Louise Voss & Mark Edwards 3-Book Thriller Collection: Catch Your Death, All Fall Down, Killing Cupid. Mark Edwards
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said Kate, rolling her eyes. ‘You certainly know how to show a girl a good time.’
‘You bet I do, honey,’ Paul replied, winking at her, and Kate felt herself growing hot in all kinds of places.
‘Come on,’ she said briskly, ‘let’s hit the road.’ Otherwise, she thought, I’m going to march over to the motel next door to this service station and book us into a room right now, and forget Mrs Bainbridge . . .
Two hours later, Kate and Paul had parked the car in the car park of a small tennis club, across the road from a pretty thatched cottage which – hopefully – belonged to Leonard’s widow. On the courts next to them some elderly people were playing doubles in a fairly desultory fashion, and Kate inspected their faces carefully, in case she recognised Mrs Bainbridge. She had wracked her brains, but couldn’t remember anything about her, although she’d met her once or twice as a kid.
‘I wonder if she’ll remember me?’ she said aloud.
‘I’m sure she will, if they were such good friends of your parents,’ Paul replied, switching off the engine and unfastening his seatbelt.
‘It’s quite weird, seeing someone who knew my folks so well. I suppose it’ll be for me a bit like it was for Sarah’s mother when we turned up at her place. I hope she’s there.’
‘Only one way to find out,’ said Paul, climbing out of the car. ‘Let’s go.’
They crossed the road and walked up to the front door; Kate nervously, Paul more assertively. He seemed full of energy, raring to go.
Kate rang the bell. ‘What are we going to ask her?’ she whispered. ‘Where do we start?’
‘Leave it to me,’ said Paul confidently. ‘It’ll be fine.’
There was no answer. Paul pushed open the letterbox and peered inside. ‘No sign of anyone in there.’
‘There’s a car on the drive at the side,’ said Kate. ‘Maybe she’s in the garden.’
‘I’ll go round the back and have a look. She might not have heard the doorbell. You stay here and ring again, in case she was in the loo or something.’
Paul vanished down the path at the side of the house, past garishly flowering purple-and-pink fuchsia bushes, as Kate pressed the bell again. The house was neatly kept, with shiny brass furniture on the door, and even the glossy painted panels looking as though they were regularly wiped clean. Kate idly inspected her distorted reflection in the flap of the letterbox, wondering again if Mrs Bainbridge would recognise Kate as the skinny little girl she’d been back then. She tried to remember if Mrs Bainbridge had been around during those hazy weeks when she was in hospital after the fire. She didn’t think so – although everything was such a blur from that time.
Still no answer from inside. Kate stood back and looked up at the upstairs windows, but the net curtains were white and fresh and undisturbed. What an anti-climax, if they’d come all this way and Mrs B was on holiday. Or had moved abroad . . .
Kate thought she heard raised voices coming from the back of the house. She cocked her head and listened harder. She could make out the sound of Paul’s voice – not what he was saying, but the tone of it: pleading, almost outraged; and shrill, almost hysterical replies. Uh-oh, she thought. Guess he found her, then.
She was just tentatively making her way past the fuchsia bushes when Paul appeared, red in the face with anger, stalking down the path towards her.
‘Come on, Kate,’ he said brusquely, grabbing her hand and almost dragging her towards the gate. ‘We’re wasting our time here. She’s nuts.’
‘How the hell did you manage to upset her like that in two minutes flat?’ Kate asked, when they were back in the car. Paul laid his forehead on the steering wheel in a gesture of frustration and defeat. He shrugged.
‘I can’t understand it. She was at the bottom of the garden, digging a vegetable patch. I probably gave her a fright – I sort of came up behind her. I think she must be quite deaf, because I was calling her name all the way down the lawn, but she didn’t respond, so I kept moving closer, until I tapped her on the shoulder . . .’
Kate groaned. ‘No wonder she was scared, if you sneaked up behind her.’
‘I didn’t bloody sneak!’ Paul retorted. ‘What else was I meant to do? I tapped her on the shoulder, she jumped and held the garden fork out in front of her like she was about to impale me on it, and I tried to reassure her, but she wasn’t having any of it. She’s a game old bird, I’ll give her that.’
‘What did you say to her?’
‘I just said that we were here because we wanted to talk to her about her late husband, and she went mental. I had to back away – I mean, I really thought she was going to lunge at me with the fork. “You won’t get away with it!” she kept shouting. “Leave now otherwise you’ll regret it!” I think she must be a bit cuckoo. I was trying to get her to listen to me tell her about you, and that she knew your parents, but by that stage she was just yelling – I don’t think she even heard me. So I turned around and left.’
They looked at each other hopelessly. ‘Now what?’ Kate asked. ‘Perhaps I ought to try.’ She just about managed to refrain from saying that she ought to have been the one to try in the first place – she was sure she could have done it in a less confrontational manner. ‘There’s no point in knocking again, she won’t answer, will she? And I’m sure she’ll have gone back into the house. She’s not likely to have stayed out in the garden if she’s all that upset. I don’t want to go sneaking round the back and risk freaking her out again.’
‘I was not sneaking!’ Paul reiterated defensively. He looked so like Jack, when Jack was in trouble, that Kate couldn’t help smiling.
‘We’ll just have to wait till she’s calmed down. Why don’t we go and have a pub lunch, and come back later?’
‘OK,’ Paul said. ‘Sorry I messed it up. What an idiot, eh? Talk about a bull in a china shop.’
Kate hugged him, slightly self-consciously. ‘Don’t worry. All is not lost. Let’s go and eat. There was a nice-looking pub back there on the main road.’
Two hours later, after ploughman’s lunches containing slabs of cheese the size of small bricks, Paul and Kate walked back along the road towards Mrs Bainbridge’s cottage, and Paul’s car, in the tennis club car park.
‘I am so full-up,’ said Kate, tasting pickled onion in her mouth, and feeling her pint of lager sloshing around in her stomach as they marched along the verge.
Paul laughed, his mood restored. ‘I’ve noticed that about you: you’re either starving, or stuffed.’
‘Yes, well, you’d think I’d be used to large portions, having lived in the States. But that ploughman’s was enough for four grown men.’
‘I like your appetite,’ he replied. ‘I can’t stand girls who constantly fuss about how many calories they’re consuming. It’s so unsexy.’ He grinned at her, and she reached out and squeezed his hand. She felt unaccountably happy.
‘Let’s wait in the car for a while. We’ll be able to see if she comes out, and we can nab her then. She can’t shut the door in our faces if she’s outside, can she? And hopefully that way it’ll give her enough time to recognise me and not flip out.’
Paul squeezed Kate’s hand back again, and pretended to frown. ‘Wait in the car? Won’t that be, like, really boring, with nothing to do?’ He let go of her hand and gently caressed the back of her neck, holding the passenger door open for her as he did so.
‘We could play I-Spy,’ said Kate, grinning at him as she climbed in.
‘Or,’ Paul said, getting in the other side and leaning slowly towards her, ‘perhaps we could think of something else to pass the time.’
They