A Grave in the Cotswolds by Rebecca Tope Page A

least, that’s how it feels now. We hardly ever argued. He was sweet and clever and patient and focused. He had strong opinions – one of those people who sees what needs doing, and makes every effort to do it.’ She looked at me, with a little frown. ‘Rather like you, I think, with your natural burials. Carl would have loved all that.’
    I was feeling less and less comfortable in the presence of this Carl-ghost. What was I supposed to say?
    ‘We’d better get moving,’ was all I could manage. ‘If you’re going to be OK, that is?’
    ‘Oh, yes.’ She was suddenly brisk. ‘It’ll be something else to concentrate on. Poor Mrs Simmonds needs a defender.’
    ‘Oh?’ I hadn’t seen it quite like that. ‘Well, I guess you could say that whoever killed Mr Maynard was defending her. If it had anything to do with her, of course. Which it probably didn’t.’
    ‘It’s frustrating, isn’t it? Not knowing who might have hated him enough to murder him. What on earth could he have done to warrant that?’
    ‘I really can’t imagine it,’ I confessed. ‘We don’t have enough facts to begin to guess.’
    ‘We have to assume we’ll understand it eventually. There always is some sort of explanation, if you dig hard enough for it.’
    ‘Usually something rather trivial,’ I said. ‘In my limited experience.’
    ‘Is it limited, though? I was thinking, in the night, that you and I have something unusual in common.’ She didn’t give me time to respond before rushing on. ‘We both have some sort of need for the big stuff. The larger-than-life events that nearly everybody ignores or forgets. Violence, rage, death, decomposition, loss – all that scary dark side that people look away from.’
    This was familiar territory. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Now, let’s get going.’
    The incident room had been set up in a hall in Blockley that would have been impossible to find on my own. We took both cars, since I was optimistic that I could make a quick departure for home as soon as the interview was over. Thea led the way, with a sudden right turn down a tiny street, giving me an impression of a town built on crazily uneven land. It seemed to tip and tilt in three directions at once.
    A uniformed police constable was sitting just inside the door, with a small table in front of him. He looked up as we went in, his head cocked sideways. ‘How can we help you?’ he asked.
    ‘Drew Slocombe,’ I said. ‘I think you want to question me.’
    ‘Mr Slocombe for interview,’ he muttered, with a slight air of reproach. He tapped the keys of a laptop computer in front of him, and nodded. ‘Oh yes. DI Basildon will be with you right away.’
    The daft sense of self-importance soon evaporated as I scanned the crowded room. A whiteboard was perched on a kind of easel arrangement, and a row of tables ran down one side, each with a computer and officer. A middle-aged couple I recognised waited uncomfortably with typical chunky village hall teacups at their elbows.
    ‘That’s Mr and Mrs Watchett,’ whispered Thea. ‘Mrs Simmonds’ friends.’
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I remember them.’
    ‘And you are, madam?’ said the doorkeeper.
    ‘Thea Osborne. I was…um…at the scene when the body was found. My daughter is PC Jessica Osborne. I…well, I thought you might want to interview me as well.’
    He scanned his screen and shook his head. ‘Doesn’t look like it.’
    She hesitated, realising how foolish it would look to insist, under the circumstances. ‘Oh. Well, that’s all right, then.’
    ‘Unless you have information for us that you think will be helpful,’ he added.
    ‘No, not really,’ she said vaguely. ‘I didn’t ever meet him – the victim, I mean.’
    The officer sighed, with barely concealed impatience. I was reminded of my own emotions when working at the funeral director’s, before I set up on my own. We would get ‘persistent viewers’ – women who had a taste for dead bodies, and would come to