Breaking Point by Frank Smith Read Free Book Online

morning. We used to come here quite often in the summer.’
    â€˜They’re probably so used to it by now that it would throw the whole village out of whack if they changed it,’ Tregalles told her. ‘Besides, it’s the sort of thing that makes the village different. Gives the Cotswold tourists something to talk about when they get home.’ He slowed to make his way past an awkwardly parked car in the narrow street. ‘I didn’t know you fished,’ he said.
    â€˜I don’t,’ she told him, ‘and I didn’t then, not really. I used to sit on the bank and dangle a dead worm on a hook in the water while Dad waded out into mid-stream to fly-fish. I never caught anything, of course, except the odd tiddler or stickleback with a net, but neither did he most of the time. I don’t think he really cared whether he caught anything or not; he just liked to be out here, and so did I. And the best part was we always had egg salad sandwiches for lunch.’
    There was a wistful quality to the words, and Molly’s dark eyes were sombre as she surveyed the street ahead.
    Tregalles refrained from comment, remembering just in time that Molly’s father had died quite recently. Apparently a healthy man in his middle fifties, he’d collapsed in the street one Saturday afternoon while out shopping, and died in the ambulance on the way to hospital. Aneurysm, they’d said, the sergeant recalled.
    Wisteria Cottage was at the far end of the village, and a small white van was parked in front of it. ‘Looks like SOCO’s here ahead of us,’ Tregalles said as he pulled in beside it and they both got out. He led the way up the flagstone path to the house. ‘I’ll introduce you to Emma Baker, and then I’m off to see if I can find this bloke, Doyle. Have a chat with Emma before you see what the neighbours have to say. See if she’s remembered anything that might help since we talked to her yesterday. And find out, if you can, if she and Newman had something going. She might be a bit more forthcoming with you than she would be with us.’
    â€˜Is there any reason to believe there was anything going on between them?’
    Tregalles shrugged. ‘Not really, but you never know, do you?’ he said. ‘A young lad like Newman, a bit wet behind the ears, and an older woman. Could be she fancied him.’
    â€˜Older woman?’ Molly stared at him. ‘What does that make me, then? I thought you said she was in her late twenties?’
    Tregalles shrugged. ‘Well, it’s all relative, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I mean, he’d hardly been gone any time at all before she reported him missing. Maybe she came on too strong; he got scared and took off, and she’s using us to find him. Like I said, you never know, do you?’
    Before Molly could reply, he lifted the heavy door-knocker and let it drop against the iron striker plate.
    Cutter’s Caravan Court had been there a long time, as had many of the caravans by the look of them. It was located at the base of what had once been a gravel pit sliced out of the hillside about a quarter of a mile from the village. It was hot in the summer and cold in the winter, but it had water and electricity, and compared to the escalating price of houses in the area, it was a cheap place to live.
    There were fourteen caravans in all, some big, some small, and all of them looked as if they were there for the long term. It was a clean site, the space between caravans was generous, and some even had raised garden beds beside them. The soil must have been brought in, Tregalles decided, because even dandelions would be hard pressed to push their way through the natural base of hard-packed gravel.
    It wasn’t exactly gardening weather, but one man was out there digging in his small plot. Tregalles stopped the car and rolled the window down. ‘You’re pushing it a bit, aren’t