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   ‘I’ve been wondering about that,’ Burden said, ‘because honestly - as Miss Fowler would say - those messages in Minna’s books don’t look like the work of a boy at all, not unless he was a very mature boy. They’re too polished, too smooth. Doon could be an older man who got interested in her.’

   ‘I thought of that,’ Wexford said, ‘and I’ve been checking up on Prewett and his men. Prewett bought that farm in 1949 when he was twenty-eight. He’s an educated person and quite capable of writing those messages, but be was in London on Tuesday. There’s no doubt about it, unless he was involved in a conspiracy with two doctors, an eminent heart specialist, a sister, God knows how many nurses and his own wife.’

   ‘Draycott’s only been in the district two years and he was in Australia from 1947 to 1953. Bysouth can scarcely write his own name, let alone dig up suitable bits of poetry to send to a lady love, and much the same goes for Traynor.

   Edwards was in the Army throughout 1950 and 1951, and Dorothy Sweeting can’t possibly know what was going on in Minna’s love life twelve years ago. She was only seven.’

   ‘Then it looks as if we’ll have to ferret out what we can from the list,’ Burden said. ‘I think you’ll be interested when you see some of the names, sir.’

   Wexford took the list and when he came to Helen Laird and Fabia Rogers he swore fiercely. Burden had pencilled in Missal and Quadrant, following each surname with a question mark.

   ‘Somebody’s trying to be clever,’ Wexford said, ‘and that I won’t have. Rogers. Her people are old man Rogers and his missus at Pomfret Hall. They’re loaded. All made out of paint. There’s no reason why she should have told us she knew Mrs Parsons. When we talked to Dougie this Doon angle didn’t seem that important. But Mrs Missal . . . Not know Mrs Parsons indeed, and they were in the same class!’

   He had grown red with anger. Burden knew how he hated being taken for a ride.

   ‘I was going to forget all about that cinema ticket, Mike, but now I’m not so sure. I’m going to have it all out again with Mrs Missal now.’ He stabbed at the list. ‘While I’m gone you can start contacting these women.’

   ‘It would have to be a girls’ school,’ Burden grumbled. ‘Women change their names, men don’t.’

   ‘Can’t be helped,’ Wexford said snappily. ‘Mr Griswold’s been on twice already since the inquest, breathing down my neck.’

   Griswold was the Chief Constable. Burden saw what Wexford meant.

   ‘You know him, Mike. The least hint of difficulty and he’s screaming for the Yard,’ Wexford said, and went out, leaving Burden with the list and the letter.

   Before embarking on his woman hunt Burden read the letter again. It surprised him because it gave an insight into Mrs Parsons’ character, revealing a side he had not really previously suspected. She was turning out to be a lot less pure than anyone had thought.

   . . . If meeting Doon means rides in the car and a few free meals I wouldn’t be too scrupulous, Mrs Katz had written. But at the same time she didn’t know who Doon was. Mrs Parsons had been strangely secretive, enigmatic, hiding the identity of a boyfriend from a cousin who had also been an intimate friend.

   A strange woman, Burden thought, and a strange boyfriend. It was a funny sort of relationship she had with this Doon, he said to himself. Mrs Katz says, I can’t see why you should be scared, and later, on, there was never anything in that. What did she mean, anything in that? But Mrs Parsons was scared. What of, sexual advances? Mrs Katz says she had a suspicious mind. Fair enough, he reflected. Any virtuous woman would be scared and suspicious of a man who paid her a lot of attention. But at the same time there was never anything in it. Mrs Parsons mustn’t be too scrupulous.

   Burden groped vainly. The letter, like its recipient, was a puzzle. As he put it down and turned to the telephone he was certain of only two facts: Doon hadn’t been making advances; he wanted something else, something that frightened Mrs Parsons but which was so innocuous in the estimation of her cousin that it would be showing excessive suspicion to be scrupulous about it. He shook his head like a man who has been flummoxed by an intricate riddle, and began to dial.

   He tried Bertram first because there was no Annesley in the book - and, incidentally, no Pensteman and no Sachs. But the Mr Bertram who answered said he was over eighty and a bachelor. Next he rang the number of the only Ditchams he could find, but although he listened to the steady ringing past all reason, there was no reply.

   Mrs Dolan’s number was engaged. He waited five minutes and tried again. This time she answered. Yes, she was Margaret Dolan’s mother, but Margaret was now Mrs Heath and had gone to live in Edinburgh. In any case, Margaret had never brought anyone called Godfrey to the house. Her particular friends had been Janet Probyn and Deirdre Sachs, and Mrs Dolan remembered them as having been a little shut-in clique on their own.

   Mary Henshaw’s mother was dead. Burden spoke to her father. His daughter was still in Kingsmarkham. Married? Burden asked. Mr Henshaw roared with laughter while Burden waited as patiently as he could. He recovered and said his daughter was indeed married. She was Mrs Hedley and she was in the county hospital.

   ‘I’d like to talk to her,’ Burden said.

   ‘You can’t do that,’ Henshaw said, hugely amused. ‘Not unless you put a white coat on. She’s having a baby, her fourth. I thought you were them, bringing me the glad news.’

   Through Mrs Ingram he was put on to Jillian Ingram, now Mrs Bloomfield. But she knew nothing of Margaret Parsons except that at school she had been pretty and prim, fond of reading, rather shy.

   ‘Pretty, did you say?’

   ‘Yes, she was pretty, attractive in a sort of way. Oh, I know, I’ve seen the papers. Looks don’t necessarily last, you know.’

   Burden knew, but still he was surprised.

   Anne Kelly had gone to Australia, Marjorie Miller . . .

   ‘My daughter was killed in a car crash,’ said a harsh voice, full of awakened pain. ‘I should have thought the police of all people would know that.’

   Burden sighed. Pensteman, Probyn, Rogers, Sachs . . . all were accounted for. In the local directory alone he found twenty-six Stevenses, forty Thomases, fifty-two Williamses, twelve Youngs.

   To track them all down would take best part of the afternoon and evening. Clare Clarke might be able to help him. He closed the directory and set off for Nectarine Cottage.

The french windows were open when Inge Wolff let Wexford into hall and he heard the screams of quarrelling children. He followed her across the lawn and at first saw nobody but the two little girls: the elder a sharp miniature fascimile of her mother, bright-eyed, red-headed; the younger fat and fair with a freckle-blotched face. They were fighting for possession of a swing-boat, a red and yellow fairground thing with a rabbit for a figurehead.

   Inge rushed over to them, shouting.

   ‘Are you little girls that play so, or rough boys? Here is one policeman come to lock you up!’

   But the children only clung more tightly to the ropes, and Dymphna, who was standing up, began to kick her sister in the back.

   ‘If he’s a policeman,’ she asked, ‘where’s his uniform?’

   Someone laughed and Wexford turned sharply. Helen Missal was in a hammock slung between a mulberry tree and the wall of a summerhouse and she was drinking milk-less tea from a glass. At first he could see only her face and a honey-coloured arm dangling over the edge of the canvas. Then, as he came closer, he saw that she was dressed for sunbathing. She wore only a bikini, an ice-white figure of eight and a triangle against her golden skin. Wexford was embarrassed and his embarrassment fanned his anger into rage.