Page 107 of Worse Than Murder

Through a small, dark hallway, I’m led into a large living room at the back of the house. I’m right about the open fireplace, but wrong about everything else. The room is a clutter of mess. Picture frames and overstocked bookcases adorn every wall. It’s difficult to see what colour they’ve been painted. The carpet is an assault on the senses. A mess of gaudy colours, it would bring on a seizure if stared at for too long. There are two sofas, both far too big for the room, and they don’t match. There’s a fustiness in the air. A mixture of stale cigarette smoke, dust and old paper. It’s claustrophobic.

‘Have a seat,’ Tania says, picking up a few files from the sofa and dumping them on the floor. ‘I won’t apologise for the mess. This is how I live. I know where everything is. Give me the name of any Thomas Hardy novel and I’ll be able to get you several copies of it within a minute.’

‘If only I knew the name of a Thomas Hardy novel.’

‘Oh. Not a fan of the classics?’

‘More of a contemporary reader.’

‘I’m a huge Hardy fan,’ she says, sitting down on the opposing sofa. ‘I went onMastermindin 2004. Reached the semi-finals.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘I sweated buckets in that leather chair. I can still remember the question that robbed me of a place in the final: what was Thomas Hardy’s father’s profession? How the bollocks am I supposed to know that? I read his books. I’m not writing his sodding biography. Bastards. It turns out he was a stonemason. I said he was a vicar.’

I smile. My eyes wander around the room and land on a framed photograph on the mantel. I think I recognise the people in it and go over to pick it up.

‘Is that a young Alison Pemberton?’

‘Yes. The girl next to her is Claire Daniels. They’ve been inseparable since little school.’

‘How come you have this?’

‘If you look in the background at the lanky woman with the awful hair, that’s me.’

I lean in for a closer look. ‘Oh, my goodness.’

‘It was the nineties. I bet even you had embarrassing hair back then.’

‘I believe I had a fringe. My favourite going-out jacket was pink with shoulder pads.’

‘Bloody hell, shoulder pads. What were we thinking? Anyway, that was taken at an event on the lake the paper was sponsoring to get kids outdoors doing more active things. I shared a paddle boat with them. We fell in. I’ve got plenty of other photos of that day somewhere. I’ll dig them out. I love looking down Memory Lane, don’t you?’

‘Sometimes,’ I say, replacing the frame back on the mantel.

‘Anyway, the reason I called is because there’s been a new sighting of Jack Pemberton.’

‘What? Where?’

‘Right here in High Chapel.’

‘Who told you?’

‘A call came through on the main phone line for the newspaper.’

‘What did they say?’

‘They were walking their dog in the woods off End Lane, and they saw someone lurking behind a tree. They thought it was a hiker having a pee, but he was spending too long there for that. They walked closer and it was when their dog barked that he turned and looked directly at them, before running off in the opposite direction.’

‘Description?’

‘Tall, thin, dark walking trousers and dark anorak. Shaggy grey hair. Lined face. Spitting image of an old Jack Pemberton, according to the caller.’

‘Who was the caller?’

‘He said his name was John. It wasn’t a great line. He talked with a stammer and, when I asked him for more details, he said something about not being able to hear me properly. To be fair, I couldn’t hear him very well either. The call ended.’

‘Did he call back?’