Simon Beckett - The Chemistry of Death

'I didn't know myself. But given what's happened I couldn't let Linda walk home by herself.'

He flushed and looked away. I told myself to ease up. Any points I scored against him would only be extracted from his wife's account after I'd gone.

I smiled at Sam, who'd been watching from the floor. The fact that he was inside on a summer evening like this said he wasn't fully himself, but he seemed better than the last time I'd seen him. When I asked him what he would do during the school holidays he even smiled at one point, showing some of his old animation.

'I think he's doing OK,' I told Linda in the kitchen afterwards. 'He'll probably bounce back soon enough now he's over the initial shock.'

She nodded, but distractedly. She was still ill at ease. 'About earlier…' she began.

'Forget it. I'm glad you told me.'

It had never occurred to me that people might get the wrong impression. But perhaps it should have. Only the night before Henry had warned me to be careful. I'd thought he was overreacting, but he obviously knew the village better than I did. It rankled, not so much because of my misjudgement, but because a community I'd considered myself a part of was so readily prepared to think the worst.

I should have known even then that the worst can always surpass expectations.

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the door to the lounge was shut. There was a question I'd been waiting to ask since I'd stopped to give Linda a lift.

'On Sunday, after Neil and Sam found the body,' I began, 'you said you knew it was Sally Palmer, because you'd dreamed about her.'

She busied herself at the sink, rinsing cups. 'Just coincidence, I expect.'

'That wasn't what you said then.'

'I was upset. I shouldn't have said anything.'

'I'm not trying to trick you out. I just…' Just what? I was no longer sure what I was hoping to prove. I ploughed on anyway. 'I wondered if you'd had any more dreams. About Lyn Metcalf.'

She stopped what she was doing. 'I wouldn't have thought somebody like you would have much time for that sort of thing.'

'I was just curious.'

The look she gave me was speculative. Piercing. I felt myself grow uncomfortable under it. Then she gave a quick shake of her head. 'No,' she said. And then she added something so quietly I almost missed it.

I would have asked her more, but at that moment the door opened. Gary Yates regarded us with suspicion.

'I thought you'd gone.'

'I'm just going,' I said.

He went to the fridge, opened its rust-edged door.

A skewed fridge magnet on it said 'Start the day with a smile'. It showed a grinning crocodile. He took out a can of beer and opened it. As if I wasn't there he took a long pull, giving a stifled belch as he lowered the can.

'Bye, then,' I said to Linda. She bobbed her head, nervously.

Her husband watched through the window as I went back to the Land Rover. As I drove into the village I thought about what Linda Yates had said. After she'd denied dreaming about Lyn Metcalf, she'd added something else. Just two words, barely loud enough for me to hear.

Not yet.

Ridiculous as the rumours about me were, I couldn't afford to ignore them. It was better to meet them head on than let the whispers get out of hand, but I still felt an unaccustomed apprehension as I headed for the Lamb. The garlands on the Martyr's Stone were limp and dying now. I hoped it wasn't an omen as I drove by the police trailer parked by the village square. Two bored-looking policemen sat outside it in the evening sunshine. They stared incuriously at me as I passed. I parked outside the pub, took a deep breath and pushed open the doors.

When I stepped inside my first thought was that Linda Yates had exaggerated. People glanced my way, but there were the usual nods and acknowledgements. A little subdued, perhaps, but that was only to be expected. No-one was going to be laughing and joking around here for a while yet.

I went to the bar and ordered a beer. Ben Anders was on his mobile in the corner. He held up his hand in greeting before going on with his conversation. Jack pulled my drink as contemplatively as ever, placidly watching the golden liquid chase the suds up the glass. Henry's warning the previous night had been misplaced, I thought with relief. People knew me better than that.

Then someone further along the bar cleared his throat. 'Been away?'

It was Carl Brenner. And as I turned to him I realized that the room had gone quiet.

Henry had been right after all, I realized.

'Hear you've not been around much the last couple of days,' Brenner went on. He had a jaundiced, heavy-lidded look about him that told me he was in his cups.

'Not much, no.'

'How come?'

'There were some things I needed to do.' As much as I wanted to end the rumours about me, I wasn't going to be bullied into anything. Or give the village tongues even more to wag about.

'That's not what I heard.' There was a yellow anger burning in his eyes, waiting only for a target. 'I heard you were with the police.'

The pub seemed very quiet now. 'That's right.'

'So what did they want?'

'Just advice.'

'Advice?' He made no attempt to hide his disbelief. 'About what?'

'You'll have to ask them that.'

'I'm asking you.'

His anger had found its focus now. I looked away from it, around the room. Some people were staring into their drinks. Others stared back at me. Not yet condemning, but waiting.

'If someone's got something to say, say it,' I said, as calmly as I was able. I held their gazes until, one by one, the faces turned away.

'All right, if nobody else is going to, I will.' Carl Brenner had risen to his feet. He aggressively swigged what was left in his glass and banged it down. 'You've been-'

'I'd be careful if I were you.'

Ben Anders had materialized beside me. I was pleased to see him, not just because of his reassuring physical presence, but because it was a welcome sign of support.

'Stay out of this,' Brenner said.

'Stay out of what? Just trying to stop you from saying something you'll regret tomorrow.'

'I won't regret anything.'

'Good. How's Scott?'

The question took away some of Brenner's bluster. 'What?'

'Your brother. How's his leg? The one Dr Hunter fixed up the other night.'

Brenner fidgeted, sullen but deflated. 'It's all right.'

'Good thing the doc here doesn't charge for out-of-surgery hours,' Ben said, affably. His gaze took in the rest of the room. 'I daresay most of us have had cause to be grateful for that some time or another.'

He let his words hang, then clapped his hands together and turned to the bar. 'Anyway, when you've got a minute, Jack, I'll have another.'

It was as though someone had suddenly opened a window to let in a clean breeze. The atmosphere cleared as people stirred, some of them looking slightly shamefaced as they went back to their conversations. I became aware of sweat damping the small of my back. It had nothing to do with the heat in the airless bar.

'Would you like a whisky?' Ben asked. 'You look as though you could use one.'

'No thanks. But I'll get yours.'

'No need.'

'It's the least I can do.'

'Forget it. The bastards just needed reminding of a few things.' He glanced across at where Brenner was staring moodily into his empty glass. 'And that bastard needs someone to give him a sorting. I'm pretty certain he's been milking nests at the reserve. Endangered ones. Normally once the eggs have hatched we're OK, but we've been losing adult birds as well. Marsh harriers, even bitterns. I haven't caught him yet, but one of these days…'

He smiled as Jack set his pint down. 'Good man.' He took a long drink and gave an appreciative sigh. 'So what have you been doing?' He gave me a sidelong glance. 'Don't worry, I'm just curious. But it's obvious something's been taking you away from here.'