Free Saxon by Stuart Davies

engine and pulled out of her space. At that moment, another car quite close by followed suit.
    Like synchronised driving, the two cars travelled at a sensible speed out of the village, with an even more sensible gap between them.
    Babs didn’t even notice the other car. It wasn’t a car to attract attention. The drive was not long, only about a mile, but Hazel Lane was narrow and it often took longer than you would expect. If you met another car coming in the opposite direction, one of you had to back up to a farm gate or a driveway to let the other person pass.
    Babs was ruthless when it came to giving way in the lane. She had developed a very effective technique for use on those occasions when she met someone coming from the opposite direction. She would slow down and make a half-hearted attempt to pull over to one side, as if to let the other person attempt to pass. But she would in fact be stopped in the middle of the road, making it impossible for the other driver, who would then almost certainly give way and reverse back to the nearest passing place. Babs would smile in a helpless girlie way and drive on, feeling the slight thrill of triumph.
    Even the vicar was subject to the same technique. Babs did attend the village church but only for hat comparisons and a bit of general socialising. Today there was no confrontation, clerical or otherwise.
    Babs indicated that she was turning right about one hundred yards before her drive. The car behind her didn’t need to slow down or even glance at the house. All that was needed in the way of information on the house and surrounding area had been acquired weeks ago, when no one was home.
    Tuesday, May 14, 29 St Nicholas Lane, Sewel Mill, 3.30PM
    Clive Marks went straight round to the back of the house. Edie was out anyway, so he didn’t expect to run into her. No, it was Cecil Hayward he was looking for and Cecil was in his shed, as usual.
    The envelope was ready for him, as usual, and Cecil smiled cheerfully as Marks handed over a small package in exchange. Marks nodded in return.
    Few words were spoken but the two men had a regular meeting like this most weeks. The pleasantries had all been used up years ago. Now it was purely business. The arrangement worked beautifully.
    Tuesday, May 14, Anvil Wood House, 3.45PM
    Babs unloaded the car and walked to her front door. Anvil Wood House was a large rambling Victorian red brick building with hanging tiles from the first floor up, and moss-covered Kent peg tiles on the roof.
    At the back of the property, there was a substantial yard with stabling for twenty horses and a ménage. She had inherited it from her mother, on her death almost twenty years ago. Two of the horses belonged to Babs and the others were paying guests, mostly owned by the daughters of local well-to-do folk.
    She walked through the hallway then down a small flight of steps to the kitchen, put the meat in the fridge and then went out to the stables to check the horses. The groom and the two local girls who helped muck out and generally run the stables had gone for the day. Everything was neat and tidy and life was good.
    Tuesday, May 14, Sewel Mill Station, 5.30PM
    Poppy had left work early that afternoon and the train pulled in to Sewel Mill station on time. In her line of work, she wasn’t tied to a desk from nine till five, and today wasn’t a press day, sothere had been no reason to hang around.
    Poppy was an equestrian journalist with a mainstream horse magazine. While she enjoyed her work and the contact it gave her with horses and horsey people, what she had really wanted to be was an investigative journalist. The problem was, she never seemed to be in the right place at the right time, and no one ever tipped her off about anything. She was addicted to crime programmes and investigative documentaries on the television. She saw herself as the trusted reporter who works hand in hand with the police to bring criminals to justice, or as the cunning