Chapter 4

      ‘Some bastard’s also eaten all the Marmite.’ Tilly waved the offending jar under my nose to indicate its cleanly scraped innards. ‘That’s Ben – he always puts it back when it’s empty. He’s done it to the jam too.’ She gave me a stern look. ‘That’s what you should be investigating, Miss Marple. How he still gets away with it.’

      ‘I think we’ll need more coffee as well, after last night.’

      Jinni had stayed through at least three pots’ worth – liberally laced with the cherry brandy which I’d offered her for the shock! – and it was nearly two when Tilly and I had finally stumbled upstairs. I was still sitting up in bed in my dressing gown, yawning.

      Tilly flopped down next to me. ‘Is someone really out to get her? I still think it was those losers outside the pub – getting lairy on the way home.’ My daughter rolled her eyes. ‘You know what boys like Ben are like – can’t take their drink and get all pathetic.’

      I frowned at her. ‘Your brother would never break windows.’

      ‘No Ben wouldn’t,’ said Tilly with laboured patience. ‘Because he’s a lazy twat, for a start, but boys like him – of that age …

      She shook her head with the superiority of one four years their senior and wriggled her legs under the duvet. ‘We need bread too. There was only one slice left.’

      ‘You could see if Jinni needs anything as she’ll be waiting in for the glass people,’ I said as Tilly stretched out. ‘I can’t believe someone like Ingrid would do anything like that. But there has been trouble between locals and those moving in.’

      I lifted my empty tea mug as if it might have magically refilled itself. ‘Put the kettle on, darling,’ I said hopefully, as Tilly settled herself more deeply into my pillows. I watched her eyes droop. ‘Okay, I’ll do it then.’

      As I stood in the kitchen, curling my toes on the cold tiles, I hoped Tilly was right. Jinni’s theories had grown increasingly wild with each brandy she’d chased down, and had concluded eventually that Ingrid or ‘that wanky son’ had been behind the smashed windowpane. She had regaled us with a number of run-ins she’d had with both of them and admitted she had herself put in an objection when his friend had wanted to build an extension David had designed behind her, so I supposed it was feasible they were annoyed with her …

      The young men up the road, on the other hand, had seemed full of good-natured high spirits, more likely bent on getting a kebab than embarking on vandalism.

      But surely, Ingrid and this wealthy architect son of hers were too well-educated, too … I searched for the right word as the water reached boiling point. By the time I’d carried two mugs back upstairs, my daughter was asleep.

      ‘Civilised,’ I said, two days later to Gabriel, who jotted it in his notebook. ‘Would you like another biscuit?’

      He gave me a flash of his beautiful white teeth, ‘I’m good thanks.’

      ‘So where do you come from originally?’ I asked. ‘Are you American? I can hear a slight accent. Does your mother miss you?’

      Gabriel smiled. ‘My father’s a New Yorker. He met my mother here and she moved to the States. But we came back ten years ago. I left home ages ago – I did some travelling after uni.’

      ‘You should still call her,’ I said. ‘Were you the last one to leave?’

      ‘No, I’ve got two sisters. So, you think Northstone is generally genteel’, he continued, trying to get me back on track. ‘But what do you think about these outbreaks of violence?’

      Gabriel sat back in one of my saggy armchairs and stretched out his jeaned legs. He was wearing another sparkling-white t-shirt and had obviously been brought up to iron. Ben’s clothes all had that faded-out, crumpled air. Even Gabriel’s boots were gleaming …

      I frowned. ‘Well, it’s not really violence is it? I mean a smashed window – could have been kids.’

      Gabriel raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you think of Jinni’s theory that it’s part of an orchestrated campaign to drive her out of town?’

      ‘Well, I don’t really think … I mean it’s easy to be paranoid, would anyone really …’

      ‘Has anyone been unpleasant to you, at all?’

      ‘No, I said, shaking off an image of Ingrid’s chilly smile. ‘I don’t really know anybody …’

      Gabriel shone a smile on me. ‘You do now. Did you enjoy the quiz?’

      ‘I was hopeless, but it was fun …’

      ‘Do you think the protesters’ concerns are valid ones? Do people like you, moving here from the city and able to afford higher prices, push up the cost of housing?’

      ‘I don’t know enough about it to say,’ I said guiltily.

      ‘Well, do you feel you’re contributing to the local economy? Are you using the local shops, for example?’

      ‘Oh yes.’

      ‘Would you say you have as much right to make your home here as anyone and nobody will frighten YOU off?’ Gabriel looked hopeful.

      I shook my head and looked what I imagined was motherly. ‘I know you need your story,’ I said kindly. ‘But I just want to get on with life here and be friends with everyone, if I can–’

      I cringed as Gabriel jotted this down. I’d sound like Pollyanna’s grandmother. ‘I use the shops, certainly,’ I added, wondering