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Pagford； by contrast； shone with a kind of moral radiance in Howard’s mind； as though the collective soul of the munity was made manifest in its cobbled streets； its hills； its picturesque houses。 To Howard； his birthplace was much more than a collection of old buildings； and a fast…flowing； tree…fringed river； the majestic silhouette of the abbey above or the hanging baskets in the Square。 For him； the town was an ideal； a way of being； a micro…civilization that stood firmly against a national decline。
‘I’m a Pagford man；’ he would tell summertime tourists； ‘born and bred。’ In so saying； he was giving himself a profound pliment disguised as a monplace。 He had been born in Pagford and he would die there； and he had never dreamed of leaving； nor itched for more change of scene than could be had from watching the seasons transform the surrounding woods and river； from watching the Square blossom in spring or sparkle at Christmas。
Barry Fairbrother had known all this； indeed； he had said it。 He had laughed right across the table in the church hall； laughed right in Howard’s face。 ‘You know； Howard； you are Pagford to me。’ And Howard； not disposed in the slightest （for he had always met Barry joke for joke）； had said； ‘I’ll take that as a great pliment； Barry； however it was intended。’
He could afford to laugh。 The one remaining ambition of Howard’s life was within touching distance： the return of the Fields to Yarvil seemed imminent and certain。
Then； two days before Barry Fairbrother had dropped dead in a car park； Howard had learned from an unimpeachable source that his opponent had broken all known rules of engagement； and had gone to the local paper with a story about the blessing it had been for Krystal Weedon to be educated at St Thomas’s。
The idea of Krystal Weedon being paraded in front of the reading public as an example of the successful integration of the Fields and Pagford might （so Howard said） have been funny； had it not been so serious。 Doubtless Fairbrother would have coached the girl； and the truth about her foul mouth； the endlessly interrupted classes； the other children in tears； the constant removals and reintegrations； would be lost in lies。
Howard trusted the good sense of his fellow townsfolk； but he feared journalistic spin and the interference of ignorant do…gooders。 His objection was both principled and personal： he had not yet forgotten how his granddaughter had sobbed in his arms； with bloody sockets where her teeth had been； while he tried to soothe her with a promise of triple prizes from the tooth fairy。
Tuesday
I
Two mornings after her husband’s death； Mary Fairbrother woke at five o’clock。 She had slept in the marital bed with her twelve…year…old； Declan； who had crawled in； sobbing； shortly after midnight。 He was sound asleep now； so Mary crept out of the room and went down into the kitchen to cry more freely。 Every hour that passed added to her grief； because it bore her further away from the living man； and because it was a tiny foretaste of the eternity she would have to spend without him。 Again and again she found herself forgetting； for the space of a heartbeat； that he was gone for ever and that she could not turn to him for fort。
When her sister and brother…in…law came through to make breakfast； Mary took Barry’s phone and withdrew into the study； where she started looking for the numbers of some of Barry’s huge acquaintance。 She had only been at it a matter of minutes when the mobile in her hands rang。
‘Yes？’ she murmured。
‘Oh； hello！ I’m looking for Barry Fairbrother。 Alison Jenkins from the Yarvil and District Gazette。’
The young woman’s jaunty voice was as loud and horrible in Mary’s ear as a triumphal fanfare； the blast of it obliterated the sense of the words。
‘Sorry？’
‘Alison Jenkins from the Yarvil and District Gazette。 I want to speak to Barry Fairbrother？ It’s about his article on the Fields。’
‘Oh？’ said Mary。
‘Yes； he hasn’t attached details of this girl he talks about。 We’re supposed to interview her。 Krystal Weedon？’
Each word felt to Mary like a slap。 Perversely； she sat still and silent in Barry’s old swivel chair and let the blows rain upon her。
‘Can you hear me？’
‘Yes；’ said Mary； her voice cracking。 ‘I can hear you。’
‘I know Mr Fairbrother was very keen to be present when we interview Krystal； but time’s running—’
‘He won’t be able to be present；’ said Mary； her voice eliding into a screech。 ‘He won’t be able to talk about the bloody Fields any more； or about anything； ever again！’
‘What？’ said the girl on the end of the line。
‘My husband is dead； all right。 He’s dead； so the Fields will have to get on without him； won’t they？’
Mary’s hands were shaking so much that the mobile slipped through her fingers； and for the few moments before she managed to cut the call； she knew that the journalist heard her ragged sobs。 Then she remembered that most of Barry’s last day on earth and their wedding anniversary had been given over to his obsession with the Fields and Krystal Weedon； fury erupted； and she threw the mobile so hard across the room that it hit a framed picture of their four children； knocking it to the floor。 She began to scream and cry at once； and her sister and brother…in…law both came running upstairs and burst into the room。
。
All they could get out of her at first was； ‘The Fields； the bloody； bloody Fields …’
‘It’s where me and Barry grew up；’ her brother…in…law muttered； but he explained no further； for fear of inflaming Mary’s hysteria。
II
Social worker Kay Bawden and her daughter Gaia had moved from London only four weeks previously； and were Pagford’s very newest inhabitants。 Kay was unfamiliar with the contentious history of the Fields； it was simply the estate where many of her clients lived。 All she knew about Barry Fairbrother was that his death had precipitated the miserable scene in her city； when her lover Gavin had fled from her and her scrambled eggs； and so dashed all the hopes his love…making had roused in her。
Kay spent Tuesday lunchtime in a layby between Pagford and Yarvil； eating a sandwich in her car； and reading a large stack of notes。 One of her colleagues had been signed off work due to stress； with the immediate result that Kay had been lumbered with a third of her cases。 Shortly before one o’clock； she set off for the Fields。
She had already visited the estate several times； but she was not yet familiar with the warren…like streets。 At last she found Foley Road； and identified from a distance the house that she thought must belong to the Weedons。 The file had made it clear what she was likely to meet； and her first glimpse of the house met her expectations。
A pile of refuse was heaped against the front wall： carrier bags bulging with filth； jumbled together with old clothes and unbagged； soiled nappies。 Bits of the rubbish had tumbled or been scattered over the scrubby patch of lawn； but the bulk of it remained piled beneath one of the two downstairs windows。 A bald old tyre sat in the middle of the lawn； it had been shifted some time recently； because a foot away there was a flattened yellowish…brown circle of dead grass。 After ringing the doorbell； Kay noticed a used condom glistening in the grass beside her feet； like the gossamer cocoon of some huge grub。
She was experiencing that slight apprehension that she had never quite overe； although it was nothing pared to the nerves with which she had faced unknown doors in the early days。 Then； in spite of all her training； in spite of the fact that a colleague usually acpanied her； she had； on occasion； been truly afraid。 Dangerous dogs； men brandishing knives； children with grotesque injuries； she had found them all； and worse； in her years of entering strangers’ houses。
She knocked again； sooner than she would have done if she had not wanted to distract herself from her own thoughts； and this time； a distant voice said； ‘I’m fuckin’ in’。’
The door swung open to reveal a woman who appeared simultaneously child…like and ancient； dressed in a dirty pale…blue T…shirt and a pair of men’s pyjama bottoms。 She was the same hei