Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

“And does he say he’s divorced?” asked the young sergeant, his hard-looking face intimidating, his eyes like deep, cold lakes.

“Colin is a widower,” said Peggy firmly.

“Oh yes? And what does he say his wife died of?”

“His wife died in childbirth. Look, it’s not me you should be asking these questions, it’s him. He’ll have all the papers and things.” Thinking she heard movement from the back garden, she went on talking brightly. “But really I know that’s true. I’ve seen a picture of the poor girl with little Malcolm. Such a nice face she had, pretty but loving, too. Colin keeps that in his wallet, because he doesn’t want the little lad to be reminded of his mother — says that if he’d been a little older when his mother died it would be different, but—”

“And this ‘Colin,’ he’s working locally, is he?” the sergeant interrupted.

“Yes, he’s working lunchtimes at The Cornishman. They think the world of—”

“That can’t bring in much. He is paying you rent for the cottage, is he?”

The implication was brutally obvious. Peggy chattered on, seeming to take no notice, but really she was speaking from the front of her mind only. The back of her mind was remembering the night before. The electricity had fused just as she was making her late-night drink. She had no overnighters in the second bedroom, but something — she was reluctant to analyse precisely what — made her want it fixed that night. Dick had done it before, and made light of it. Surely he wouldn’t mind. It would be the first time... She rummaged in the dark to find her torch in the kitchen drawer, and then set off across the lawn towards the cottage.

The car was not there. The cottage was in darkness and the little dirt square to the side where Dick kept the car was empty. Malcolm was sleeping in the cottage on his own. The moment she thought this she realized how silly she was being, and what a hypocrite: Malcolm was there on his own asleep all the hours Dick spent in her bed. But that thought raised new fears and doubts. Where was Dick now? In someone’s bed? He met all sorts of women while he was serving in the pub. He could have made a date with one of them. The thought that she was nothing more than his piece on the side, and that he’d gone on to more desirable pieces, tormented her. It felt like treachery. It felt like the end of her good life.

She retreated to her garden and stood in the darkness behind a bushy rhododendron. Eventually she heard Dick’s car. Well over half an hour had passed since she’d begun waiting. The car came up the lane and was parked in the usual place beside the cottage. She saw Dick’s profile before he switched the car lights off, saw him get out of the car. He was wearing a drab jerkin and was carrying that old bag of his. Somehow he didn’t look as if he was returning from a sexual assignation.

When he had disappeared into the cottage, she turned and trudged back to her darkened house, somewhat relieved in her mind, but still doubtful. What did one look like when one returned from a sexual assignation? she asked herself. And even if he was not, where had he been? What had he been doing?

“Now, if you’ll take us to the cottage—” said the sergeant.

“I can get the key if you like, then you can look over it if they’re not in,” said Peggy.

She was not betraying them, merely giving Dick time to get them both away. She pottered inside to take as long as possible to find the key. In her heart she knew he was the man they were looking for. In her heart she knew she had lost them both.

“Come on, Captain, we’re going for a drive,” shouted Dick as he ran through the tiny living room, tripping over a coffee table, then righting himself and dashing up the stairs. When he came down, clutching the bag, heavy from last night, Malcolm was still on the floor with his jigsaw.

“Why are we going for a drive, Daddy? It’s nearly my bedtime.”

Dick grabbed his jacket, then picked up the little boy and ran out with him.

“It’s a lovely evening for a drive,” he said, shoving him in the car, but taking care to click the belt in place around him. He ran round to the driver’s door, and the key was in the ignition and the car being backed into the lane before Malcolm could make further protest.

He knew he shouldn’t drive fast through the village. He tried to moderate his speed, but he was possessed by the urgency of the situation. As he scorched past The Cornishman he saw that one of the local policemen was having an off-duty pint at a little rustic table the landlord had set out for good summer days. In his mirror he saw him getting out his mobile phone.

He knew the roads around Briscow now like a connoisseur. He took a shortcut, then another, then was out not onto the motorway but on the old main road to Bristol. Now he could really open up. If only he had had a new car, or any really powerful one. With a bit of luck the police vehicle wouldn’t be much better than his. He put five miles between him and Briscow, then six, seven.