1. A Morning Run

Debbie Crawshaw’s alarm always went off early, while most inhabitants of the picturesque Cotswolds village of Bunburry were still fast asleep.

Perhaps “alarm” was a misnomer, since it suggested something sudden and disturbing. Debbie was awakened by the gentle sound of birdsong, or the tropical rainforest, or harp music; whichever she had set the previous night. That way, she greeted the day ahead full of energy and optimism, eager to meet whatever lay ahead. As the owner of Deb’s Beauty Salon, it was her vocation to improve the wellbeing of her clients, and to do that properly, she had to nurture her own wellbeing.

She drank her usual glass of water and lemon juice before embarking on twenty minutes of yoga. She approached this with fresh enthusiasm, now that Haridasa had set up a yoga studio in the village. She wanted to be his best student – not that she was competing with anyone else in the class. Yoga wasn’t competitive. She just wanted to show him how much she appreciated his teaching.

As she began Salute to the Sun, her black poodle, Perro, stirred in his basket. He stood up, shook himself, and ambled over to her to join in. Debbie had been astonished the first time Perro started to stretch alongside her, but, as she always told people, poodles were extraordinarily intelligent. And Perro was particularly good at the downward dog pose.

His reward was the three-mile run they went on every day before breakfast. She clipped the pink lead on to his pink collar, so that Perro matched her own pink and black jogging outfit, and they set out, the poodle scampering beside her. She decided to take a different route today, up by Wildshaw Woods where she could let him off the lead for a proper run. It was always easier in the salon if he was tired out and slept on his towel rather than coming to greet the clients, since some of the ladies didn’t like dogs.

Debbie always tried not to judge people, but she couldn’t help feeling that not liking dogs was a serious character flaw. Alfie McAlister liked dogs. And Perro was devoted to him. Deb’s Beauty Salon was unisex, since Debbie would never be discriminatory, but so far Alfie was the only man who had ever ventured into it. He came in regularly for a pedicure, and Debbie thought he had the loveliest feet she had ever seen: long elegant toes, a graceful arch, and not a callous or bunion in sight. You could tell someone’s personality from their feet. Alfie’s feet told her that he was warm, thoughtful and attentive.

She wondered what the rest of him might reveal, and had several times mentioned the benefits of a therapeutic massage, to no effect.

As she and Perro ran along the deserted streets, she wondered whether she should mention a therapeutic massage to the newcomer to the village, Haridasa. Like Alfie, the yoga teacher was tall and slim, but other than that, they were very different. Alfie dressed beautifully but conservatively, in clothes that looked as though they came from bespoke London tailors. Haridasa, who had only recently returned to Britain after years in India, usually wore a tunic and loose trousers, which he said was a kurta pajama, his long hair cascading over his shoulders like a silver waterfall.

She hadn’t given Haridasa a pedicure, but she had seen his feet in the yoga class, and she could tell they were full of chi – life energy. Haridasa was a very spiritual person, a very giving person. She could reciprocate by giving him a massage, which would boost his chi even more.

She and Perro were well beyond the village now, and she let the poodle off the lead so that he could scamper where he liked as she sprinted up the hill to the woods. She loved the early morning coolness and quiet, and this was one of her favourite runs because of the view. The whole village was spread out below her, the honey-coloured stone of the cottages glowing in the sunlight, the river flowing gently under Frank’s Bridge and meandering towards the green hills in the distance.

Was there anywhere more beautiful in all the world? If there was, she hadn’t seen it. She felt sorry for people who lived in towns and didn’t have the blessing of countryside all around them.

She stopped at the top of the hill to do some leg stretches, surveying her beloved village as she did so. Her pink-roofed salon caught the eye like a cake in a row of bread rolls. And beyond the High Street was the big green handkerchief of the Victoria Park, another of her favourite runs. The sun glinted on the white marble of the Italian pavilion. It felt like a sacred space to her now, for that was where she had found Mario Bellini, the most handsome man she had ever seen, even more handsome than Alfie and Haridasa. And dead, unfortunately.

To be strictly accurate, she hadn’t found Mario Bellini. Perro had. The clever animal had lain down by the body, whining until Debbie came to find out what was wrong.

Right now, Perro was leaping into the air, snapping at something.

“No!” called Debbie sharply. “Don’t frighten the poor butterfly.”

She mustn’t be too hard on him, she thought. It was instinct. Poodles were originally bred as hunting dogs.

Perro obediently trotted back to her, wagging his feathery tail, and she patted his head.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I won’t put you back on the lead yet, not until we get to Candymill Road. But you mustn’t chase any more butterflies, because that’s bad.”

At the sound of the last word, the poodle cocked his head, looking at her intently, and she was sure he had understood.

“Good boy! Race you to the bottom,” she said. She ran straight back down, while the poodle took a more zigzag route, investigating interesting smells, but they reached the road together.

“Come on, then,” she said. “Let’s get your lead on.”

But Perro’s attention was elsewhere. He sniffed the air, and then set off along Candymill Road in the opposite direction to the village.

“That’s the wrong way,” Debbie called. “Come back.”

The poodle ignored her and kept going.

She stared in astonishment. He was normally very obedient – she had taken him to dog training classes when he was a puppy. That time he bit Sergeant Harry Wilson, he wasn’t being bad, he was defending her, because the sergeant was shouting.

It had only been a nip, she was sure, but the sergeant shouted even more, and said he would have Perro put down as a dangerous dog. Debbie prided herself on being polite to everyone, but that was too much. She had grabbed Perro and held him tightly in her arms.

“Perro is not dangerous,” she’d said distinctly. “But if you ever try to do anything to him, you’ll find that I am.”

And with that, she walked away, ignoring the sergeant bellowing that he would have her for threatening behaviour. Nothing ever came of it; he was a typical bully, backing off if you stood up to him.

But now Perro was disappearing from view. She called him again, but he still ignored her. She felt a sudden chill. What if he had found another body? She had heard there were dogs trained to do just that, and Perro was so intelligent, he wouldn’t even need training.

She sprinted after him, and found him bounding along a dilapidated driveway flanked by tall magnolia trees, their pink, white and yellow flowers bright against the blue sky. The trees looked in desperate need of pruning, and Debbie wondered what state the mansion would be in. It must be three years since Mrs Benson died. There were rumours that distant cousins had inherited, but nobody had ever seen them, and nothing more had been heard. Of course, Mrs Benson’s closest relative was her nephew – what was his name again? Des, that was it. Des Dagenham. Not that he could inherit, not after the scandal.

There was a curve in the driveway ahead and she lost sight of Perro. She could hear voices, men’s voices. Who were they? Why were they here, at this time of the morning, at a deserted house? Was it the police, who had just discovered a body? Or were they murderers? She felt nervous, inclined to double back, but first she had to find Perro.

She rounded the corner of the driveway to see a large van. Beyond it, three men in overalls were sitting on the low wall that ran all the way along the driveway to the mansion itself.

And Perro, his tail wagging frantically, gazed up at the breakfast rolls they were eating.

One of the men spotted her. “This your dog?” he called. “Do you never feed him?”

He tore off a piece of roll and threw it to Perro, who gulped it down.

Debbie rushed over. “Is that a bacon roll?” she asked anxiously. “Bacon isn’t good for dogs.”

“Sausage and egg,” said the man.

“That’s fine,” said Debbie, relieved.

She wasn’t only relieved that Perro wouldn’t have an upset stomach. But also because she could see the men now, and they didn’t look remotely like murderers. Or policemen. They were perfectly respectable workmen, two of them old and grizzled, and the other, the one who had spoken to her, much younger, with a buzz cut and a cheeky grin. The apprentice.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Feeding my breakfast to your dog,” he said, throwing another bit of roll to Perro. “If I faint from hunger, it’ll be your fault.”

“I’m ever so sorry,” said Debbie, clipping the lead on to Perro’s collar and pulling him away. The poodle tried to stay where he was, scrabbling at the gravel...