‘Not hard enough.’

‘We’re having difficulties in Prosperous. Serious difficulties.’

‘I noticed.’

‘Our chief of police is out of control. He has to be … retired before we can restore stability. Recompense can be made to you and your colleagues.’

‘It’s gone too far.’

‘Garrison.’ Souleby put a hand out to stop Pryor, forcing the shorter man to look up at him. ‘Morland is going to kill me.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Thomas,’ said Pryor. ‘Truly, I am. But we’re not going to intervene. If it’s any consolation to you, whatever happens, Prosperous’s days are drawing to a close. In the end, it doesn’t matter who is left standing: you, Morland, the board. There are men coming to wipe you from the map.’

Souleby’s hand dropped. ‘And you’ll let this happen?’

Pryor took out his cell phone and redialed a number. He watched it connect, raised the phone to his ear, and patted Souleby on the shoulder in farewell.

‘Thomas,’ said Pryor, as he walked away, ‘we are going to watch you all burn.’

* * *

Morland sat in his office. He was frustrated, but no more than that. Souleby would have to return. His life was here. In Souleby’s absence, Luke Joblin and Calder Ayton had agreed that elections to the board should be held just as soon as Hayley Conyer was safely interred. Neither had objected to Morland’s list of nominees for the three vacant positions.

Morland had a fourth name ready too. He had a feeling that another vacancy would soon arise.

55

Chief Morland next faced Thomas Souleby as they stood over Hayley Conyer’s open grave. In recognition of her long and generous service to the town of Prosperous, she was buried in the old cemetery, in the shadow of the church whose legacy she had done so much to protect, and in which her body had reposed on the night before its burial. Only a handful of the most important citizens were permitted to enter the church for her funeral service, although a temporary sound system relayed the proceedings to the townsfolk who stood outside. God played a part in the proceedings, but so too did nature, and the metaphor that ran through Warraner’s oratory was of the changing of the seasons, the life’s journey from spring to winter and thence to a new form of rebirth.

Once the coffin was lowered into the ground, it was left to the selectmen, assisted by Morland and Warraner, to fill in the grave. It was a sign of respect, but Morland was inevitably reminded of the last time he had wielded a spade in service of a body. The townsfolk started to leave. Tea and coffee were being served at the Town Office, where memories of Hayley Conyer would be exchanged, and talk would turn to the election of the new selectmen. In addition, nobody wanted to miss the chance to gossip a little under the fag of mourning: Thomas Souleby’s absence until the morning of the funeral had not gone unremarked, and the tension between him and Chief Morland was common knowledge in the town, even if the catalyst for this particular bout of hostilities – Hayley Conyer’s forced departure from this world – was not.

Morland caught up with Souleby halfway across the churchyard. He grabbed the older man’s arm, steering him away from the gate.

‘Walk with me a while, Thomas,’ he said.

Souleby’s wife was waiting for him outside the railings. Morland thought that she might spring over them to protect her husband when she saw the chief approach him, but Souleby raised a hand to let her know that he was okay. If Morland intended him harm, he would do so another day, and under other circumstances.

‘We missed you,’ said Morland. ‘Your absence was unfortunate. The town was in mourning. It looked to the board for leadership, and the board, in its turn, looked to you as the senior selectman, but you weren’t there.’

Souleby wasn’t about to accuse Lucas Morland of murder, not here, not anywhere. There remained a possibility that he could still survive this, and even turn the situation to his advantage. The three nominees to the board were comparatively young and open to manipulation. They were not his creatures, but neither were they Morland’s. He could not give Morland an excuse to act against him, although the flaw in this line of reasoning was easily apparent to him, for Morland might not even need a reason to act.

‘I had business to conclude,’ said Souleby.

‘You mind my asking what kind of business?’

‘Private. Personal.’

‘You sure about that? Because, if it had to do with the town, I really ought to know about it. This is a delicate time. We all need to pull together.’

Souleby stopped walking, and faced Morland.

‘What do you want, Chief Morland?’

‘I want you to give up your place on the board.’

‘You know that’s not possible. Under the rules—’

‘The rules have changed. The board met while you were away.’

‘There was no board,’ said Souleby. ‘Two members isn’t a quorum.’

‘Like I said, this is a delicate time. We didn’t know what had happened to you, and your wife was of little help. Decisions had to be made. Calder Ayton and Luke Joblin consented to temporary measures pending the election of a new board and the permanent retention of those rules. Selectmen will no longer serve for life, and no selectman will be able to serve more than two terms in succession. I’d have informed you of the changes before now, if I’d been able to find you.’

Souleby understood what was happening. If he resigned from the board, any power that he had would disappear. He would have no protection.

And, eventually, Morland would come for him. He would do so because, alive, Souleby would always be a threat. Calder Ayton would be dead soon, while Luke Joblin was on Morland’s side, and perhaps always had been. Only Souleby knew the details of what had been done in the board’s name, and what Morland himself had done.

‘And if I refuse to resign?’

Souleby noted movement among the trees, and saw that many members of the senior families had not left the environs of the cemetery. They were watching from the woods, and as he stared they began to turn their backs on him, one by one, until he could see their faces no longer. Then, and only then, did they begin to disperse.

‘The will of the people will prevail, Thomas,’ said Morland, and Souleby knew that he was alone.

Morland smiled sadly and walked away. Only when Souleby had seen Morland’s Crown Vic drive off, and was certain the chief was gone, did he join his wife outside the railings.

‘What did he say to you?’ said Constance.

‘I want you to go and stay with Becky and Josh,’ he told her.

Becky was their eldest daughter. She lived down in New Haven. Her husband Josh was Calder Ayton’s nephew. Souleby trusted him.

‘No, I won’t.’

‘You will,’ he said. ‘All this will pass, but for a time things will be difficult. I can’t be worrying about you while I try to make this good.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘no, no …’

She started to cry. He held her.

‘It’ll be all right,’ he lied. ‘Everything will be all right.’

Constance left that afternoon. Becky drove up to collect her. Becky tried to question her father, but he would not answer her, and she knew the ways of Prosperous well enough to pursue the matter no further for now.

Souleby poured himself a glass of brandy. He watched the sun set. He felt drowsy, but he did not sleep.

It was Luke Joblin who came for him, shortly after eight. His son Bryan waited in the back seat. Souleby saw him when the interior light came on as Luke opened the driver’s door. He could have fought them, of course, but what would have been the point? Instead, the old Colt now lay under his wife’s pillow. She would find it there, and she would know.