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Covington. She winds the window up. So much for summer. As she turns into Gainsborough Street a police car is pulling out onto the main road, and she thinks she recognizes Sergeant Wadsworth, probably coming from the missing man’s home.
    As it happens, Drew is out. She bangs the brass knocker down hard enough to alert the occupants of both rows of cottages, although at this time of day it’s unlikely there’ll be anyone about. Anyway, Drew’s small van is not in its usual place; at the end of the row where he has a patch of ground at the side, gravelled as a car park, and a path around to the back garden. This little dolls’ house was all he could afford after the break-up of his marriage. He bought two of them, this and the one next door, at a bargain price, restored both, then put the second one back on the market, expecting that the profit on the sale would cover the renovation costs for both. The For Sale sign went up last week.
    All of the houses in the road look neat, having been sympathetically restored and extended, and Drew, being in the trade, has put in a lot of work on his property. He’s got a real thing about doing up old places—a labour of love, he calls it. Treats it more like a mission thana job. That’s where he’ll be now, working on a house in Covington village, so he could well have called in home. But he’s not here, so she might as well go and find this Mrs…what’s her name? Caxton. She’ll catch up with Drew later. On second thoughts, she’d better let Drew know where she is. If he comes home and finds her car parked outside, well, that would be another missing person. She turns back, scribbles a note, and tucks it under the doorknocker before heading back over the road.
    There are two paths leading from the grass verge, one through a wide, gateless entrance that leads up to what must be the old schoolroom. The door is huge and set into a sort of Gothic-looking archway carved from stone, with the words Bell House, 1815, Samuel Gainsborough Street cut into it. The other path goes up to what must be the front door of the adjoining house. Lacey is about to knock at the house door when it is thrown open by someone coming out.
    ‘Yes, can I help you?’
    ‘Mrs Caxton?’
    ‘No, she’s resting. Who are you?’ The woman is broad-shouldered with wire-grey hair cropped into a severe bob. She fills the doorway, defying any attempt to pass through.
    ‘Lacey Prentice. Fenland Herald.’ She flashes her official identification and offers a business card. ‘I’d like to—’
    ‘Didn’t take you long, did it? Well, Mrs Caxton’s not available for comment, so you’re wasting your time.’
    ‘Sorry, you are…?’
    ‘Minding my own business, which is more than can be said for some folk. Good day.’ She is about to slam the door in Lacey’s face when another voice calls from inside the house.
    ‘Who is it?’
    ‘Reporter,’ the guard dog snaps over her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, she’s just leaving.’
    ‘No, it’s all right, tell them to come in.’ Another face appears in the doorway, this time someone much younger, pale-skinned and red-eyed. ‘I’m Triss Caxton, I expect it’s me you’re looking for.’
    ‘Yes. I’m from the Fenland Herald. I’m here because the police haveasked us to help with the public appeal.’ Slight exaggeration, but not totally untrue.
    ‘What Mrs Caxton needs right now is some peace and quiet. I don’t think—’
    ‘It’s all right, Audrey. I’ll have to talk to the press sooner or later. Might as well get it over with. Please come in.’
    ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You know what reporters are like when they get hold of someone’s private life.’ The older woman steps to one side. ‘Still, it’s not really my place to interfere.’ She holds onto the door as if reluctant to relinquish command. ‘But I don’t like the idea of leaving you with strangers.’ She throws Lacey a look of contempt. ‘Couldn’t she come back