A Grave in the Cotswolds by Rebecca Tope

job.’
    I woke with the words still echoing in my head. She was right – even in the face of appalling loss, the reality of death sticking its ugly face above the smooth surface of normal life – my job was to give them consolation. Not quite hope, perhaps, but a sense that this particular dying had been dealt with decently, with due thought and care. I tried to relate these thoughts to Mrs Simmonds and the threat to her last resting place – a place she had chosen so deliberately for herself.
    It did make sense, I could see, to suspect me of killing Mr Maynard. He had transgressed my dearest beliefs, trampled on something precious with his pettifogging insistence on property rights. He might have cost me my business, if a lengthy lawsuit over the grave ensued and I lost.
    Except, of course, the death of one council official did not in any way guarantee that the whole thing would be abandoned. Some other beastly little bureaucrat would replace him within hours, and the whole thing continue as before. This had not occurred to me until that point. It did nothing for my state of mind as I ate the cheapest breakfast on the brief menu and made a phone call to my wife.
    Almost ignoring the incredible beauty of Chipping Campden’s main street, I drove the two or three miles back to Mrs Simmonds’ cottage, as arranged with Thea the night before. We would present ourselves at the police incident room in Blockley, taking the initiative, on the grounds that I had to get home. ‘They won’t like it,’ she warned me. ‘They like to feel they’re in control.’
    ‘Phooey,’ I said. ‘People turn up to volunteer information all the time.’
    ‘True. So what information are you volunteering?’
    ‘The small fact that I am not their murderer. That I am innocent, blameless and eager to return to my family. Although, actually, they want the pattern from the soles of my shoes, and to have my clothes for forensic analysis. I expect I’ll have to drive home naked.’
    It was half past nine, and Thea looked as if she had not slept at all. Her dog was droopy, too. ‘Bad night?’ I enquired.
    She sighed. ‘I never thought I’d turn into an insomniac. It feels so stupid , just lying there, wide awake, just because…’ she paused.
    ‘Because a lot’s been happening, and you’d be justified in feeling worried or scared?’ I suggested.
    ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not scared this time. Funny how irrational fear is – three months ago I was terrified because of a few tracks in the snow. Now we know there’s a killer just outside my door, and I’m hardly even thinking about it.’
    ‘So…what?’
    She sighed even more heavily. ‘It’s the anniversary of my husband’s death. Three years ago today. Poor Carl. He should still be here. It was such a ridiculous waste.’
    ‘Ah,’ I breathed, thinking, That explains a lot. ‘Three years, eh? Long enough to move on, short enough to still feel all the pain.’ It was, after all, a subject I had some expertise in. ‘Same as me and Karen, to a lesser degree. It is at least long enough to get used to a new situation.’
    ‘I suppose that’s right. It doesn’t hurt like it did at first. It’s like a fading photo, the colours have dimmed. It feels less important now, which is awful to say. Less jagged and shattering. You think at first that it’s all a mistake, that he’ll come back. Then you get adjusted, you go on living and the space where he was gets smaller, until you know he wouldn’t really fit any more if he did come back.’ She waved a jerky hand as if scribbling something out. ‘No, that’s banal. What really kept me awake was wondering how I should be feeling. Should I be clinging to the memory, accepting that nobody like him will ever be in my life again – or should I wrap him up and put him away and reinvent myself?’
    ‘Both, I imagine. And some other things as well.’
    ‘We were so foolishly happy ,’ she moaned. ‘The perfect couple. At