10

I dragged my fingers through the manicured lawn of No.2 Magnolia Close, for some traces of sand that the rainfall had washed away.  Laura Hardiman watched from her living-room window, with the obligatory glass of wine in her hand.

“Found anything?”  Paul asked, shining a torch over my shoulder at the grass.

“This sand is really fine,” I said, rubbing my thumb and forefinger together.  “It’s not builder’s sand.  It feels like the type of sand you would find in the bunker of a golf course.”

“How can you tell?”  Paul asked.

“I’ve spent enough time in bunkers to know what the sand feels like,” I joked.

At that moment a battered old Mercedes that looked out of place in the plush surroundings of the cul-de-sac, pulled up on the driveway of No. 5 and a man with a lived-in face and crooked teeth climbed out.  He was wearing a rumpled jacket, which wa