Pulse(53)

I went over to the Mercedes and rapped hard on the driver’s window with my knuckles.

The man inside sat bolt upright with a start and glared through the window at me with a strange look in his eye that I couldn’t quite read. Perhaps he had thought it was his employer knocking on the window, and he wouldn’t have been happy to have found his driver asleep.

The electric window slid down a few inches.

‘What do you want?’ he asked gruffly through the gap.

London accent, I thought. East Ender.

‘Whose car is this?’ I asked. ‘Who owns it?’

‘That’s none of your bleeding business,’ said the man. ‘Go away.’

‘I’ll find out, anyway,’ I said. ‘I’ve got your number plate.’

‘Sod off,’ the man said, and he closed the window to indicate that the conversation was at an end.

I stood looking at him through the glass. I reckoned he was in his thirties and very athletic, the sleeves of his dark suit bulging as they tried unsuccessfully to obscure his oversized biceps. He had slightly receding brown hair and a fashionable three-day stubble. He waved a dismissive gesture at me then lay back again in the seat but, this time, he didn’t close his eyes.

He went on watching me as I walked off towards the car-park exit. I knew because every time I turned round to look, I could see him staring at me through the windscreen.

I took extra care crossing the Evesham Road – not a bus in sight – and then walked down the track towards the farmyard where I’d parked my car.

I suddenly stopped and a shiver ran down my spine.

The man hadn’t asked my name.

He hadn’t needed to.

That look in his eye hadn’t been concern over his employer finding him asleep – it had been his surprise at finding me standing there.

He had known exactly who I was.

I was sure of it.





20


I was home well before Grant.

I was tucked up on the sofa under a blanket drinking peppermint tea and watching a game show on the television by the time he arrived at ten to six.

‘How are you doing?’ he asked, leaning down and giving me a peck on the cheek. ‘Have you eaten anything?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said automatically. ‘I had some soup for lunch.’

That wasn’t actually true. I’d had a one-egg omelette for breakfast, supervised by Grant before he went to work, but I’d had nothing since apart from the cup of tea I was holding. Eating was not a priority in my life at present, so I hadn’t even thought about it.

‘So you’ve had a good day?’ Grant asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Very restful. I watched the Gold Cup.’

That bit was not a lie, even if Grant did assume it had been on the television rather than live at the racecourse.

‘Bloody races,’ he said. ‘The traffic everywhere is already horrendous. I nearly came home about two hours ago to avoid it but Trevor wanted me to go through some new dial designs with him.’

That was lucky, I thought, with an inward smile. And exciting.

I could get quite hooked on this clandestine investigation malarkey.

Live dangerously, or not at all.

Saturday morning dawned cold, bright and sunny.

‘Why don’t we tidy the garden today?’ Grant said over breakfast. ‘Get it all ready for the spring?’

‘OK,’ I said with some resignation. My enthusiasm level for gardening was always rock bottom and my current condition hadn’t improved it any.

‘Not until after my game, like,’ Toby said forlornly. ‘You are coming to watch?’

‘Of course, darling,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

And especially not for gardening.

‘What time?’ Grant asked.

‘Ten-thirty kickoff.’

‘OK. We have time to do the front before then.’

Grant was in one of his ‘let’s get going’ moods so we were all ushered outside in our coats and wellingtons to tidy the front flowerbeds while he cut the grass.

‘I bet Cristiano Ronaldo doesn’t have to do the weeding before he plays a match,’ Toby whined unhappily, leaning on a spade.

‘He’d get someone else to do it for him and just pay,’ Oliver said. ‘What a good idea! Dad, Dad,’ he was shouting, ‘are me and Toby getting paid for doing this?’

His father ignored him as if he hadn’t heard, which he may not have done due to the lawnmower.

Happy families. Although, to be fair, the front garden looked a lot better after only forty minutes or so of work, when we were dismissed by Grant to get ready for the football.

It was a mixed outcome for the Rankin family.

Gotherington Colts lost by three goals to two, but Toby did score both for the home team. However, in spite of his personal success, he was distraught about the overall result.

‘How can I possibly go into school next week?’ he said, trying to hold back the tears. ‘It will be, like, awful.’

‘Darling,’ I said to him, putting my arm round his shoulders, ‘don’t get so upset. It’s only a game.’

He looked at me as if I were mad.

‘Mum, how can you say that?’