They headed in the same direction Barbara was taking. A few cars ahead of her, however, they crossed the road. They continued down the pavement and, within a few yards, disappeared into an alley on the right. Barbara muttered, “Damn, damn, damn,” and waited in mounting agitation for the lights at the junction to begin their change from red to amber to green. She saw that the alley on the right was marked with that universal white P on a square blue background, indicating that there was a car park somewhere behind the buildings in the high street. She reckoned it stood to reason that Frazer was taking the woman to it.

She said, “Come on, come on, come on,” to the lights, and they finally cooperated. The traffic began to move. She had thirty yards to go to get to that alley.

It felt like forever till she made the turn and zoomed between the buildings, where she saw that the car park was not only for shoppers come to do their weekly business in the village. It also served the New Forest Museum and the public facilities as well. So it was massed with cars and for a moment Barbara thought she’d lost Frazer and his companion somewhere within the rows of vehicles. But then she saw him some distance away at the side of a Polo and if before she might have given idle thought to this being the end of a romantic tryst between Frazer Chaplin and his companion, the manner in which they got into the vehicle put the matter to rest.

The woman entered the passenger’s side as one would expect, but Frazer kept his grip upon her and climbed right in behind her. From there Barbara couldn’t see the action, but it seemed fairly clear that Frazer’s goal was to force his companion into moving over to the driver’s side, and he had no intention of losing his grip upon her while she did so.

A horn honked suddenly. Barbara looked into her rear view mirror. Naturally, she thought, this would be the moment that someone else would come into the car park. She couldn’t wave them round her, for the passage was far too narrow.

She turned into one of the rows of cars and blasted up it and down another. By the time she had herself back into a position where she could see the vehicle into which Frazer had climbed, it had pulled back from the bay where it had been parked and was heading in the direction of the exit.

Barbara followed, hoping for twofold luck: that no one would come along and keep her from catching Frazer up, that traffic in the high street would allow her to slip in behind him relatively easily and unseen. For it was obvious to her that she had to follow. Her intention to confront Chief Superintendent Whiting at the police station had to be set aside for the moment because if Frazer Chaplin had come to the New Forest, she reckoned that he hadn’t done so to take pictures of the ponies.

The only question was the identity of the young woman with him. She’d been tall, thin, and decked out in something that looked like an African nightdress. It covered her from shoulders to toes. She was either in costume or protecting herself from the summer sun, but in either case, Barbara felt sure she’d not seen her before these moments in Lyndhurst.

From what she’d learned earlier from Rob Hastings, Barbara concluded that it had to be Meredith Powell. If, indeed, Meredith Powell had been conducting some sort of mad investigation on her own-as, according to Hastings, it seemed she had done-then it stood to reason that somehow she’d stumbled upon Frazer Chaplin whose presence here in Hampshire suggested he was into things up to his neck as well. And the body language between them told a tale, didn’t it: Meredith-if that was who it was and who else could it be if it wasn’t Meredith?-didn’t want to be in Frazer’s company, while Frazer had no intention of allowing her to set off somewhere on her own.

At the bottom of the high street, they headed due south into another leg of the Lyndhurst one-way system. Barbara followed. The signs, she saw, indicated Brockenhurst, and at yet another point of this traffic triangle, they turned into the A337. There they dipped almost immediately into a vast area of woodland. Everywhere was green and lush, and the traffic flowed well but with an eye for the animals. As the road was arrow straight for some distance, Barbara dropped back, the Polo well within her sight. There were very few options for turning when one came to Brockenhurst, and Barbara had a fairly good idea which one they intended to take.

She was unsurprised when they took it a few minutes later: the route to Lymington. This, she knew, was going to put them within range of Gordon Jossie’s holding. She reckoned that was where they were heading. She meant to know why.

She received at least a partial answer to this question when her mobile sounded “Peggy Sue.” Since she’d dumped her shoulder bag’s contents onto the passenger seat when looking for a fag, the mobile was easy enough to snatch up. She barked, “Havers,” into it and added, “Be quick. I can’t pull over. Who is this?”

“Frazer-”

“What the hell?” No way could he have her number, Barbara thought. Her mind was wrestling with all the possibilities of how he’d managed to get it as she demanded, “Who’s that with you in the bloody car? What’re you-”

“Barbara?”

She realised it was DI Lynley. She said, “Damn. Sorry. I thought you were…Where are you? Are you here?”

“Where?”

“Hampshire. Where else? Listen, I’m following-”

“We’ve broken his alibi.”

“Whose?”

“Frazer Chaplin’s. He wasn’t at home the day she died, not that Bella McHaggis can actually verify. She assumed he was there because he’d always come home between his jobs, and he encouraged her to think he’d done his usual thing that day. And the woman in the picture from the portrait gallery-” He stopped as someone in the background spoke to him. He said, “Yes. Right,” to that person and then, “She’s called Georgina Francis, Barbara, not Gina Dickens. Bella McHaggis identified her.” Someone spoke to him again in the background. He then said, “As to Whiting…”

“What about Whiting?” Barbara asked. “Who’s Georgina Francis? Who’re you talking to anyway?” She reckoned she knew the answer to this last, but she wanted to hear it from Lynley’s own lips.

“The superintendent,” he said. He went rapidly on to tell her how Georgina Francis fitted into the picture: former lodger at the home of Bella McHaggis, tossed out on her ear for violating the McHaggis dictum against fraternisation among those living beneath her roof. Frazer Chaplin had been the man involved.

“What the hell was she doing at the portrait gallery?” Barbara asked. “That’s some bloody coincidence, isn’t it?”

“Not if she was there to check out the competition. Not if she was there because she was and is still involved with Frazer Chaplin. Why would their relationship have ended just because she had to find other lodgings? We reckon-”

“Who?” She couldn’t help herself although she hated herself the moment she said it.

“What?”

“Who reckons?”

“Barbara, for God’s sake.” He was not a fool.

“All right. Sorry. Go on.”

“We’ve spoken to Mrs. McHaggis at some length.” He banged on then about DragonFly Tonics, transfers, Frazer’s lime green Vespa, Winston Nkata’s viewing of the CCTV films in the area, the two e-fits, and the yellow shirt and Jemima’s handbag found within the Oxfam bin about which, he concluded, “We reckon his intention was to hand them over to Georgina Francis to plant somewhere on Gordon Jossie’s holding. But he didn’t have the time to do it. Once Bella saw the story in the paper about the body, she called the police and you turned up. There was too much risk at that point for him to do anything but sit tight and wait for a better opportunity.”

“He’s here. In Hampshire. Sir, he’s here.”

“Who?”

“Frazer Chaplin. I’m following him just now. He’s got a woman with him and we’re heading-”