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Chapter 1

Jo Grayson stepped through from the bridleway into her garden at the end of an invigorating afternoon walk. The spring-assisted old gate clanged shut behind her. She took a final look back over the neat beech hedge that marked her boundary, before turning her thoughts to work. Bare-limbed old oaks and horse chestnuts flanked the wide track, seeming to guide it all the way to the distant sky. At the far edge of her view, huge clouds softened from drab grey to gold-fringed mauve against a nectarine-flushed winter sky. Jo drew in the colour together with a final deep lungful of spicy woodland air before turning to scan the chaotic hotchpotch in what had once been her back garden. A broad smile lit her glowing cheeks as rubble and disorder dissolved from her mental image. She saw the place pristine and perfect, as it would be. A deep contented sigh sealed the picture inside her head, as confirmation that her recently improved life appeared all set to become even better.

Throughout weeks of sporadic activity, builders’ plant and materials had transformed the rear half of her cottage and its surrounding land into the stage set of some ongoing drama. The demands of a heavy schedule and guest commitments elsewhere sadly precluded any long-running performances at Drover’s Cottage. Appearances by the cast of characters had become brief and increasingly rare events. Gentle prompting failed to ignite the flame of artistic motivation - let alone enthusiasm - in Walter Lane or his troop of itinerant artisans. Such work as they did, Jo admitted, was extremely good, clearly too good to be hurried. Polite pleas and chivying achieved nothing. Direct threats withered in the warmth of a ruddy-faced smile. Two years of idyllic life in South Wynton had seemingly removed Jo’s capacity for genuine anger. She knew it, and so unfortunately did Walter.

Imagination added tone, colour and important detail to the emerging mental painting of her future life. A few deft strokes painted in the perfect man alongside her dream country cottage in its heavenly setting. Her mouth formed the words, Mrs. Joanne O’Donohue. She closed her eyes and repeated the name twice more. A warm glow accompanied her inside for tea and a shower.

The hot water added sheer self-indulgent bliss to a perfect winter afternoon. Jo stood gazing through her bedroom window, lazily drying her hair and watching the final rays of a bloodshot December sun setting below the distant horizon.

In every physical sense, thirty-five years of eventful life had been very kind. Despite ever-diminishing attention to proper exercise, her body remained smooth, firm and slender. Perfect facial bones still supported model features framed by sleek, near shoulder length hair, which moved with her like a heavy curtain of ebony-coloured silk. Long legs enhanced the striking natural elegance that had always drawn admiring attention and would, God willing, continue to do so for some time to come.

Headlight beams stroked her naked body as a car drew into the rough drive leading to the rear of her property. Blocked by Jo’s BMW, the vehicle stopped near the lane. She stepped back from the window, crouching forward in an attempt to identify her visitor. Voices carried up to her bedroom, indicating two callers, though it was impossible to identify their owners without revealing more of herself than seemed appropriate in advance of formal introductions. A loud knock on the front door startled her into action. Having quickly pulled on her shower robe she ran downstairs, smoothing her wet hair as she went. After pausing briefly in the hall to tie her belt, she took a deep, steadying breath and opened the door.

A tall, willow-slender man crouched beneath the low porch as if flexing in the fresh breeze. His companion, a pretty, petite woman in her mid-twenties, stood alongside and slightly to his rear. She wore a police uniform and carried a black plastic document wallet. The man apologised for causing Jo’s obvious momentary unease before introducing himself as Detective Sergeant Heron and his companion as Constable Carter. Heron confirmed Jo’s identity and asked if they might come in. Without waiting for a reply, he and Carter stepped inside. Jo instinctively stood back, apologising for the general disorder as she directed them toward the rear of the cottage.

Sergeant Heron’s prematurely greying blonde curls brushed the low doorway as he ducked through into the kitchen. His considerable height and clear air of self-importance conveyed no impression of real stature. Small, downy pink features gave him a schoolboy, almost feminine appearance. Jo decided that he looked about twelve years old. P.C. Carter expressed a more alert persona. A keen mind sat very comfortably behind her large hazel eyes.

Jo joined the officers in her kitchen. Heron wasted no time on small talk as he invited her to sit down. She declined, preferring to decide for herself whether she stood or sat in her own home. The expression on the faces of both officers triggered a dreaded mental image.

“It’s Bob, isn’t it?”
Heron and his colleague exchanged baffled glances, prompting clarification. Jo explained that a grossly unequal battle with cancer had occupied her boss, Bob Ferris, for some months. She had naturally assumed the worst.
Carter reached up and took Jo’s left hand between both of her own.
“I think you should sit down, Mrs. Grayson.”

Jo noted the grave expressions on her visitors’ faces and complied. Heron cleared his throat before announcing that his visit to Drover’s Cottage concerned much more personal matters than Jo had surmised. It was the Sergeant’s very sad duty, he said, to report the death of her husband, Stephen, in a hit and run accident.

Jo looked at both officers with the frozen expression of a rabbit caught in the headlight beams of an oncoming juggernaut. Heron attempted to continue; Jo cut him off. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?” Heron’s face flushed pink as he exchanged a brief glance with Carter. “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Grayson. I know this must be an awful shock, but it is true.”

The Sergeant suggested a cup of tea. Carter began rising to put on the kettle. Jo pressed the P.C. back into her seat, insisting that she would make the drink herself. She filled and switched on the kettle in complete silence as a peculiar numbness suddenly seized her mind. Her limbs felt strangely disconnected from her body. Disbelief stirred cold old memories into swirling confusion. Caught off guard, her brain demanded to shut down for a while. White knuckles gripped the kettle handle. Her teeth clenched defiantly. Pride would not permit her to faint, for the first time in her life, at that moment. Deep cold breaths fed in vital oxygen, calming her brain, just a little but enough. Turning a little too quickly to lean against the worktop she arrested Heron’s southbound body scan as it reached her thighs.

Life had taught her to endure both innocent and lecherous attention from the opposite sex. Whether her response was one of flattery or outrage depended very largely upon the quality of the observer. At that moment, Jo Grayson was not flattered.

Heron’s face turned deep crimson as guilt propelled his gaze toward the kitchen wall. A typical response, Jo decided, for an adolescent twelve year old. She did not approve the violation and her look clearly said so. Since Heron had specified tea, Jo made three strong coffees, while the police officer shuffled in his seat.
“Perhaps you would like to explain,\" she invited.
Heron spluttered. “I’m so sorry. I was… I mean…”
“About your news.”
His moment of squirming was brief but deliciously satisfying. The Sergeant gathered his little remaining composure before continuing. An officer on routine mobile patrol discovered the body alongside a road near a place called Saxby in Cumbria. Indications were that a vehicle had struck the victim at moderate speed as he walked home from his local pub.

“What makes you think that it was my husband?”
The Sergeant looked at his colleague. Both officers sensed a woman in denial.
Heron continued, “Please believe me Mrs. Grayson, these are the worst jobs we ever have to do. It’s hard to accept that someone we love has gone but I’m afraid that is the fact.” Jo repeated her question. Carter opened her document wallet and passed two sheets of paper to Heron. He read down the typed report until he found the relevant information, and then looked up.

“The victim was wearing a wristwatch engraved on the back with the name, Dr. Stephen Compton Grayson. It was a wedding gift to ‘Greypea’ from his bride ‘Jojo’. That is you, isn’t it, Mrs. Grayson?”
“Yes Sergeant, I gave my husband a watch like that as a wedding gift. It has been missing for some time.” She held him with her eyes. “Possession of a watch is not proof of identity.”
Heron conceded the point but persisted with his line. “The middle name Compton is a little unusual. Was that your husband’s name?” Jo confirmed that it was; Stephen had shared the name with his father. “And you are Jojo, aren’t you?” Jo looked Heron in the eye. “Sergeant, that man is not my husband.” Heron attempted to continue. Jo had heard enough. She raised her hand to stop him.“That man cannot be my husband. Stephen died in a car fire over two years ago.”

Heron stroked his chin, as he looked first at P.C. Carter, then at Jo. He read the report in his hand to confirm its contents before continuing. Jo listened intently as the officer explained that, when no family member came forward to identify the victim, Cumbria Police had carried out a DNA test. Simple chance solved the mystery. Dr. Grayson, he said, worked with several police forces as a Forensic Psychologist. He paused and looked for a response from Jo. She nodded. Heron relaxed a little as he continued.

A sample of Dr. Grayson’s DNA, together with other personal details remained on the police database. Standard comparison with that information had confirmed the identity. Jo shook her head, insisting that the test had to be flawed in some way. The result was simply wrong.

A long awkward silence followed, until Carter finally breached the wall. She wondered if Jo had a friend who might come over, or perhaps someone whom she could visit. The officer thought it unwise for Jo to be alone following such a shock. The only person Jo could think of, she said, was Michael O’Donohue, whom she described as a neighbour from a mile or so along the lane at Woodman’s Cottage. She explained that sadly he would almost certainly be away on business. In any case, she said, she must leave for work at six-thirty.

Heron took the welcome opportunity to explore a more comfortable subject. “Where’s work?”
“The White Hart in the village. I manage it.”
“Nice pub, I understand. Have you always done that sort of work?”
“In my previous life I ran my own small promotions company. We organised conferences, trade shows, that sort of thing. I came down here to begin a new life as an artist. I paint watercolours but not well enough to make a living at it. To answer your question, I’ve always enjoyed bar work as a relaxation, a diversion if you like. The White Hart is a real traditional pub with a good boss. It’s helped me to become part of the local scene.”

Heron’s thoughts drifted in a different direction. “Do you know Mr. O’Donohue well?”

The Sergeant was not good at the casual approach. A clear implication tainted his question. Jo decided to let it pass. She explained that Michael had begun renting Woodman’s Cottage shortly after she moved into the area. His faint Midlands accent had flagged up their shared roots. As strangers in the area, they became good friends. Hearing that they were both from the Midlands, Heron could not resist asking if they had known each other before moving to Dorset. The overt innuendo irritated, and Jo felt her colour rising as she repeated that she and Michael had met by chance, after they both moved to South Wynton.

Heron stared out from the dark alleyways of his police brain. Jo felt him rummaging around inside her head. He detected the rat-like odour that always escaped through holes in a story. Like a terrier with a twig, he could not let go. “How does Mr. O’Donohue make his living?”
She replied that he was some sort of Property Developer.
“What sort?”
The curt question added fuel to Jo’s already stoked flames. Her blood heat rose to a rolling boil. “The sort that minds his own damned business.”
“I just meant, residential, commercial, industrial, or what, that’s all.”
“I know what you meant, Sergeant. As far as I’m aware, he deals with residential and commercial properties. I believe he sometimes converts one to the other; you know, like a Property Developer. He works mainly in the Midlands and the North.”

Heron, already in a deep hole, foolishly persisted with his excavation. “Why does he live in Dorset if he works in the Midlands; especially if he came from up there in the first place?”
“I believe he moved down here to look for properties in the Southwest.”
“So what is he working on at the moment then?”
Casual questions were becoming an interrogation. Jo felt steam curling up from her damp hair. “I don’t know, we don’t talk about work all that much.”
“Not that sort of friend, I suppose.”

Heron’s hole caved in. Even as the words escaped from his lips, the officer knew he should have bitten off his tongue. He was already preparing to leave when Jo exploded. Repetition of her order for the police to leave was strictly unnecessary, but repeat it she did until they were out through the front door. Jo slammed her door firmly shut behind the retreating officers. The echo reverberated through the hollow shell of her building extension as she stormed into the lounge and flopped onto her settee in front of the log fire. As temper subsided, her brain time-shifted back to Watlingstowe and all the memories she thought Dorset had exorcised.

Michael’s love had brought brightness into what had become a lacklustre life. He had not so much entered her life; he had become her life. Jo had never loved anyone as she loved Michael and no one else had truly loved her. She phoned to invite him over, just to hold her. The call went unanswered. Poor Michael drove himself far too hard in pursuit, as he said, of a better life for them both. Jo disconnected and sat alone in the firelight with the phone in her lap as she watched the ghosts from her past leaping back to life in the flames. She felt a growing need to pour the burden of her news into some sympathetic ear. In Michael’s absence there was only one other person trustworthy enough to share the problem. Jo phoned her best friend, and most trusted advisor, Annabelle Farlowe in Watlingstowe.

As the phone rang, Jo recalled a friendship dating back to what felt like the year zero. It seemed a lifetime ago when Annabelle joined Jo on the bar staff of The Fiddler’s Elbow. A shared sense of humour coupled with a common capacity for hard work forged an instant bond. Thanks in part to similarities in their appearance many customers assumed over the years that the girls were sisters rather than friends. They never denied it, though Annabelle always referred to herself as the ‘little sister’ since she was two years younger than Jo.

Jo let the phone ring until the answering machine cut in. She sighed and left a message. “Hi little sis, it’s big sis, I need to talk. Call soon.”

Jo submitted to her natural habit and ran for shelter in household chores. With memory’s attention focussed elsewhere, the ploy failed. Her thoughts constantly drifted back to the poor man, whoever he was, run down and killed in Cumbria. The tide of distant memory turned. Jo took a mug of coffee into her lounge, raked a little life back into the embers of the log fire in her hearth and remained kneeling as she stared into the tiny flickering flames. Beyond the far horizon, long forgotten jetsam bubbled back to the surface. Slowly and quietly incoming flotsam washed up on the foreshore of her brain. Finally, with no one to save her from the waves, she trapped her memories behind the fireguard and bolted to the safety of work.

The White Hart was enjoying a brief lull in its end-of-year activities. With Halloween and bonfire parties past and the forthcoming certainty of Christmas mayhem yet to begin, it would be a quiet night. Early diners would soon be making their way home, closely followed by the few regular commuters breaking their homeward journey with a quiet drink after work.

Antonio should have been enjoying a quiet night in his kitchen, though a slack pace tended to bring out the morose side of his Latin character. Unless constantly defused by work, he tended to become unstable. Jo peeped round the kitchen door to find the chef, as anticipated, pacing his immaculate kitchen like a caged leopard. She waved and left him to it. Pauline acted as a serene antithesis of the volatile chef as she sailed around the bar and tables with deceptive speed on a flat calm sea. She acknowledged Jo’s arrival with a broad smile.

In common with everyone else on the staff, Jo recognised that her presence was unnecessary at such quiet times. Bob simply liked having her around. As he regularly reminded anyone prepared to listen, Jo had been a good friend when he needed one. She had been the first to notice the lump in Bob’s neck. Her constant nagging had finally persuaded him to visit his doctor. She recalled the miserable confirmation that Bob’s primary lung tumour had already spawned its grizzly malignant offspring in several parts of his body. From that moment, Jo took on the role of confidant, along with most of her employer’s workload, never once diminishing his status as a boss or a man. Bob knew from the day of his diagnosis that the cavalry had arrived too late. He knew also that Jo knew, and loved her for not saying so. In the absence of family, Jo had appeared like Bob’s guardian angel. She was a manager, a friend and the perfect daughter; all the family he could ever wish for and much more. He felt safer with her around.

Jo mentally noted the shelf stock, then waved to Bob and blew him a kiss through the hatch that separated the snug from the remainder of the pub as she passed by on her way to the bottle store. Seeing his manager on hand, the boss relaxed to enjoy a chat over his remaining half of Best. With her dozen or so customers settled over their various beverages and conversations, Jo decided to send the other two staff off early. Alone and content, for the next hour she occupied herself between customers with fronting up shelves and general tidying.

At a little after eight-thirty, Heron’s striking features appeared nervously round the lounge door. His face glowed pink as a giant prawn, clearly signalling discomfort. Jo savoured the moment. As he swooped awkwardly across the room, she noticed how aptly suited he and his surname were. The man moved with a precisely similar gangly gait to that of his avian namesake. It was very easy for her to imagine Heron lurking silently and patiently until the coast was clear, before snatching his prey and retreating to the shadows. He landed, glowing pinkly, at the bar. His mouth quivered very slightly: “I think I owe you an apology.”
Jo smiled, “If you only think you do, then keep it until you are sure.”
He made no reply. Jo regarded his silence as an invitation to continue. She did so quietly and without any facial expression or body language that might attract attention from other customers. “I accept that your job involves extracting information from people who might not always be keen to co-operate. No argument there; asking questions is fine.” Heron seemed to relax a little. He opened his mouth. Jo was not finished. “However, casting smutty little infantile innuendos at innocent people is quite a different matter. Feel free to ask all the questions you like, but please do not make unfounded assumptions about me, or my friends.” She paused for a moment, so that her words could settle. “Now that’s cleared up, shall we begin again?”

Heron had perched on his barstool as if treed by a stalking cat. His discomfort plainly showed. “Don’t think I’m crowding you, I don’t want to impose, I just thought…” Jo interrupted with a joke. “If you don’t like my company, you should have chosen a different pub.”

He smiled weakly and ordered a half of Best. Jo served the drink. To the naked eye, the ice wall between them remained intact. Heron stared silently into his drink as if waiting for a passing fish. One thing was very certain; the barrier would not melt unless his eye contact improved.

Jo let him brood, continuing with her domestics for a while before she coughed softly to attract his attention. “Most people sit at the bar because they want to chat.” Heron blushed so deeply that Jo almost felt sorry for him. He cleared his throat, making a heroic attempt to look her in the eye as he did so. “I’m a good copper, Mrs. Grayson, I’m just not that brilliant as a civilian. The harder I try to impress people, the worse I seem to come over; especially with women I like. I mean… well… anyway, I’m very sorry if I offended you this afternoon.”

Jo proved rather better than Heron at controlling her blushes; a skill developed over many years of marriage to Stephen. “Apology accepted, now forget it. Why do you need to impress people anyhow? Just be yourself, that’s all there is in the end.” Her reassuring smile almost produced another blush. “And don’t call me Mrs. Grayson, O.K. I’m Jo. Do you have a first name, or is it Sergeant?”
“No, I mean yes, I have a name, but Heron will do.”
Jo was intrigued. “No it won’t, what’s your first name?”
His colour deepened. He looked into his glass and mumbled, “Caernarfon.”
“What?”
He looked up, deeply embarrassed. “I’m Welsh, right? My parents are staunch Royalists and I was born in 1969; the year Prince Charles was invested as Prince of Wales.” The thread of logic eluded her. Heron attempted to clarify the point. “At Caernarfon Castle.”
Jo stifled her smile only a fraction of a second too late. Heron rescued her. “My mates call me Bird.”
“O.K. Bird, so just relax, you might enjoy it. There is no official price list for the Counselling service but if you’re going to have another drink, I could be persuaded to have a slim-line tonic with you.”

The minor rise in temperature sufficed to set the ice breaking. Between customers they were soon chatting quite amicably. Heron was astonished at the ease with which he could talk to Jo. He was equally amazed at his illogical antipathy towards Michael O’Donohue, a man he had never met.

Despite the officer’s natural seriousness, his conversation rolled along a line of village gossip and light chitchat for some time. After a while, Jo sensed pretence. “Why did you really come here tonight Bird?”

The sudden question shocked him into momentary silence. He cleared his throat. “I’ve managed to get a photograph sent down from Cumbria. I was going to bring it over to your house, then I realised you would be at work. It’s a picture of the… of your hus… I’m not sure this is the right place. I’m sorry, I’ll call over tomorrow.” He stepped down from his stool to leave.
Jo reassured him, “Don’t worry, you have your job to do. The sooner we can eliminate Stephen, the better for everyone. After that, you can get on with finding out who the poor devil really is. Let’s see it.”
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a single folded sheet, which he opened up looking first at the image then at Jo. “Are you sure?”
She smiled, a little touched by his concern. “Of course, give it here.”
He passed the picture over to her.
The expressionless death-chilled image instantly pulled Jo’s stomach muscles into a tight knot. Bland grey and ghastly against its dark background, the face seized Jo’s senses in a silent menacing grip. Closed eyelids gave an unnatural, mask-like quality. Slightly long hair enhanced the alien appearance. The features, however, left no doubt in Jo’s mind. That vile dead thing surely was Stephen. A tide of horror welled within her head then suddenly receded, taking the blood from her brain as it went. With a long soft sigh, she slumped to the floor.

Bird vaulted the bar and knelt to support Jo’s head. Bob and his friend rushed through from the snug to assist him. In the few seconds it took someone to suggest an ambulance, Jo regained sufficient consciousness to refuse any such thing. She scrambled to her feet, insisting that everything was fine. No one dared to disagree with the plain lie.

Bob’s friend dispersed the gathering customers. Jo sat at an empty table near the bar accepting a large brandy from her boss. Its aroma instantly soothed her as she held the large glass under her nose and breathed deeply. Bob looked to Heron for an explanation. An odd blend of shock and sympathy creased the officer’s brow, as he obliged.

The amber liquid trembled slightly in Jo’s glass as she put down her untouched drink, stood and smoothed down her skirt. After a deep steadying breath, she turned to Bob and smiled. “Sorry about that. Right… back to work.” She stepped towards the bar. Bob blocked her way, insisting that her shift was over for the day. His tone confirmed an end to discussion on the matter. Bird Heron escorted Jo out to his car and drove her home.

Grim silence accompanied them on their short journey. Jo could not hold her brain still long enough to assemble a coherent thought. Heron sensed her problem but could offer no comfort. When they arrived at Drover’s Cottage, Bird made two mugs of tea. Jo stared into hers as he sipped, taking time to ensure that the woman could safely be left alone. After finally thanking the officer for his help and saying goodnight, Jo saw him out. She locked and bolted her front door before Heron drove off. Autopilot navigated her back to the lounge, where she raked over the ashes of her fire and selected two logs. She changed her mind. The logs remained in her arms as she knelt shivering yet afraid to rekindle the flames.

Her watch showed that it was past midnight when the insistent chirping of her mobile phone finally startled her back to reality. Without quite knowing why, Jo hesitated before answering, and then sighed with sheer relief at the sound of a familiar voice.

Annabelle was returning Jo’s call immediately after returning home from the Fiddler’s Elbow, anticipating a bedtime chat. She listened with rapt attention as her friend reported the disturbing news. Without the slightest hesitation, Annabelle said she would be down next day. Jo made an unconvincing protest while thanking whoever was on duty at the prayer desk that Annabelle refused to listen. The short comforting conversation sent Jo upstairs to bed a little happier.

Habit drew her to the joyful nightly ritual of a lingering look at her wonderful open view of Dorset. Jo had never closed the bedroom curtains since her arrival at Drover’s Cottage. Through endless long lonely nights of laying Stephen’s memory to rest, the starry soot-black sky had been her comfort blanket. With each dawn, fresh light brightened her new life. Now, as she stood looking out into the night, cold dark memories came flooding back from beyond the distant horizon. Friendly old tree branches that she knew in every detail transformed somehow into sinister grasping fingers. Cloud shadows, which nightly danced across the moonlit pastures, now slithered over the landscape like dark marauders. Nothing had changed, yet everything was different.

Jo shuddered as the shocking bland grey corpse flashed back into the spotlight of her mind. No one could deny that Stephen had in many ways been one of life’s real bastards but he was never bland, never grey, and never without abundant life. Jo pulled the curtains tight shut, climbed into bed and drew the duvet round her body like a cocoon, with her metamorphosis rudely arrested.

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