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n increased respect for the dead man。 Anyone with any brains was working； constantly and covertly； to grab as much as they could； Simon knew that。 He gazed unseeingly at the spreadsheet on his puter screen； deaf once more to the grinding of the printworks beyond his dusty window。
There was no choice but to work from nine to five if you had a family； but Simon had always known that there were other； better ways； that a life of ease and plenty dangled over his head like a great bulging pi？ata； which he might smash open if only he had a stick big enough； and the knowledge of when to strike。
Supernatural tip…offs had accounted for several apparently quixotic decisions in Simon’s past。 Years previously； when still a lowly apprentice at the printworks； with a mortgage he could barely afford and a newly pregnant wife； he had bet one hundred pounds on a well…favoured Grand National runner called Ruthie’s Baby； which had fallen at the second last。 Shortly after they had bought Hilltop House； Simon had sunk twelve hundred pounds； which Ruth had been hoping to use for curtains and carpets； into a time…share scheme run by a flash； fiddling old acquaintance from Yarvil。 Simon’s investment had vanished with the pany director； but although he had raged and sworn and kicked his younger son halfway down the stairs for getting in his way； he had not contacted the police。
Set against these calamities； though； were strokes of luck； dodges that worked； hunches that paid off； and Simon gave great weight to these when totalling his score； they were the reason that he kept faith with his stars； that reinforced him in his belief that the universe had more in store for him than the mug’s game of working for a modest salary until he retired or died。 Scams and short…cuts； leg…ups and back…scratches； everyone was at it； even； as it turned out； little Barry Fairbrother。
There； in his poky office； Simon Price gazed covetously on a vacancy among the ranks of insiders to a place where cash was now trickling down onto an empty chair with no lap waiting to catch it。
I
Pagford Parish Council was； for its size； an impressive force。 It met once a month in a pretty Victorian church hall； and attempts to cut its budget； annex any of its powers or absorb it into some newfangled unitary authority had been strenuously and successfully resisted for decades。 Of all the local councils under the higher authority of Yarvil District Council； Pagford prided itself on being the most obstreperous； the most vocal and the most independent。
Until Sunday evening； it had prised sixteen local men and women。 As the town’s electorate tended to assume that a wish to serve on the Parish Council implied petence to do so； all sixteen councillors had gained their seats unopposed。
Yet this amicably appointed body was currently in a state of civil war。 An issue that had been causing fury and resentment in Pagford for sixty…odd years had reached a definitive phase； and factions had rallied behind two charismatic leaders。
To grasp fully the cause of the dispute it was necessary to prehend the precise depth of Pagford’s dislike and mistrust of the city of Yarvil； which lay to its north。
Yarvil’s shops； businesses； factories； and the South West General Hospital； provided the bulk of the employment in Pagford。 The small town’s youths generally spent their Saturday nights in Yarvil’s cinemas and nightclubs。 The city had a cathedral； several parks and two enormous shopping centres； and these things were pleasant enough to visit if you had sated yourself on Pagford’s superior charms。 Even so； to true Pagfordians； Yarvil was little more than a necessary evil。 Their attitude was symbolized by the high hill； topped by Pargetter Abbey； which blocked Yarvil from Pagford’s sight； and allowed the townspeople the happy illusion that the city was many miles further away than it truly was。
II
It so happened that Pargetter Hill also obscured from the town’s view another place； but one that Pagford had always considered particularly its own。 This was Sweetlove House； an exquisite； honey…coloured Queen Anne manor； set in many acres of park and farmland。 It lay within Pagford Parish； halfway between the town and Yarvil。
For nearly two hundred years the house had passed smoothly from generation to generation of aristocratic Sweetloves； until finally； in the early 1900s； the family had died out。 All that remained these days of the Sweetloves’ long association with Pagford； was the grandest tomb in the churchyard of St Michael and All Saints； and a smattering of crests and initials over local records and buildings； like the footprints and coprolites of extinct creatures。
After the death of the last of the Sweetloves； the manor house had changed hands with alarming rapidity。 There were constant fears in Pagford that some developer would buy and mutilate the beloved landmark。 Then； in the 1950s； a man called Aubrey Fawley purchased the place。 Fawley was soon known to be possessed of substantial private wealth； which he supplemented in mysterious ways in the City。 He had four children； and a desire to settle permanently。 Pagford’s approval was raised to still giddier heights by the swiftly circulated intelligence that Fawley was descended； through a collateral line； from the Sweetloves。 He was clearly half a local already； a man whose natural allegiance would be to Pagford and not to Yarvil。 Old Pagford believed that the advent of Aubrey Fawley meant the return of a charmed era。 He would be a fairy godfather to the town； like his ancestors before him； showering grace and glamour over their cobbled streets。
Howard Mollison could still remember his mother bursting into their tiny kitchen in Hope Street with the news that Aubrey had been invited to judge the local flower show。 Her runner beans had taken the vegetable prize three years in a row； and she yearned to accept the silver…plated rose bowl from a man who was already； to her； a figure of old…world romance。
III
But then； so local legend told； came the sudden darkness that attends the appearance of the wicked fairy。
Even as Pagford was rejoicing that Sweetlove House had fallen into such safe hands； Yarvil w