Rutledge thanked him. And in fewer than the ten minutes he was on his way, the sandwiches in a small basket beside him. It was necessary to drive past the Hume house on his way out of town. The windows were open to the summer heat, and through them he could see silhouettes of people moving back and forth inside.

He felt a surge of something, he couldn't have said what, and then returned his attention to the road.

And all the long way, Hamish kept him company, his voice just audible above the rushing of the wind. But it was not a pleasant companionship. As often happened in times when Rutledge's mind was occupied, the voice found the chinks in Rutledge's armor and probed them with a sure knowledge of what Rutledge least wished to hear.

It dwelt for a time on Max's life and then the manner of his death, moving on to the woman who swore she hated her husband, but who had wept, bereft, on Rutledge's shoulder before she could get herself in hand.

At one point as he drove eastward, Rutledge had stopped along a road in Hampshire to offer a lift to a woman trudging back to her village with her marketing in a basket. He had needed to hear a human voice, someone who knew nothing of him or his past. She was grateful for his kindness, and he set her down in front of her cottage without telling her how she had briefly lightened the darkness in his mind.

It was as if Hume's death by his own hand had foreshadowed his own.

5

Rutledge spent the night on the road, driving into Eastfield in the early hours of the next morning. A watery sun had risen, and he could see that there had been a heavy rain in the overnight hours. Puddles stood about in spots, and a pair of farmyard geese were noisily bathing in what appeared to be an old horse trough, filled now with rainwater.

He found the police station halfway down the high street, tucked into a small building between an ironmonger's and a milliner's shop. He left his motorcar on the street, and went inside.