Bree sat down at the kitchen table and turned on her laptop. By the time the coffee had brewed she had come up with a plan; she was going to investigate the woman’s murder. She glanced at the flashing battery indicator and plugged it into the socket, charging the device as she worked. Bringing up a blank word document Bree fell easily into her old habits as a detective. There was no substitute for methodical police work so she made a list:

1. Library records for old newspaper stories.
2. Talk to locals. May be more talkative than Mike.
3. Pub should be good for gossip.
4. Grace Chatman’s family owned the Post Office for generations. Does she remember anything?
5. Nearest police station - York. Possible to get access to case records?
6. Who could victim be? Did police have any clue to identify? Who was reported missing prior to discovery? When did pathologist estimate time of death to be?
7. Did the police have any suspects?
8. What physical evidence did police have?
Satisfied she had a good enough list to be going on with, Bree closed the page but allowed the laptop to continue charging. She would take it with her to the library and make notes there…



Bree shifted down in gear, slowing her Shogun to take the turn for the library. The parking lot was small but she found a bay large enough to accommodate the car’s bulk. Having a library at all was a bit of a coup for Rampton. Most villages had to be satisfied with the services of a mobile library but Rampton was blessed with an ornate Town Hall, a gift from the local aristocracy.

Sir Godfrey Seaton, Earl of Rampton, had, by all accounts, been a most kind and generous man. A regular contributor to charity, he had desired to leave a gift to the village when he died. Thus, he commissioned the building of the Rampton Town Hall, hiring top quality stone masons, carpenters and artisans. The result was a magnificent building housing an enormous meeting hall and various rooms, including a banqueting hall on the first floor. It was, unfortunately, entirely impractical as a Town Hall, however, far exceeding the needs of the village. Unused for the majority of the year, the building was beginning to show signs of wear and neglect when the Seaton family came to the rescue once again.

Sir Maxwell, The seventh Earl of Rampton and Sir Godfrey’s great grandson, was not only a chip off the old block, but also a very fine businessman too. WWII was over and commerce was once again returning to Britain so he set about converting the meeting hall into an elegant well-stocked library and hired out the rooms for office space and conference facilities. Now the Town Hall was the thriving heart of the village again and looked magnificent with well kept flower beds, window boxes and hanging baskets adorning its frontage.

The carved wooden outer doors were propped open allowing visitors easy access to the small foyer. A security arch guarded the inner door to the library, the most recent addition to the building. Bree passed through the arch and turned right to the desk, behind which stood Marjorie Allan, the village librarian, re-labelling a large stack of J K Rowling books. “Hello, Marjorie,” greeted Bree. “You look busy.”

“Do you know,” confided the librarian, launching into conversation without the preliminary of a greeting, “this is the seventh time I’ve had to put new withdrawal labels on these Harry Potter books. The kids just can’t seem to get enough of them. Personally, I always try to steer them towards a good Famous Five or Nancy Drew, but nowadays it’s all magic and monsters. I was just saying to my Herb, I said the kids these days don’t know what’s good for them. What’s wrong with a good old fashioned adventure? It was good enough for us and our kids when we were young, so what’s so special about this generation of youngsters that they’ve got to have new fangled stories with gadgets and allsorts in before they can be bothered reading. Now my Herb, he tells me to be grateful the kids want to read at all, but I said to him, I said Herb, you need to look to educating their little minds while entertaining them. I said there’s no good having a story if there’s no lesson to be learned, is there? Why, when I was young…”

“Err, sorry to interrupt, Marjorie,” broke in Bree knowing from past experience that Marjorie was liable to rant unstoppably for a good twenty minutes if given half the chance, “I was wondering if I could take a look at some old local newspapers from the sixties? Do you have a microfiche machine here or have they been transferred to computer?”

Marjorie, momentarily lost for words, blinked rapidly, her eyelids temporarily taking over the non-stop motion normally performed by her mouth. Confusion finally subsided to a glimmer of inspiration. “Do you mean do we have the machine that has all the old documents and stuff put on little cartridge slide things?”

Bree inhaled a long breath. Dedicated to her job though Marjorie was, no one was ever likely to mistake her for an intellectual. “Yup.”

“Well we got some stuff on one of them fancy micro-whatjamacallem machines, like you said, but I’ve never used it, nor never had nobody ever ask me about it ‘fore now.” Bree noticed that Marjorie’s normal control of her pronunciation was slipping and reverting to her country twang. It was amazing, she thought, how often that could happen when someone was removed from their normal comfort zone and Marjorie had clearly left her own some way back.

“And I would find that…” prompted Bree, hoping to spur the woman into some kind of action.

“It’s in the corner room on the right, behind ‘Foreign Languages’. I can’t show you how to work it, though,” she confided, “Like I said before, I’ve never even loaded one of them cartridges.”

“No problem,” replied Bree, already walking towards the section Marjorie had pointed out. “I’ve used them many times. Is that where the film is kept too?” Marjorie nodded and watched Bree closely until she disappeared behind the stacks, wondering what on earth the American could possibly be interested in. Probably some old article with her father in it or some such. It was a real shame how he had died before the poor lass even had a chance to get here. From all accounts, too, the place had been up for sale and the poor girl had to put a stop to that. Now why would old Eddie want to go selling his place without a word to anyone? It was a complete mystery, that’s what it was and no doubt.

Finally, dismissing the problem from her head as unworthy of a good gossip with the ladies at WI, Marjorie turned back to her pile of new labels and contemplated the burning question of whether Herb would rather have shepherd’s pie or stew and dumplings for supper.

Closing the door gently behind her, Bree breathed a sigh of relief. She had made a lucky escape there and sent up a silent prayer of thanks that nobody had ever instructed Marjorie in the use of the microfiche machine. Heaven alone knows how long the woman could have talked then, possibly until Bree’s head exploded through submission.

Smiling to herself she unpacked the laptop from her rucksack and placed it on the large desk next to the solitary microfiche reader. It looked strange seeing the machine sitting here alone. She had only used them previously at the Central Library in New York. There were many more of them there, even since the advent of computers as it would be a monumental task to transfer all that data from one medium to another. As a result, she had often been forced to plough her way through mountains of old newspapers searching for that one snippet of relevant information an enterprising young journalist had documented but was not found in the police report.

Bree looked at the grey plastic machine with its large screen and marvelled that there was not a single spec of dust to be found, despite the fact it had never been used in the fifteen years Marjorie had worked at the library, perhaps even longer. She slid her hand down the right hand side, searching for the power button, and flicked it on. Nothing happened. Halting the feeling of defeat which was about to wash over her, Bree dropped to her knees and crawled under the desk. Sure enough, the plug was lying discarded on the floor so she picked it up and rammed it home into the wall socket. The machine beeped into life above her head. Thank god it still worked.

Bree crawled out from under the table and glanced at the screen to make sure it was lit up. Satisfied, she walked over to the filing drawer and began searching for the relevant information. After a bit of digging, she finally found the relevant index cards with the details of which films she was looking for, together with their locations on the films. Another cabinet stood next to this one and Bree pulled open the top drawer. Sure enough, this cabinet housed the film itself, and she spent a good few minutes searching through until she located the correct ones.

With the film clutched in her left hand, Bree sat down at the machine, located the little grey tab attached to the drawer under the screen, and pulled it towards her exposing the glass plate in the middle of the tray. Bree positioned the film face down on the plate and pushed the tray back into the machine, clicking it into place. Immediately the contents of the film appeared on the screen. Bree began scrolling through the film, searching for the frames detailed on her index card.

Eventually she hit upon the story she was looking for. Scrolling back more slowly, she centred the page on the screen and began reading. The first article was by a reporter for the Yorkshire Evening Post by the name of Terry McGuire. Bree leaned forward into the screen and began reading:

TORSO FOUND IN LOCAL POND
The partial remains of an unidentified woman were discovered yesterday
evening in a small farmyard pond, just ten miles from the sleepy village of Rampton.
The usual tranquil life of the residents of Rampton was shattered following the
gruesome find made by three boys, all aged 10 and pupils of Rampton Primary
School. One source close to the boys, who wishes to remain anonymous, told
this reporter that it was normal for the boys to go to the woods near the pond and it
had been a regular play area for the local children for many years. The distressed
woman added that the boys often swam in the pond and had never noticed anything
untoward.

Peter Frazer, 63, the farmer upon whose land the corpse was discovered,
was today unavailable for comment. It is not known at this time whether Police believe
a connection exists between the dead woman and Mr Frazer. Mr Frazer’s wife, Jennifer,
60, and their son, Edward, 29, were also unavailable for comment.
A Police spokesman confirmed the woman had met her death under
suspicious circumstances, although there was nothing further to report at this time.

When asked as to the possible identity of the woman, Police added that
her body was in an extremely advanced stage of decomposition, consistent with
death having occurred a number of years prior to yesterday’s discovery. There
were a number of lines of enquiry presently open to them and each would be followed
up in due course. An incident room is being set up at the local Primary School, and
all enquiries and information should be conducted through there. A special telephone
line is being set up and the number will be available in tomorrow’s Yorkshire Evening
Post.

A post-mortem will be conducted at York Memorial Hospital and forensic
examination of the site is expected to continue well into the night.




The article was accompanied by a grainy photograph of the wood, obviously taken some distance away. Bree doubted her family had allowed the press access to the site and wondered if that had coloured the reporter’s obvious insinuations regarding her grandfather. No wonder her father had refused to discuss the subject, she thought.

Bree sent a copy of the article to the printer but left it sitting in the tray while she searched for the next news story. She remained engrossed in the various articles, slipping new films into the drawer at a rapid pace for the next few hours. Whenever she came across an interesting article Bree would send it to the printer, now and again making notes on her laptop. She worked away methodically until three o’clock when she was shaken from her reverie by a knock at the door. Marjorie stuck her head in and glanced round the room, “Sorry to interrupt, dear, but it’s early closing today and I’m just doing my rounds before locking up.” The woman’s eyes alighted on the pile of papers in the printer tray. “You seem to have found what you’re looking for at any rate…..”

Bree knew the woman was fishing for gossip but she was not inclined to play ball right now. Perhaps later, though. It was possible that Marjorie knew a snippet or two that was not in the official records. “I’ve managed to find a few things I was looking for,” she replied, “But I think I have a long way to go yet.” Bree moved over to Marjorie and whispered conspiratorially, “I’m doing a bit of local research for a project of mine.”

“Oh really!” exclaimed Marjorie moving in the direction of the printer tray, “Anything I can help you with?” Bree intercepted the woman easily and shuffled the papers together, slipping them into her bag. “Not at the moment, thanks. I’ve got enough to be going on with but I may still like to come and pick your brains sometime in the future, if that’s okay?” Inflating the woman’s ego, she added, “Sometimes there’s no substitute for local knowledge.”

Marjorie preened and puffed out her chest. “Well of course,” she enthused. “I’d love to help you anytime. Just you let me know and we can have a nice long chat over a cup of tea. Why, it was only the other day I was saying to my Herb, I said Herb, the things I know about the people round here I could write a book on them if I wasn’t so good a keeping a secret, like. Yes indeed, I’ve heard a fair few secrets in my time, I can tell you.”

Bree nodded along with the conversation, wondering why on earth anyone in their right mind would ever consider trusting Marjorie with a secret. She probably tortured the information out of them with her relentless jabbering. “Well that’s really wonderful to know, but I shouldn’t keep you from your job any longer, Marjorie, I’d better get going and let you finish locking up.”

Bree escaped into the sunlight a few moments later, Marjorie having followed her to the door, the whole way her tongue moving faster than Bree’s feet could carry her. Having barely warded off the bombardment of questions regarding the research, Bree breathed a sigh of relief as she dumped her laptop and bag in the back seat of her car before climbing in and closing the door firmly behind her. She started up the engine and turned the Shogun in the direction of town, heading for the supermarket. During the drive Bree mulled over the information she had gathered at the library and came to the conclusion that she now had more questions than when she started out, but maybe she would find some of those answers in the police records. One thing she was certain of, however, was that the reporter had found her family very interesting and this coloured every story he wrote. Bree wondered if there was any foundation in the journalist’s suspicions or was he grasping at straws for a bit of sensationalism. Either way, she decided there was another point to be added to her little list, and that was to speak to Terry McGuire in person.



Bree closed the door on the last kennel and pushed the new bolt smoothly into place. She detected a faint hum from the overhead fluorescent lights and looked around at the gleaming whitewashed walls, red quarry stone floor tiles and newly built kennels lining both walls of the long narrow stable block. A smile of satisfaction crept across her tanned complexion as she admired the successful transformation from run down stables to new kennel block. It was now ready for paying customers and not a moment too soon, especially as she had three bookings lined up for the following month. Having anticipated this moment for so long she could hardly believe it was finally here.

Bree pushed a stray strand of blonde hair behind her right ear and marvelled at how much her life had changed in such a relatively short period of time. Her father had died just eighteen months ago leaving everything to her. The decision to move had not been an easy one, but she knew now it had been the correct decision and one she hoped Bobby would have approved of.

They’d had a happy life together, the three of them living modestly in a two bedroom apartment with their Labrador, Lady. Their lives were turned upside down however when Bobby, also a detective in the NYPD, had been killed on duty. Both he and his partner, Frank Bonneti, had been caught in the crossfire between two rival gangs. Neither of them stood a chance. When the Force moved heaven and earth to bring the culprits to justice it was little compensation to the young widow and her son. Even now, years later, Bree’s eyes still stung when she thought of the tragic end to her uncharacteristically happy cop marriage.

Nic, then only eight, had taken it particularly hard. Losing his father to the job was one thing, but he feared the same would happen to his mother too. He had a traumatic couple of years in therapy before finally coming to terms with his father’s death and accepting the fact that his mother wanted to remain on the Force. In truth she had considered packing it all in, but she possessed no other skills or means of earning an income. All she had known was police work.

Bree reached over and flicked the light switch, plunging the kennel block into darkness. It was a moonless night and, since the nearest street light was over ten miles away in the village of Rampton and the city, York, twenty miles further on, she had to navigate her way back to the farmhouse with the help of her high beam torch and the keen eyes of the dogs. “Don’t worry girls,” she whispered nodding her head back in the direction of the kennels. “You two still get to live in the big house with us.” The animals looked at their mistress, cocking their heads to catch the sound of her voice, completely oblivious to the reassurance her words offered or to the possibility that they would reside anywhere other than at her side. Bree reached down and brushed her fingers across Saffron’s smooth head, reassured by both dogs’ presence in the total darkness of the Yorkshire countryside. “I think we’ll just check on the horses before going to bed.”

When Bree finally locked the farmhouse door it was eleven o’clock. The old Grandfather clock chimed the hour in the corner of the grand hallway, a fixture since her great-grandparents’ day. Well oiled and polished over the many years since, it was a faithful timekeeper to the Frazer clan. Now it was keeping time on a very different enterprise from that of her ancestors. The transition from dairy farm to soft fruit farm, boarding kennels and stables had been remarkably easy.

Unknown to her Bree’s father, Eddie Frazer, had sold off the dairy cattle in September, just two months before his death. He had then made arrangements with a local agent to handle the sale of the farm itself.

Although Bree’s mother, Monica, had returned to her native New York when Bree was six years old, it was due more to homesickness than any serious relationship issues. As a result both Bree’s parents had remained on good terms and she enjoyed a childhood supported by two loving parents, even though they did not live together. In fact her parents’ relationship remained so close that Bree’s father had been as devastated by Monica’s death three years previously as he would have been had they stayed married.

Since the age of six Bree had returned to Yorkshire to spend summer vacations with her father every year until she went off to college, her visits becoming sporadic as her young adult life became more complicated. Bree often regretted that turn of events and wished she could have seen her father more often, but her busy job in the NYPD had allowed her very little time or money to travel to England on a regular basis. She had actually been due to visit her father the following spring, but he had passed away in November, just four days after Nic’s fifteenth birthday.

Bree travelled to Yorkshire when her father died and discovered that an agent had been instructed in the sale of the farm. She was, of course, shocked and asked him to postpone the marketing of the property to allow Bree time to finalise her father’s affairs. It was whilst attempting to find out why her father had made such a drastic decision that she learned her father’s physician, Dr Clay, had been treating Eddie for heart trouble for two years. Realising he had very little time left, Eddie had begun the process of liquidising his assets, beginning with the sale of his livestock. Attached to Eddie’s Will was a long letter addressed to Bree. In it he confided he did not wish to cause too much distress and that he felt the best course of action was to begin the disposal of his estate, making it easier for her to get on with her life without the burden of the farm. Bree had read the letter is tears, wishing her father had told her of his illness before it was too late. Now she would never have the chance to tell him that neither he nor the farm could ever have been a burden to her.

Whilst following her train of thought from the past back into the present, Bree had subconsciously been wandering throughout the ground floor, checking that the doors and windows were all secure. Nic would often laugh at his mother for her fastidiousness when it came to security, pointing out the huge differences between life here in the Yorkshire countryside and the bustling, crime ridden streets of New York. “It’s not as if burglars prowl the farms at night, just hoping to find an unlocked window,” he mocked.

“There you go letting your immaturity and inexperience of life show though again,” she would reply. Being so close, they often threw sarcastic comments at each other in fun. “Just shows you’re not the grown man you think you are.”

“Not at all,” he would quip back. “Just goes to show what a paranoid old lady you’ve become.” This remark was normally followed by Nic’s impression of an old crone hobbling round the room checking behind curtains and calling “I hope there’s no young man hiding here waiting to ravish me in my sleep!”

Finally, having made a complete circuit of the ground floor, Bree sprinted up the wide central staircase leading to the first floor, taking the steps two at a time, her dogs close on her heels. When she reached the carpeted landing, she slowed once more to a walk and moved over to Nic’s room. Unusually, no light shone from within so she turned the handle very slowly and pushed the door ajar. The light from the hallway caste faint illumination into the room, but Bree could clearly see Nic’s features from where she stood. Smiling at his tousled hair and slack mouthed expression, she wondered if the girls would find him half as attractive now. He was still her little boy, though, and it was at moments like these that love for him welled up in her heart close to bursting. Bree could not resist the impulse to enter the room and tiptoe over to her son’s bed. She bent over and gently brushed a kiss across his forehead. “Goodnight baby,” she whispered. “Love ya.” Just as quietly she returned to the hallway but, before the door closed back into its frame, Nic’s voice floated across the room.

“I love you too, Mom. ‘Night.”

Bree reached her room and went into the adjoining bathroom, turning on the shower before going to one of the two large oak chests of drawers running along one wall below the panoramic window. She took out a pair of royal blue silk pyjamas, a present from Marie Gray last Christmas, and laid them out on the king-size four poster bed. The sumptuous decoration of her bedroom in cream and peach, with the addition of the en-suite bathroom, was the only luxurious upgrade Bree had allowed herself so far, the rest of the money from the sale of the land having been spent on the conversion of the farm. She had reasoned that she would be spending so much time and effort on the farm all day that she deserved this one luxury, and she had never once regretted the decision.

After reaching over and closing the curtains on the darkness outside, Bree stripped off her clothes, dumped them in the laundry hamper, and stood before the full length antique mirror critically scanning her body from head to toe. Not too shabby, she told herself, admiring her trim figure, grateful that neither gravity nor motherhood had changed her appearance too much. Forty two years old, but with the body of a woman half her age, her father would call that good breeding stock. Her mother had also remained lithe and agile until her death, the unfortunate victim of breast cancer.

Bree, her examination over, headed for the shower and emerged half an hour later, steam rising from her tanned body. She dried herself vigorously and pulled on the soft silk pyjamas. She settled both dogs into their shared basket and slipped beneath the thick duvet on her own bed. Spring was beginning to step aside for the warmer weather of summer and Bree realised it was once again time to bring the cooler linens out of storage and pack the thick duvet away until later in the year. That was one of her favourite things about this new lifestyle of hers. Living in the city, the whole year tended to blend together, but here the seasons demanded everyone’s attention and each season had its time and place.

With plans and preparations for the coming summer dancing across Bree’s mind she was lulled peacefully to sleep. Briefly, for just a few seconds before she dropped into unconsciousness, Bree wondered if she would have that nightmare again.

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