In Bloom. C.J. Skuse
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you enjoyed it – thank you.’ She handed me a business card with W&A embossed on one side, and a phone number and a tiny etching of a golden gondola on the other.
‘Wherryman and Armfield,’ I said.
‘Armfield passed away some years back so it’s just us Wherrymans now. We’re based in Bristol and Ben and I live locally with our boys. Sorry, I know you don’t want my life story. Call me, if you need anything. Anything at all. If I can’t help I can probably find someone who can.’
She got up and started walking away from me without another glance. Then without warning she stopped and turned around to face me. ‘I knew you’d done this before. I knew it that night.’
She looked like she was about to say something else but her mouth kept closing like a fish’s – scared to bring the words forth. And then they came.
‘Patrick Edward Fenton.’
‘Who?’ I said.
She started walking away, her scarf fluttering up on the breeze. ‘Last I heard, he was working in Sportz Madness in Torquay.’
‘Why would I care about this?’
‘He’s my one that got away.’
When she’d gone, I stared at the card. Keeping it was a link – to her, to that night, to the two dead men. I was about to post it into the bin at the side of the bench when a thought struck. Gift horses and all that.
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