Reginald Hill - Death of a Dormouse

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

Methuen London Ltd 1987

under the author’s psuedonym Patrick Ruell

Copyright © Patrick Ruell 1987

Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780586205464

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2015 ISBN 9780007394739

Version: 2015-09-15

This one for Billy and Choc – who else?

Cover

Title Page REGINALD HILL DEATH OF A DORMOUSE

Copyright

Dedication Dedication Dedication Epigraph Prologue Part One 1 2 3 4 Part Two 1 2 3 4 Part Three 1 2 3 4 5 Part Four 1 2 3 4 Part Five 1 2 3 4 Part Six 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Part Seven 1 2 3 Part Eight 1 2 Part Nine 1 2 Part Ten 1 Keep Reading About the Author By Reginald Hill About the Publisher This one for Billy and Choc – who else?

Epigraph Epigraph When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation) – sleep, eating, and swilling – buttoning and unbuttoning – how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse… BYRON: Journal (December 7th 1813)

Prologue Prologue She was lying on a bare mattress in a darkened room. Her wrists and ankles were bound, but this was an unnecessary refinement. In her mind she had been here many times before and knew there was no escape. One strip of light there was which could not be blinked away. It lay on the floor, seeping in beneath the door, and beyond that door on bare stone flags she could hear the sound of footsteps getting nearer . She lay as still as the mouse which huddles in its cornfield nest, and hears the approach of the coulter, and knows what it means, but does not know how to fly . Nothing remained in her life, no spur to action, no prick of hope. Nothing of past, present or future touched her life, only that crack of light beneath the door and the footsteps which were approaching it . She had been waiting for them all her life. They belonged to the secret police who strike with the dawn; to the cruel rapist who lurks in the shadows; to the man she had loved, come here to kill her . Now they were close. Now the line of light beneath the door was broken by a growing shadow . Now the footsteps halted . Slowly the door handle began to turn. Slowly the door swung open. In the threshold loomed a figure, bulky, still, menacing . Now it was in the room and advancing . Her mouth gaped wide as her desperate lungs drew in one last, long, ragged breath …

Part One

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2

3

4

Part Two

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2

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4

Part Three

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2

3

4

5

Part Four

1

2

3

4

Part Five

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4

Part Six

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Part Seven

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Part Eight

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Part Nine

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Part Ten

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Keep Reading

About the Author

By Reginald Hill

About the Publisher

When one subtracts from life infancy

(which is vegetation) – sleep, eating, and swilling

– buttoning and unbuttoning – how much remains of

downright existence? The summer of a dormouse…

BYRON: Journal (December 7th 1813)

She was lying on a bare mattress in a darkened room. Her wrists and ankles were bound, but this was an unnecessary refinement. In her mind she had been here many times before and knew there was no escape. One strip of light there was which could not be blinked away. It lay on the floor, seeping in beneath the door, and beyond that door on bare stone flags she could hear the sound of footsteps getting nearer .

She lay as still as the mouse which huddles in its cornfield nest, and hears the approach of the coulter, and knows what it means, but does not know how to fly .

Nothing remained in her life, no spur to action, no prick of hope. Nothing of past, present or future touched her life, only that crack of light beneath the door and the footsteps which were approaching it .

She had been waiting for them all her life. They belonged to the secret police who strike with the dawn; to the cruel rapist who lurks in the shadows; to the man she had loved, come here to kill her .

Now they were close. Now the line of light beneath the door was broken by a growing shadow .

Now the footsteps halted .

Slowly the door handle began to turn. Slowly the door swung open. In the threshold loomed a figure, bulky, still, menacing .

Now it was in the room and advancing .

Her mouth gaped wide as her desperate lungs drew in one last, long, ragged breath …

Wee sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie ,

O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!

BURNS: To a Mouse

‘Trudi? Trudi Adamson? My God! Trudi, is that really you?’

‘Well, it’s me anyway,’ said Trudi.

‘Where’re you ringing from? Vienna? You’re so clear!’

‘No. Not Vienna. Sheffield.’

‘ Sheffield . You mean Sheffield Yorkshire ?’

The note of Celtic incredulity made Trudi laugh. Perhaps this had been a good idea after all.

‘If there’s another, please tell me. I’d probably prefer it.’