next name on the list was Frank Tomelty. Former police detective inspector. Though he could wait a little while, she had a few ideas about approaching him and wanted to think them, through.
She rode down to the ground floor in the lift. Alone, no one seemed to be about much this early. She ordered a light breakfast of grapefruit and a glass of orange juice in the hotel restaurant.
As she was finishing the family she’d seen earlier came in for food.
If they even noticed her, sitting alone in the corner, none of them showed it.
Maxine looked out at the dull grey morning and contemplated killing.
*
Louise Bowman, across town stepped out of the cramped shower at the rear of the caravan. She hurriedly toweled down and dressed. As nights went it hadn’t been so bad. She’d endured much worse. The selection course for example a few years ago. Now that made this place look like the Hilton.
She chuckled slightly and stretched. She wasn’t as young as she used to be but she was fit and able. She plugged in her juice extractor. She’d brought a lot of things with her. Her husband reckoned she was crazy. It wasn’t as if she was going to the developing world, just the North of England. Which was all very well, but this was a caravan and the “all mod cons” promise had been something of an exaggeration. She opened the small fridge freezer. It seemed Ms…whoever had lived here before either was very generous and left a stocked larder for the next potential resident. Or, far more likely, Martin Ross had ordered a delivery online from the local supermarket. She put some mixed greens from a plastic bag into the juicer and picked up a small piece of ginger. She trimmed it using one of the ceramic bladed knives she had brought with her. Ross had provided her with four knives in a clear Perspex block. She had, idly picked one out after he left her to unpack. The knife had been light and cheap. The handle plastic and the manufacturer one she’d never heard of.
In went a chopped red apple. Apple and ginger. Very tasty. She added a pear also. You had to juice pairs. Or drink pear cider. Pears were a mystery to her. They were dry as dust and rock hard for ages. Then, overnight, a disgusting mushy mess. Pears were the one fruit that seemed to have evolved with the juicer in mind.
She spooned in some mixed seeds. These she had brought with her. Technically she was a product of the North and knew that the stereotypical unhealthy pie munching brown ale swilling northerner was as absurd as any cultural stereotype. Yet a part of her insisted on playing it safe.
In went some seedless grapes and a few cubes of ice.
The machine screamed and reduced the whole lot to a drinkable juice in a minute of so.
Louise sat at the, rather flimsy, drop down table and drank the juice for breakfast. It was light outside, but the kind of light that Temple Caneston always had. A dull, diffused, slightly grey daylight that always threatened rain. That so often delivered on the threat.
She had cleaned up the juicer, being simply a litre jar and the blade assembly. She had washed up the dinner things from last night. She had a light meal. Some stir fried veggies with chicken strips and a spring onion sauce. Sometimes her level of organization irritated her husband but That was how she was.
She laced on her trainers. She wore a pair of light coloured and lightweight trousers teamed with a pale grey sleeveless top that was a good deal more fitted. She would go for her morning run in a short while, but for now she opened up her laptop computer.
She logged into her email and scrolled down, removing the many pointless emails that everyone seemed to receive and archiving ones related to shopping or official things such as banking.
That left her with four emails. The first was an official confirmation from the genetics study company. It was an expensive business and her husband hadn’t been keen on the idea anyway. But the results were enlightening and the cost had been split three ways. If nothing else she had to admit that she had received a good deal more cooperation from everyone involved. More than she had expected.
The second email was from Martin Ross. She read that one through slowly and carefully twice. It was a long message and she didn’t really believe everything it contained. Which is to say Ross. Himself. Either believed it all or, far more likely, wanted desperately to believe the things he’d written. She sighed, you couldn’t go back. People always said that and a lot of time they were right. There were all the clichés about too much water going under bridges and what have you. But, at the end of the day, if people didn’t get on, they didn’t get on. Louise did consider this a lot, over the years she’d thought about it long and hard. She had spoken with her husband many times. Until, probably, the poor man had been sick of the subject.
In a way she hadn’t wanted to come back here. But sometimes the pull of new information is too much. She’d managed to swing six weeks from work to get here. That hadn’t been easy. It had taken a couple of appeals and a good deal of explanation. Then there was the matter of where to stay. The house, despite Ross’ assurances was out of the question. It had never been a happy place….
Louise corrected herself, it had once, a very long time ago, been a very happy place indeed. Then it had changed. She accepted her share of the blame but even now a simple apology wouldn’t fix things.
A hotel might have been a much better idea but Ross had suggested the static caravan. It was very inexpensive. It was private. This was an isolated area away from the main park. She had an internet connection and no one would bother her here. She could do what she came here to do, then go back to her husband. With any luck in a lot less than the six weeks she had allocated the task.
The third email was from someone she didn’t know, and had yet to meet. Hazel Vernon, This email was the latest in several they had exchanged over the past few weeks.
Though she didn’t know Hazel, she was impressed with the woman and how organized she was. Hazel was more cautious than Ross, but seemed to be friendly and approachable. Louise looked forward to seeing her.
The last email, as ever, was from Don, her husband. She smiled as she read it through. He was missing her. He hoped everything was going well. Couldn’t wait for her to get back and they might put some of her break to better use than looking up the past.
Maybe finding the future too, she thought. Then shook her head. Getting far too fanciful there.
Louise decided that was a good sign to shut off the computer and go for a run.
She locked up the caravan. It was probably a useless gesture. There would be spare keys at the office. Then she jogged out of the site. The warm up run took her past the other caravanners. No one she recognized. But they were a type. Middle aged, prosperous. Looking a bit pale and soft. They were hurrying around doing whatever it was they did. Sitting under multi-coloured awnings to keep out of the rain.
She left the caravan site by the pedestrian exit. If Ross was around he would be in the office by the main entrance. She ran down the pavement and noted several 4x4 vehicles approaching towing caravans. So even the questionable weather didn’t dampen their spirits.
She nearly laughed at that thought. They were in vehicles. She was the one running down the street in the rain.
The caravan site was, technically, out of town by at least a klick. Louise oriented herself and began running towards town. If she remembered the map correctly this would take her close to the river. She would run down a narrow road that serviced a farm. There were houses she’d pass, though not many, and not all inhabited. She would then emerge by the river, just near
