Scared to Live. Stephen Booth

table. A spiral staircase with cast-iron balustrades led to a first-floor gallery, what must have been a hayloft or something at one time.

      ‘We’re members of Neighbourhood Watch, you know,’ said Ridgeway. ‘But our co-ordinator says the police won’t give him any information. Has there been another robbery?’

      ‘Another?’

      His eyes widened in astonishment. ‘You don’t even know about them?’

      ‘No, I’m sorry. Right now, we’re conducting enquiries into a suspicious death.’

      ‘Good heavens! We didn’t know that. But I suppose we ought to have guessed it was something more high profile, to justify all this activity. Who is it that’s died?’

      ‘Miss Rose Shepherd, at Bain House.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Ridgeway.

      He sounded distinctly non-committal, as if he didn’t want to appear either too upset or too pleased at the news.

      Fry thought of Keith Wade, the Mullens’ neighbour back at Darwin Street. It was odd that both Ridgeway and Wade were members of their respective Neighbourhood Watch schemes, one in a well- off rural community and the other on an Edendale housing estate. There were no superficial similarities between them, but theoretically Martin Ridgeway ought to be equally well informed about his neighbours.

      ‘What do you know about Rose Shepherd, sir?’ she asked.

      Ridgeway turned his head. Fry could see a room through a doorway that appeared to be a home office, a desk loaded with computer equipment.

      ‘Was she foreign?’ he said vaguely. ‘We heard a rumour in the village that she was foreign.’

      ‘Not so far as we’re aware. Did you never speak to her yourself, Mr Ridgeway?’

      ‘No. Why would I?’

      ‘Well, she lived right next door.’

      He shook his head. ‘It’s not as if these are semidetached properties. I don’t know anything about her.’

      Fry found herself staring at a mahogany barometer on the dining-room wall. She’d never understood those things. If the mercury was up or down, what did it mean? She preferred those weather houses, or whatever the things were called, with two little Jack and Jill figures. At least it was always clear what they were telling you. Sun or rain, and no ambiguity.

      ‘Didn’t you say you were in Neighbourhood Watch?’

      ‘We keep an eye on the security of property, we don’t spy on our neighbours.’

      Fry could see a woman doing something in the garden. ‘Is that your wife? Could I ask her?’

      ‘If you like.’

      Sliding doors stood open to the garden, because it was still warm enough for that, even in late October. At least it was preferable to the Lowthers’ overheated conservatory.

      April Ridgeway was wearing the cashmere, with a waxed body warmer and gardening gloves. When asked, she gave a similar story to her husband’s. She had never spoken to the occupant of Bain House. There might have been some talk about Miss Shepherd in the village, but she made a point of not listening to gossip.

      ‘Have long have you lived in Foxlow?’

      ‘Nine months.’

      ‘So Miss Shepherd was already living at Bain House when you moved in.’

      ‘I suppose so.’

      ‘You’re interested in wildlife, Mrs Ridgeway?’ asked Fry, watching her tighten some wire netting on a bird table.

      ‘Very much so. We both are, aren’t we, Martin?’

      ‘It’s one of the reasons we came to live here, in the national park,’ agreed her husband. He stood back from the bird table and inspected his wife’s handiwork.

      ‘That netting is to stop the grey squirrels,’ he said.

      Fry frowned, struggling to understand why wildlife enthusiasts would put food out in their garden and then try to stop wild animals eating it. But during her time in Derbyshire, she’d learned that there were things about the country she would never understand.

      ‘Our only regret was that we couldn’t go somewhere that still has red squirrels. We’re members of a conservation society that supports work to protect them. Reds have been wiped out in Derbyshire, you know. In fact, the whole of the Midlands.’

      Fry didn’t know, and didn’t really care. Perhaps she should have sent Ben Cooper here and taken the neighbours on the other side of Bain House instead.

      ‘You know, it was once possible for a red squirrel to cross from one side of Britain to the other without touching the ground,’ said Ridgeway, taking advantage of her silence. ‘That was when we had the true wild wood, the ancient pine forests that had grown here since the Ice Age. But those trees died, or were cut down. And then the grey squirrels came.’

      ‘If you have an interest in wildlife, I wonder if you’ve been aware of anybody lamping in this area?’ asked Fry.

      ‘Lamping?’

      ‘You know what that is, sir?’

      ‘Oh, we know what that is, all right. If we knew about anything like that going on around here, we’d report it straightaway. But what has that got to do with this suspicious death you’re investigating? Was the lady killed by poachers?’

      ‘I’m afraid we just don’t know.’

      He took her ignorance as confirmation of his own fears. ‘That’s another problem our native wildlife is facing, you know. Animals are the first victims when society starts to fall apart. Look at all those stories of illegal immigrants stealing swans and butchering sheep in the fields.’

      ‘You read the Daily Mail, then?’ said Fry impatiently.

      ‘You’re not from this area yourself, by the sound of your accent.’

      ‘No, I’m not.’

      ‘A city person? Birmingham, at a guess?’

      ‘Very close.’

      ‘Ah, I can understand why you came here, then. Seeking to get back to the real England, like we did.’

      ‘No, not at all.’

      ‘I know it’s not politically correct to say it, but many of your colleagues agree with our views.’

      ‘Not me.’

      Ridgeway smiled and gestured at the bird table. ‘We sometimes think of grey squirrels as the immigrants of the animal world. They’re nothing but vermin, after all – rats with furry tails.’

      Fry felt the anger rising, but she’d promised herself she was going to be more tolerant of people she had to deal with. Even those who infuriated her as much as Martin Ridgeway.

      She consulted her notebook, partly to cover her irritation, and partly to remind herself of the questions she would otherwise fail to ask.

      ‘Have either of you noticed a blue Vauxhall Astra in the village recently? No? A vehicle of any kind acting suspiciously?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Any vehicles at all visiting Bain House?’

      ‘We can’t see the entrance to Bain House from here, so we wouldn’t know.’

      ‘And did you hear anything unusual on Saturday night, or in the early hours of Sunday morning?’

      ‘Our double glazing is very good. We don’t hear much noise at night.’

      ‘One final question, sir – do you possess a firearm of any description?’

      Ridgeway hesitated. ‘I do have an air rifle.’

      ‘Oh?