snorted. ‘Too right, I haven’t got a single unbroken plate left in the house.’
‘Need a lift home?’ He tugged at his sleeves and then pulled a cheroot from his inside pocket. ‘I’m going back through town, wouldn’t take me too far out of my way –’
Dora shook her head. ‘No thanks.’
The mourners were beginning to disperse. Dora headed away from the main group towards the side gate which would take her onto a short cut.
‘Dora?’
Instinctively, she turned round at the sound of her name.
Hurrying across the grass was a man in a long black coat. She stopped and tried to focus on his face.
‘My God,’ she hissed under her breath, as a name formed in her mind. As soon as the thought hardened her stomach performed a dramatic back flip.
Chief Inspector Jonathan Melrose. Jon Melrose – the man she had left her husband for. Not that Jon knew, not that she would ever tell him. She had never so much as kissed him, but it had been the awful, ice-cold certainty that she could and would, if the offer ever came up, that had made her look at her marriage with different eyes.
Jon Melrose had unknowingly changed her life forever, and now he was standing with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his good funeral coat not more than an arm’s length away.
He grinned at her. ‘Hi, I thought it was you. Long time no see.’
Dora smiled. ‘How are you?’
‘Not bad. Look, I’m on duty at the moment, all these bigwigs need a bit of sheep-dogging by the local plod. I just wanted to say, I saw the report on your burglary first thing this morning. I was going to give you a ring.’ He stopped and smiled. ‘Saved me a phone call meeting you here. I wonder if you’d mind me dropping by later?’
Dora opened her mouth; too many times recently no words had come out. To her relief there was an answer all ready and waiting.
‘Sure. Why not?’ she said lightly. ‘Do you know where I live?’
‘It’s on the incident report. Don’t worry, I’ll find it.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got to be getting back. Can’t keep the VIPs waiting. Once they’ve stopped shaking hands they start to get twitchy and wandering off on their own. I’ll see you later.’
Dora watched him jog back towards a group of distinguished-looking men, wondering why it felt as if she had become a passenger in her own life.
The intercom bell rang briefly. It was later that same day and Dora was sitting in her office looking at the computer screen. Outside, the street light’s glow announced the coming evening, though Dora had no sense of the time. Catiana Moran’s latest, unfinished novel scrolled up slowly, line by line. She could see the words but her mind didn’t seem to be able to decipher them.
The furniture had all been replaced and tidied, books rearranged, cupboards repacked, papers sorted, but the sense of calm and stillness was absent, as if the atmosphere had been ransacked along with the rest of the flat. She’d left the phone unconnected. The last thing she needed was more frantic voices to stir the slowly settling dust. She glanced at the receiver with its cord all neatly bound around, tying the words in. She really ought to ring Kate.
Her mind was butterflying. Lillian Bliss looked very much how she had fantasised her alter ego might look. Taller, bigger hair – far bigger mouth. She winced and stroked the scrolling words thoughtfully with her finger. The screen was cold.
Beside her keyboard was the novel Catiana had autographed.
The doorbell rang again. It sounded very distant. Dora shook herself as if she was trying to slough off fatigue. The bell rang more insistently. She leant across and pressed the button.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Dora, it’s me.’
Dora blinked. Four simple words in a voice from the past that made her gut contract.
‘Jon?’
‘Would you mind if I come up?’
‘Two minutes, I’m just changing,’ Dora lied and clambered to her feet.
She flitted around the room in desperation, turning off the computer, tidying away Catiana’s unexpurgated thoughts. Hurrying into the sitting room, she bundled the debris of the day into the cupboard near the fireplace, plumped cushions, straightened curtains and switched on a table lamp, while a nagging internal voice told her how ridiculous it was. After all, Jon Melrose had just dropped by to talk about the burglary.
Which made her wonder, if that were the case, why the sound of his voice had left an odd tingling glow in the pit of her stomach and her pulse had shifted up a gear? Glancing into the mirror above the fireplace, humorous grey eyes peered back from behind wire-rimmed glasses. She pulled them off, folded them on the mantel shelf, licked her finger and scrubbed at the spot of magnolia emulsion on the end of her nose – noting ruefully as she did that there was paint all over her hair as well.
Reflected in the mirror’s dusty eye, the sitting room looked soft and homely. Taking a final swipe at the cat’s hairs on the arms of the sofa, Dora hurried back into the office, letting a finger hover above the entry button. The kitchen –
Turning quickly, she threw open the door, scrambled lunch-time’s fish and chip wrappers into a ball and slam-dunked them into the bin. It was really too late to do anything about the rest of the room.
One deep breath, two deep breaths, after all she wasn’t a child. Struggling to regain her composure, she stepped back into the office and pressed the button.
‘Come up. It’s open.’
She heard the street door close and then the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Dora licked her lips, counting the footfalls and for a second all she could think of was how gorgeous Jon Melrose had looked in black.
Lawrence Rawlings, cradling the remains of a large brandy, settled himself back in an armchair by the fire to watch his fellow guests. The function room at Fairbeach’s Conservative Club was packed. Alicia Markham had buttonholed Edwin Halliday. The look on the cabinet minister’s face was a delight. Lawrence smiled – damned woman, rattling on about the effects of agricultural policy on Fairbeach farmers, while Halliday, the worse for several glasses of wine and a rather good port, was blinking, affecting rapt interest.
Little brackets of animated conversation had formed around the function room.
Jack Rees’ memorial supper for the Fairbeach Conservative inner circle had proved surprisingly successful, though Lawrence suspected Alicia had planned it to ensure Edwin Halliday MP felt obligated to stay overnight. Lawrence had seen the look in her eyes – agricultural policy was not the only thing on her mind.
His concentration moved on. To his surprise Guy Phelps was no more than a yard away, on his blind side, staring at him. Lawrence, a little nonplussed at being trumped at his own game, lifted his glass.
‘Went off rather well, wouldn’t you say?’ remarked Guy. ‘Alicia
