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him grief. He knew her too well to expect that she’d go quietly. Donleavy would probably call him all kinds of a fool for getting himself into this situation in the first place, but he knew his old mentor would keep an ear out for a good position, then would put a good word in for him wherever he ended up. And, if there was any justice at all, Hillary Greene would get his old job as DCI. After all the hassle she’d had with that loser of a husband of hers, she was due some good luck for a change. He’d have to have a word with Marcus, when the time was right, and see if they could swing it for her.
    He pulled the folder for that month’s budget out of the drawer and reached glumly for the calculator.  
     
    Hillary turned off the main Oxford-to-Banbury road at Hopcrofts Halt and headed past the large hotel and down the hill into the valley proper. At the bottom of the hill she sat waiting at a set of traffic lights that spanned a long water bridge, and then found herself heading up and over the combined railway and canal bridge.
    Over on her left, shut up and dark now, was the narrow-boat yard where she’d gone to interview a witness on her first murder case. She slowed down as she approached a small turn-off into a road simply called The Lane and found herself facing a beautiful village square, lit up from the lights spilling out of The Bell pub. A huge oak tree stood in pride of place, watching over thatched cottages and what had once been the village school.
    Dispatch had given her directions to the crime scene, however, so she followed the road around the bend, then past an old-fashioned red-painted telephone box and round another steep curve. She peered ahead, looking for Mill Lane, which should be off to her left, found it, and turned down the narrow lane. Off to her right was a converted chapel, gleaming pale in the bright moonlight. The sky had cleared again, and once more a frost was in the air. At the bottom of the lane, Hillary found herself facing a metal drawbridge, and she drove over it gingerly, looking out of her window to the flat, dark expanse of the Oxford canal below. Right in front of her were a set of wooden gates belonging to Mill House, but leading off to her left was a muddy stone-paved road that followed the course of the River Cherwell. A few yards down, another set of gates, sandwiched between the two water courses, signalled that she’d arrived at her destination.
    She parked behind an empty patrol car and climbed out. She didn’t need a torch to read the words ‘Tangent Hall’ glittering in gold-painted letters on a slate-grey sign. She could hear the river gurgling away under a flat wooden bridge, and for a moment took in the quiet, dark night. Tangent Hall was not so much a hall as a big, fairly modern-looking bungalow. Worth what, half a million, given today’s market prices? As a woman about to sell a house, she supposed she should be pleased that properties in the area were worth such small fortunes. But she couldn’t help but feel sorry for the families of the native villagers who were being priced out of their own homes.
    She sighed and straightened her shoulders as a figure at theentrance to the large wooden gates suddenly stepped out and a torch beam found her face. Hillary instinctively held up a hand to ward off the intrusive beam of light.
    ‘Police, madam. Can I help you?’ The uniformed constable stepped closer as Hillary got out her ID.
    ‘DI Greene. I’m the senior investigating officer,’ she said simply, as he lowered the torch. ‘I take it I’m the first to arrive?’
    ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He was young but didn’t seem all that overawed . ‘The doc’s on his way. Forensics too.’
    Hillary nodded and got out her notebook as he made his preliminary report. It was concise but left out no relevant facts, and after five minutes of rapid shorthand, she had the beginnings of the Murder Book.
    The Murder Book was usually assigned to one particular officer who kept