The car twitched on the wet road before the traction control killed the potential skid. Tyler told himself he must drive more slowly. It had been a good lunch; a very good lunch. The wine – Clos de ... Clos de something, had surpassed its reputation; the cognac, Courvoisier Wellington ... Napoleon? He must remember to tell Bill that and hear the deep belly laugh. A good cognac was captured sunshine. He found he was heading towards the grass verge and hurriedly altered course.

A triangular field ready to be harvested marked the beginning of his estate. He chuckled.

He passed Fiddler's Wood. Who was Fiddler? A corruption of the local word 'fibbler' meaning thief. Some old fool had recently told him that it was just the name of one of the past owners of the wood. No Fiddler was mentioned in the estate's papers.

He looked down at the clock on the dashboard and could not immediately read the time. Then his sight sharpened. It was already five and he had told Julia he would be with her by four. She would be in a bad mood. Would shout that he never could be bothered to show her any respect. Strange how women of her ilk demanded the illusion of respect. Their shield from reality? The later he was, the longer it would take to warm her up. He increased speed and failed to note Hopfeld Corner until he was almost upon it.

He braked sharply as he turned in to the corner, but this time the car was unable to counter his stupidity. The skid took him across the road and into a man and woman who had been walking arm-in-arm along the lane. The man was thrown violently to the left, the woman up and on to the bonnet and then on to the road.

He braked to a halt. Shock cleared his mind sufficiently to understand that to stop there and call for an ambulance would lead to his being breathalysed by the police and found to be well over the limit. Then, what chance would he have of claiming the couple had suddenly stepped off the grass verge in front of the car or that the steering had failed?

His mind raced. The car had hit them with such force they must be either severely injured or dead. His wealth would count against him, thanks to the common hatred of success, and the law would pursue him with zeal. He might have to face the charge of causing death by dangerous driving when under the influence. The usual penalty for that was jail. But jail was for the robber, the rapist, the corrupt businessman, not people like he. He drove on, desperately trying to work out how to escape suspicion of guilt.

The light rain had stopped and the sky was beginning to clear. A car pulled to a stop and Detective Inspector Knox climbed out, lifted the police tape to pass under it, crossed to where Detective Sergeant Cameron stood.

'What's the latest on the victims?'

'One dead on arrival, one critically ill and unlikely to survive.'

'Shit!'

They watched the forensic team, in white plastic suits, finger-searching the road and grass verge. Knox was silent for a short while as he visually assessed the area and the searchers, then asked: 'Do we know who they were?'

'Neither of them carried any ID. They're likely locals since they had been walking and judging by the lack of coats, before the brief drizzle stated. I've sent a Uniform along to see if he can learn anything in Eastingford which is the next village, half a mile or so further on.

'The chap from Vehicles is reasonably certain the car was driving down that lane' – he pointed – 'came in to the corner far too quickly, went into a skid which took him into the couple. So far, Forensics have found a broken wing mirror very recently wrenched off its stand, so there's good reason to think it was from the crash car. Seems likely the mirror's from a luxury job.'

Knox brought a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. 'Smoke?'

'Not for the past couple of years, sir.'

'Want to live long enough to draw your pension?' The two men liked and respected each other; their relationship was as near friendship as rank allowed. Knox lit a cigarette. 'Let's hear your thoughts.'

'These lanes don't lead directly to anywhere and become a bit of a maze if you don't know your way around, so the driver might well be local.'

'Or visiting friends who live nearby. Whichever, he will have driven off as if the hounds of hell were gnawing at the back tyres, assuming the driver was a man. Can't see a woman carrying on, careless of what happened to the couple. If he's fairly local, he'll have reached home some time ago. If he's not local, he'll have made for the quickest possible escape route. How far is the nearest motorway junction?'

'A couple of miles.'

'Are there speed cameras there?'

'Can't say, Guv. I'll get on to Traffic and find out.'

'Tell them we're looking for a car, luxury class, which has lost a wing mirror and is being driven at high speed.'

The victims were identified on Sunday. Irene Drew, twenty-one. Blaise Newcome, twenty-six. Partners for a couple of years and intending to marry in August.

It was Knox's task to inform the parents of the tragic deaths. A task he hated and which left him emotionally disturbed for a long time.

Traffic had reported that cameras on the motorway had recorded a car heading south at speeds ranging from 90 to 115 miles an hour. It was identified as a Bentley and its nearside wing mirror was missing. Registered in the name of Tyler, Two Oaks Manor.

'Something in this case is out of kilter,' Knox said suddenly as they drove out of the town of Arlington and entered countryside.

'Why so?' Cameron asked as he changed gear.

'The car's registered in the name of a local estate owner. If he was driving, why head for the motorway instead of home; hoping we'd fail to trace the car and he could hide it until it would be safe to have it repaired without comment?'

'Sheer panic?'

'Wouldn't that rush him to the supposed security of home?'

'Maybe the driver was one of the staff, too terrified to go back and report what had happened.'

Knox stared out at a field in which a herd of Friesians were strip grazing. 'Have you ever wanted to live in the country?'

'I wouldn't mind it, but Gwen certainly would.'

'Why so?'

'She'd feel cut-off, too lonely.'

'A degree of solitude, yes, but in this day and age that's a luxury. Win enough money and it'll be an Elizabethan farmhouse for the wife and me; oak beams, inglenook fireplaces, and a shoe bricked up in the wall.'

'A what?'

'When they built a house in those days, they bricked up a shoe to bring good luck to everyone who lived in it. I could do with a life in which there's more good luck than bad.'

'The only way you'll find that is to retire from the force.'

'True.'

They turned right and drove past a small wood, a part of which had recently been cut down.

'You don't see that very often these days,' Knox remarked.

'See what, Guv?'

'Coppicing.'

'So what's that when it's at home?'

'No one will ever mistake you for a countryman.'

'Because I sometimes smile?'

A cock pheasant suddenly flew out of the hedgerow and with frantically beating wings, voiding, flew across the front of the car.

'Another ten miles an hour and I could have had it for supper,' Cameron said.

'A poacher who's totally ignorant of the countryside?'

'That would be a gift, not a poach ... We're just about there. In ten minutes, we'll know if the butler did it.'

Weak humour helped to counter emotions.

They drove through the stone gateway, with elaborate wrought-iron gates, and up the curving drive which was lined with rhododendron bushes. Two Oaks Manor was misnamed. The two oaks, once locally renowned for their age and girth, had been felled at the beginning of the last century, and the oblong Edwardian building could hardly have looked less like a traditional manor house.

They left the car, crossed the gravel and stepped into the elaborate portico. On the heavy, panelled door was a fox's head with a ring through its mouth.

'Reminds me of a film I saw when I was a kid,' Cameron said. 'Scared the daylights out of me because when the door opened, a werewolf stood there.'

'Can we pass over your childhood excesses and move on?' Cameron lifted the heavy ring and knocked twice.

The door was opened by a nearly-middle-aged woman who wore an apron over her dress and carried an old-fashioned duster in her right hand.

'Detective Inspector Knox and Detective Sergeant Cameron,' Knox said.

She looked uncertainly at him.

Knox spoke pleasantly. 'We've come to talk to Mr Tyler. Is he here?' She shook her head.

'Then we'd better have a word with you. May we come in?'

She hesitated, finally said: 'I suppose it'll be all right.'

They entered a hall, unexpectedly small considering the size of the house. On two of the walls hung pompous paintings, one of an elderly man, the other an elderly woman. She led the way into the sitting room, which was luxuriously furnished yet lacked any touch of family life. They settled on comfortable armchairs.

'For a start,' Knox said with light humour, 'we'd better know who you are?'

'Mrs Peterson. I'm the housekeeper and my husband is the gardener.' She spoke uneasily.

'And between you, you obviously keep everything in apple-pie order.'

She did not respond to the laboured flattery.

'Like I said, we wish to have a word with Mr Tyler to find out if he can help us.'

'Then he's not in any trouble?'

'Would that be likely?'

'But why ...?' She did not finish.

'Maybe you can tell us where he is right now?'

'I can't.'

'So when did you last see him?'

'When he left here yesterday to have lunch with his friends.'

'And he didn't return?'

'The husband and me were out since it was our afternoon and evening off.'

'Then you assumed he'd returned before you did?'

'That's right. So when it was time this morning, I phoned up to see what he wanted for breakfast and there was no answer.'

'What did you think had happened?'

'Couldn't tell. Never says what he's going to do. Only I told the husband to go up and see if he was in bed and not very well. Goes up and knocks; there's no answer, so he opens the door and calls out. Don't like to walk straight in. Sometimes has a friend staying.'

'Female?'

She sniffed.

'Was someone with him?'

'The husband came back down and said the bed hadn't been slept in.'

'Did that surprise you?'

'Not really.'

'So, his car was in the garage?'

'Only the small one was there.'

'He has a large one as well?'

'Course he does,' she answered with surprise.

'What make is the large car?'

'A Bentley. Why d'you want to know?'

'Idle curiosity, Mrs Peterson. It's interesting to know how other people live. You said that yesterday he had lunch with friends. Do you know their names?'

'Mr and Mrs Dell.'

'Have you phoned them to find out if he stayed with them for the night?'

'He wouldn't like me doing that. Think I was snooping on his life.'

'Nevertheless, would you ask them now?'

She left the room, soon returned. 'He left them late in the afternoon.'

'Will you give me their telephone number? It may be necessary to have a word with them.'

She turned back towards the door.

'At the same time, will you find a photograph of him?'

The question worried her further, but she left without comment. When she returned, she handed him a square of paper on which was a phone number and a photograph of a man in riding kit seated on a horse.

'Thanks,' Knox said. He stood. 'We'll leave you in peace ... Oh! there is one other question. Does Mr Tyler own a property abroad?'

'Yes.'

'Do you know where?'

'On the island.'

'Which island would that be?'

'Majorca.'

'Lucky man. Sun, sea, sangria and —' He stopped abruptly. 'Whereabouts in Majorca?'

'Port something.'

'Have you any suggestions as to what the something might be?'

'Can't rightly remember.'

'Perhaps you'd look through his address book and anything else to see if you can find the name and address of the house?'

'Can't do that.'

'Why?'

'Because I don't go looking through people's personal things,' she said sharply.

'Very understandable. If you should recall the address, let me know, will you?' Knox handed her a card. 'That's the phone number and if you ask for me, they'll put you straight through.'

Seven minutes later, they drove out of the grounds on to the road.

'Did you notice the old girl's expression when you suggested she searched through his stuff for the address?' Cameron asked.

'Nice to meet such honesty – except in a case like this.'

'You'll ask for a search warrant?'

'On the grounds we have right now, no magistrate would think twice before lecturing me on the requirements for a successful application.'

'Then ... are you thinking what I'm thinking?'

'It's to be hoped not,' Knox answered ironically.

'Tyler realized his only hope of escaping arrest was to get the car out of the country so all the damage from the collision could be repaired before there was any reasonable chance of our finding it. Without the physical proof the damaged car could provide, all he could be charged with would be driving too quickly on the motorway.'

'So you visit the Dells and tactfully find out how much Tyler had to drink at lunch. You then request a visual search of all CCTV videos covering the Euro Tunnel and the ferries from five thirty onwards on Saturday.'

Alvarez, sitting at the table in the sitting-cum-dining room, dunked a piece of ensaïmada in hot chocolate.

'You realize what the time is?' Dolores called out from the kitchen.

He looked at his watch, and was vaguely surprised to note it was already twenty-five past eight.

'If you don't hurry up, you won't arrive at the post before it's time to return for lunch.'

He pulled off another piece of ensaïmada. 'What's for lunch?'

'I'm far too busy to worry about that now.'

'Perhaps Estafado de buey?' he suggested hopefully. When she cooked a pot roast of beef, carrots, turnips, bacon, onions, garlic and spices, in red wine, it was a dish in the gastronomic premier league.

'As my mother used to say, "A woman works while a man dreams."'

Not for the first time, he wondered why her mother had so often expressed contempt for men. Her husband should have corrected her very early in their marriage.

She stepped through the bead curtain across the kitchen doorway. 'You do not intend to work today?'

'There's no rush.'

'Not for you, since you are incapable of rushing. But for me, having to look after a family and my tired cousin, I cannot enjoy the luxury of rest. I need to clear and polish the table, so you will move.'

He picked up plate and mug, crossed to the nearest chair, sat.

'Should I have apologized for not waiting until it was convenient for you to move out of the way?'

He ate the last piece of ensaïmada. Carlos Dolivellas had written that woman was an enigma of unpredictability. Perhaps he had known a Dolores who spoke with a sharpened tongue. A pity a woman's character was not more like a man's.

The Guardia Civil post was a reasonably short walk away. He might have considered undertaking it had not the day already been so burning hot. When a man sweated, he lost necessary salts. One should not risk the body's suffering such deprivation. He drove to work.

The duty cabo congratulated him on arriving at work so early; he ignored the puerile comment, crossed to the stairs and climbed them, not pausing to regain his breath until out of sight of the cabo. Once seated in his office, he toyed with the idea of eating, smoking and drinking less, as his doctor kept demanding.

Four letters had been left on his desk. He regarded them with dislike and did not open them since they would contain unnecessary information or, in the case of the envelope with the insignia of the superior chief's office, trouble.

The phone rang. He waited for it to stop, which it eventually did. He settled back in the chair and thought about the suggestions now being made on how to teach youngsters to drink sensibly. Typical political stupidity. Didn't they understand that to learn to drink sensibly, one first had to drink stupidly?

The phone rang again and he accepted it would be an idea to answer it.

'Inspector Alvarez?'

The speaker did not identify herself, but there was no need to do so. Only Salas's secretary spoke with such arrogant female superiority. 'Yes, señorita.'

'The superior chief will speak to you.'

He waited, wondering what he had done and should not have; what he had not done and should have.

'Where the hell are you?' Salas finally demanded.

'In my office in Llueso, señor.'

'I would hardly expect you to be on the top of Puig Major.'

'But you asked where was I ...'

'And received an idiotic answer.'

'I wouldn't have said it was.'

'You are a poor judge of what you say.'