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she does have a bad effect on me. A general ‘What the hell?’ attitude seems to rule her life. Without it I think she would be far more successful in what she does.
    No more wine and late nights, then.
    And no, I was none the wiser about the true status of the delectable Julian.
    Slightly restored, I found the public library and read everything I could lay my hands on in back numbers of the local papers about the Giddings murder, DCI Derek Harmsworth’s death, DI John Gray’s misgivings about it, and then his own violent end in his own home the previous week. I made detailed notes, which took me around one and a half hours. Though I was aware that Patrick would eventually brief me with details that would not reach the press, it was at least useful to have a framework upon which to make a start.
    Even knowing as little as I did, it seemed odd that Harmsworth’s car had gone through the parapet of a bridge over a motorway in exactly the same spot as had a heavy goods vehicle two days previously. The damaged and missing railings had been temporarily replaced by orange tape and plastic netting by the Highways Agency. Locals, according to the letters in the papers, thought the place an accident black spot – something to do with a bend in the road just before the bridge. I decided to bring the car the next day and have a look for myself.
    One had also to take into consideration that, according to Gray, Harmsworth had not been an excessive drinker – in fact had been known to hardly touch alcohol at all while working on a case. He had been a very careful driver. Another point was that he had been due to retire soon and although Gray had known his chief had been looking forward to this he had made no plans with regard to what he would do with the rest of his life. This had bothered him slightly but not depressed him. Questioned further, the DI had said he was convinced that Harmsworth really was looking forward to leaving the job and not pretending. Besides which, he had always had a very dim view of people who took their own lives.
    I decided that I wanted to leave the police to investigate the murders and try to find out what had happened to Harmsworth, as that matter now appeared to be regarded as closed. Someone from officialdom, preferably someone with clout – Patrick, for example – could grill Honor Giddings and lurk near the park where her husband had died. Bitchily, perhaps, I had already cast her in the shape of a differently named lookalike – tall, thin-lipped, haughty, violent even, as she had assaulted a press photographer who had come too close – as the number one crone in my new novel.
    Even more bitchily, as a stinking red herring.
    The Green Man was situated at a crossroads at the western, Woodhill end of Epping Forest (the entire area being far greener than I had imagined it would be) and I had an idea it was one of those very old hostelries that had recently been modernized out of all recognition. The children’s play area had one of those plastic trees that my two boys sneered at as pathetic – even Justin, who once had to be rescued by the Fire Brigade from a real one, bigger, at the age of three. This and the brightly coloured swings were bereft of little ones, though, as it was term time.
    It seemed a good idea to have a look at the place, besides which it was lunch time. Julian had still been in bed and Maggie had disappeared while I was in the shower and her hospitality had not run to breakfast. I had had a tentative rummage in the kitchen, found lots of things like fresh anchovies, fillet steak, wildly expensive olive oil and kumquats, but no bread or cereal.
    For some reason I could not get Derek Harmsworth out of my mind, possibly because of Gray’s obvious loyalty and high regard for him. ‘One of the old school,’ the DI had said. ‘As honest as the day is long. Right on the line,’ clichés that somehow made the homespun