." I dearly wanted to know why the brick was thrown, but did I now dare ask?
"Well, call him, then."
I was beginning to be sorry that I had asked Isabella to drive me. How could I explain to her that I didn't want to discuss anything to do with Willow Close with any member of the police, let alone a detective sergeant? If he was any good at his job, his detective antennae would be throbbing wildly as soon as I mentioned anything to do with a Roderick Ward, especially if, as I suspected, DS Fred Sutton had been the policeman who had witnessed young Mr. Ward throwing the brick through his father's window in the first place.
"I can't," I said. "I can't involve the police."
"Why on earth not?" she asked, rather self-righteously.
"I just can't," I said. "I promised my young soldier I wouldn't talk to the police."
"But why not?" she asked again, imploring me to answer.
I looked at her. "I'm really sorry," I said. "But I can't tell you why." Even to my ears, I sounded melodramatic.
"Don't be so bloody ridiculous." She was clearly annoyed. "I think I'd better take you home now."
"Maybe that would be best," I said.
My chances of any future bonuses had obviously diminished somewhat.