She asked if he might have a look into it, and he said he was rather busy with a corpse of his own, so Elizabeth had congratulated him on the commendation he had just received from the Chief Constable, and reminded him of her part in catching Connie Johnson for him.
So he has agreed to take a look.
Elizabeth and Stephen have started taking a walk at the same time each afternoon. Rain or shine, same route, same time.
They walk through the woods, along the western wall of the graveyard, where Elizabeth had gone digging not so very long ago, and out into the open fields beyond the new buildings, which are beginning to spring up on top of the hill. There they stop, take out a hip flask and talk to the cows.
Stephen has given all the cows their own names and personalities, and, every day, gives Elizabeth a running commentary of all the latest cow developments. Today, Stephen tells her that Daisy has been cheating on Brian with Edward, a younger, more handsome bull from a nearby field, and Daisy and Brian are now trying cow counselling. Elizabeth takes a nip of whisky and says that Daisy is an unimaginative name for a cow.
‘No dispute there,’ agrees Stephen. ‘The blame lies squarely with her mother. Also called Daisy.’
‘Is that so,’ says Elizabeth. ‘And what was her father called?’
‘No one knows, that’s the thing,’ says Stephen. ‘Quite the scandal at the time. Daisy senior had been on holiday to Spain, rumours of a fling.’
‘Mmm hmm,’ says Elizabeth.
‘In fact, if you listen closely, you can hear Daisy has just the slightest hint of a Spanish accent.’
Daisy moos, as if on cue, and they both laugh.
It is time now though to head back through the woods, along the path that she has made herself, quiet, private, all their own. Keeping Stephen away from prying eyes. Away from inconvenient questions about the state of his mind.
Their hands stay clasped together as they walk, arms lightly swinging, hearts beating as one. This routine has quickly become Elizabeth’s favourite time of the day. Her handsome, happy husband. She can pretend for a little while longer that all is well. That his hand will forever be in hers.
‘Nice day for a walk,’ says Stephen, the sun lighting up his face. ‘We should do this more often.’
God willing, thinks Elizabeth, I will take every walk with you that I can.
Bethany’s body had never been found. That worries Elizabeth. She has read enough detective novels to know you must never trust a murder without a corpse. To be fair, she has also faked a number of deaths herself over the years.
Her attention elsewhere, Elizabeth sees the man only for a split-second. But she instantly realizes she has made a mistake.
It happens. Not often, but it happens.
This happy routine of hers, these familiar walks with Stephen, this familiar pleasure, was, of course, Elizabeth’s big mistake. As love so often is.
Routine is the spy’s greatest enemy. Never travel the same route two days in a row. Never leave work at the same time. Don’t eat at the same restaurant every Friday evening. Routine gives your enemy an opportunity.
An opportunity to plan ahead, an opportunity to hide, an opportunity to pounce.
Her split-second is up. Her last thought is ‘Please, please don’t hit Stephen.’ She doesn’t even feel the blow she knows is coming.
9
‘And then, in the late seventies, I went out with a member of UB40, but I think we all did back then,’ says Pauline.
‘Which one?’ asks Ron, trying to eat his soup with a little decorum.
Pauline shrugs. ‘There were so many of them. I think I slept with one of Madness too, or he said he was at least.’