The July night was warm, the sky bright, with a full moon surrounded by a bevy of stars. The watcher crept in the shadow of the long wall that bordered the lane at the back of Main Street. The houses were terraced, Georgian, five-storey, and in excellent repair. The Mid-Wales town was a by-word for wealth, courtesy of the nouveau riche who were prepared to pay high prices to enjoy the architecture and scenery. The only locals who could afford to reside there were those who’d inherited money and property, and the underclass who’d been pushed out of the centre into the housing association estates on the outskirts. The watcher knew there’d be room to park in the yard behind the Pitchers’ house but too many windows overlooked the lane and the yard. If challenged, what explanation could be given for parking a car on private property at that time in the morning? Especially when logic insisted there were no grounds for suspicion. But logic hadn’t prevented jealousy consuming like a cancer.
