REGINALD HILL
DEATH OF A DORMOUSE
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by
Methuen London Ltd 1987
under the author’s psuedonym Patrick Ruell
Copyright © Patrick Ruell 1987
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780586205464
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2015 ISBN 9780007394739
Version: 2015-09-15
This one for Billy and Choc – who else?
Contents
Copyright
Part One
1
2
3
4
Part Two
1
2
3
4
Part Three
1
2
3
4
5
Part Four
1
2
3
4
Part Five
1
2
3
4
Part Six
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Part Seven
1
2
3
Part Eight
1
2
Part Nine
1
2
Part Ten
1
About the Publisher
When one subtracts from life infancy
(which is vegetation) – sleep, eating, and swilling
– buttoning and unbuttoning – how much remains of
downright existence? The summer of a dormouse…
BYRON: Journal (December 7th 1813)
She was lying on a bare mattress in a darkened room. Her wrists and ankles were bound, but this was an unnecessary refinement. In her mind she had been here many times before and knew there was no escape. One strip of light there was which could not be blinked away. It lay on the floor, seeping in beneath the door, and beyond that door on bare stone flags she could hear the sound of footsteps getting nearer.
She lay as still as the mouse which huddles in its cornfield nest, and hears the approach of the coulter, and knows what it means, but does not know how to fly.
Nothing remained in her life, no spur to action, no prick of hope. Nothing of past, present or future touched her life, only that crack of light beneath the door and the footsteps which were approaching it.
She had been waiting for them all her life. They belonged to the secret police who strike with the dawn; to the cruel rapist who lurks in the shadows; to the man she had loved, come here to kill her.
Now they were close. Now the line of light beneath the door was broken by a growing shadow.
Now the footsteps halted.
Slowly the door handle began to turn. Slowly