The whites of their eyes caught the torchlight and reflected an ancient excitement. Above them, budding branches whispered, ahead of them the need-fire was already burning.The path wound down the shallow hillside among the trees. Two figures broke away, feathers nodding above black faces. Neither of them returned.‘Please, Libby. Just come and talk to them.’Libby Sarjeant frowned at the phone. ‘Gemma, I can’t.’‘Why not? You’ve been involved in murders before.’Libby squirmed. ‘Not intentionally.’‘But you have. You’re like – like – oh, I don’t know, bloody Miss Marple or something.’Libby closed her eyes and squirmed some more. ‘No, I’m not, Gemma. Let me tell you, the police always get there either ahead or at the same time as the amateur in these cases. Let well alone. They’ll find out what happened.’‘It’s nearly two months now. How can they find out now?’‘Just think of all the cold case reviews they do these days,’ said Libby. ‘They solve those, don’t they?’‘They do on telly,’ grumbled Gemma.‘Anyway,’ said Libby, hastily returning to the point.
