The door they used led directly into the kitchen of the house, where Barbara went to an electric kettle upended on a draining board. She filled it, set it to work, and sorted out mugs and bags of PG Tips. Sometimes a shot of the bloody national beverage was the only way in which fellow feeling could be expressed.

Nkata sat Hastings at an old Formica-topped table, where the agister took off his hat and blew his nose on his kerchief, which he then balled up and shoved to one side. He said, “Sorry,” and his eyes filled. “I should have known when she didn’t answer my calls on her birthday. And not ringing back at once th’ day afterwards. She always rang back. Within the hour, generally. When she didn’t, it was easier to think she was just busy. Caught up in things. You know.”

“Are you married, Mr. Hastings?” Barbara brought mugs to the table, along with a battered tin canister of sugar that she’d found on a shelf with matching old canisters of flour and coffee as well. It was an old-fashioned kitchen with old-fashioned contents, from the appliances to the objects on the shelves and in the cupboards. As such, it looked like a room that had been lovingly preserved, rather than one that had been artfully restored to wear the guise of an earlier period.

“Not very likely, that,” was how he answered the question. It seemed to be a resigned and bleak reference to his unfortunate looks. That was sad, Barbara thought, a self-prophecy fulfilled.

“Ah,” she said. “Well, we’re going to want to speak to everyone in Hampshire who knew Jemima. We hope you’ll be able to help us with that.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because of how she died, Mr. Hastings.”

At this point Hastings seemed to realise something he hadn’t yet considered despite the fact that he was being spoken to by representatives of the Metropolitan police. He said, “Her death…Jemima’s death…”

“I’m very sorry to tell you that she was murdered six days ago.” Barbara added the rest: not the means of death but the place in which it had occurred. And even then she kept it general, by mentioning the cemetery but not its location and not the location of the body within it. She finished with, “So everyone who knew her will have to be interviewed.”

“Jossie.” Hastings sounded numb. “She left him. He didn’t like that. She said he couldn’t come to terms with it. He rang her and rang her and he wouldn’t stop ringing her.” That said, he raised his fists to his eyes, and he wept like a child.

The electric kettle clicked off, and Barbara went to fetch it. She poured water into the mugs, and she found milk in the fridge. A shot or two of whisky would have been better for the poor man, but she wasn’t up to rustling through his cupboards, so the tea was going to have to do, despite the heat of the day. At least the interior of the cottage was cool and kept that way by its construction of thick cob walls, which were rough and whitewashed outside and painted pale yellow within the kitchen.

It was the presence of the Weimaraner that seemed to soothe Robbie Hastings at last. The dog had placed his head on Hastings’ thigh, and the low, long whine that issued from the animal roused the master. Robbie Hastings wiped his eyes and blew his nose again. He said, “Aye, Frank,” and he cupped his hand over the dog’s smooth head. He lowered his own head and pressed his lips to the animal. He didn’t look at either Barbara or Nkata when he raised his head again. Instead he stared at the mug of tea.

Perhaps knowing what their questions were going to be, he began to talk, slowly at first, then with more reassurance. Next to him, Nkata took out his notebook.

At Longslade Bottom, Hastings began, there was a wide expanse of lawn where people went regularly to exercise their dogs off lead. He took his own dog there one day several years back and Jemima went along. That’s where she met Gordon Jossie. This would have been round three years ago.

“Somewhat new to the area, he was,” Hastings said. “Broken away from a master thatcher round Itchen Abbas-a bloke called Heath-and come down the New Forest to start his own business. Never had much to say, but Jemima fancied him at once. Well, she would do, wouldn’t she, ’cause she was tweenem at that point.”

Barbara frowned, wondering at the expression. She reckoned it was some strange Hampshirean term. “‘Tweenem?’”

“’Tween men,” he clarified. “Jemima always liked to have a partner. From the time she was…I don’t know…twelve or thirteen?…She wanted boyfriends. I always reckoned it was our dad’s dying like he did, mum ’s well. Killed in a car crash, both of them at once. Made her think she had to have someone that was truly and permanently hers, I think.”

“More ’n yourself,” Nkata clarified.

“I reckon it seemed to Jemima that she needed someone more special. I was her brother, see. Didn’t mean anything if her brother loved her since he was meant to love her.” Hastings pulled the mug towards him. A bit of tea sloshed onto the table. He smeared this with the palm of his hand.

“Was she promiscuous?” Barbara asked, adding when the agister looked at her sharply, “Sorry, but I have to ask. And it doesn’t matter, Mr. Hastings. Only as it might relate to her death.”

He shook his head. “To her, it was all about being in love with some bloke. Given, she partnered up with one or two eventually-if you know what I mean-but only if she thought they were in love. ‘Madly in love’ was what she always called it. ‘We’re madly in love with each other, Rob.’ Typical young girl, you ask me. Well…nearly.”

“Nearly?” Barbara and Nkata spoke simultaneously.

Hastings looked thoughtful, as if examining his sister in a new light. He said slowly, “She did cling, I s’pose. And could be that made it hard for her to hold on to a boy. Same with men. She wanted a bit too much from them, I think, and that would…well, it would eventually end things. I wasn’t much good at it, but I’d try to explain things to her: how blokes don’t like someone holding on to them so. But I reckon she felt alone in the world ’cause of our parents, though she wasn’t alone, not ever, not the way you’d think. But feeling that way, she had to stop the…the aloneness. She wanted to-” He frowned and seemed to consider how to put his next remarks. “It was a bit like she wanted to climb into their skin, get that close to them, be them in a manner of speaking.”

“A stranglehold?” Barbara said.

“She didn’t intend it, never. But, aye, I s’pose that’s what happened. And when a bloke wanted his bit of space, Jemima couldn’t cope. She clung all the tighter. I expect they felt like they had no air, so they sloughed her off. She’d cry a bit, then she’d blame them for not being what she really wanted, and she’d go on to another.”

“But this didn’t happen with Gordon Jossie?”

“The strangling part?” He shook his head. “With him, she got as close as she wanted. He seemed to like it.”

“How did you feel about him?” Barbara asked. “And about her being involved with him?”

“I wanted to like him ’cause he made her happy, ’s well as one person can make another happy, you know. But there was something about him didn’t ever strike me right. He wasn’t much like blokes round here. I wanted her to find someone, settle down, make a family for herself as that’s what she wanted, and I didn’t see it as something could happen with him. Mind, I didn’t tell her so. Wouldn’t have made a difference if I had.”

“Why not?” Nkata asked. He had not, Barbara noted, touched his tea. But then Winston had never been much of a tea man. Lager was more his thing, but not a lot of it. Winston was nearly as abstemious as a monk: little drinking, no smoking, his body a temple.

“Oh, when she was ‘madly in love,’ the deal was sealed. There’d have been no point. Anyway I reckoned it was nothing to worry over ’cause Jemima’d likely run through him like she’d done the others. A few months and things would be over and she’d be searching for a man again. That didn’t happen, though. Soon enough she was spending whole nights with him in his lodgings. Then they found that property over Paul’s Lane, and they snapped it up and set up house and that was that. Well, I wasn’t ’bout to say anything then. I just hoped for the best. It looked like that’s what happened for a time. Jemima seemed quite happy. Starting her business with them cupcakes and all, over Ringwood. And he was building his thatching business. They seemed good with each other.”