Pauline Philbey poured herself a large gin. The clock had just struck 12 so she felt duly justified. It was a warm day, made cold outdoors by the strong wind. At least the washing would dry, she thought. The village looked peaceful from here. She had chosen the house because it was the highest point in Holme Hill and on a clear day, the view from the front room was second to none. You could even see Lancashire, if you wanted to.   

Sinking into her battered armchair, she opened up the file of photographs and other documents and began to sift through them. The drink tasted good, especially with not much tonic in it. The choirmaster at St Maurice’s had introduced her to Plymouth Gin and how she had taken to it! So smooth that a mixer was not required. But it was only lunchtime, s...

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