ary of strangers. And Stott was sure that a stranger had murdered Deborah Harrison.
They were standing in the rain outside the Nag’s Head at the north-west corner of Kendal Road and North Market Street, diagonally across from St. Mary’s Church, and Stott was ready to do just about anything to shut Hatchley up.
It wasn’t the kind of pub you’d expect in such a wealthy area, Stott thought: no thick carpet, polished brass and gleaming wood, pot of mulled wine heating on the bar. In fact, it looked distinctly shabby. He guessed it was probably a traveler’s pub, being situated at such an important junction. In one form or another, Kendal Road ran all the way from the Lake District to the east coast and Market Street was a major north-south route. The locals would have their own tasteful pubs hidden away in the residential streets. Either that or they drove out to the country cl