It was all too perfect and not quite real. From a distance, the thatched cottage could have been a poster for the North Devon Tourist Board. The low sun made the place glow, seem magical.Įvery colour was heightened, more intense: the red of the brick and tile at the big house and the green of the field next to the lane where black and white cows grazed. Jonathan had never previously been to Westacombe, and when they pulled into the farmyard, he was struck by the beauty of it all, distracted for a moment from his reason for being there.
Jonathan thought she would become as fine a detective as Matthew one day she understood emotional trauma and knew that victims had to be allowed their own time frame, their own healing process. They were driving against the flow of traffic, a stream of cars on their way back to Barnstaple after a day on the beach, or a long, lazy afternoon in the bars and cafes. He had a sudden picture in his head, as strange as a surrealist sculpture, of Eve thawing, of the grief flowing out, filling the car and drowning them both. He’d almost expected it to be as cold as ice, because she sat white and motionless as if she was frozen. He was surprised by the warmth of her skin. He put his arms around her and pulled her in close to him. Jonathan sat next to her in the back of the car. Illustration by Stan Fellows Chapter NineteenĪLL THE WAY BACK TO WESTACOMBE, Eve remained silent and still.
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