to an end, but I donât really want to be too much longer. Iâve got to be up early in the morning.â She grimaced. âAnd Iâve got to face telling Steve Iâve scraped his wing mirror . . .â
âOh Rach, heâll be fine about it, Iâm sure.â
âHmm, I wish I was! Iâm going to be in the doghouse and no mistake.â She signalled the waiter for the bill.
âThis is on me,â I said.
âOh Sal, no!â
âYes. Fairâs fair. You drove. Iâll get the bill.â
âWell, if you insist. Thank you.â She slipped into her jacket. âIâll get the car. Be outside in â say â ten?â
âIâll be there.â I grinned wickedly. âAnd donât hit any more pillars.â
She raised her eyes heavenward, mimed an exaggerated shiver, then headed for the door.
I took some notes from my purse and laid them on the silver dish the waiter had provided along with a tip, then settled back in my chair with one eye on my watch and one on the road outside in case Rachel was quicker than she expected. But soon my mind was wandering as I thought over what Rachel had told me about Lisa Curry. I hadnât realized she was local, and it opened up a whole new way of looking at what had happened, supposing that Brian Jennings had been wrongly convicted.
If he hadnât started the fire and if it hadnât been an accident or the work of yobs, then whoever was responsible must have had a motive. So far, Iâd been thinking of Dawn as the intended victim, but it could just as easily have been Lisa. From what Rachel had said, Iâd got the impression she might not be a very nice person.
A sharp toot attracted my attention and I came back to earth with a jolt, feeling horribly guilty. Rachel had pulled up outside and I hadnât noticed; by the light of the street lamps I could see her leaning over, peering anxiously into the trattoria looking for me.
I struggled to my feet, grabbed my crutches and headed for the door as fast as I could. The waiter was there before me, holding it open, and I swung out on to the pavement.
âSorry, Rach!â I apologized as I slid into the passenger seat.
âNot to worry. At least there arenât any traffic wardens about at this time of night.â She grinned, letting in the clutch and moving off with a bit of a jolt. âIâd hate to have to tell Steve Iâve been done for parking too!â
âYou werenât parked,â I pointed out.
âWell, obstruction, then. Come on, missus, letâs head for home.â
Though it was after ten by the time Rachel dropped me off, lights were still burning at the downstairs windows, small, warm oases in the dark shadow that was the rambling old farmhouse. I was quite surprised â given how early they had to get up, Mum and Dad liked to be early to bed too, and though she usually left a hall light on for me, Mum almost always turned off the ones in the kitchen and living room. She didnât like wasting electricity, and when anyone entered the farmyard the security lights came on, making it bright as day. They were blazing out now, illuminating the barn and outbuildings, and throwing dark contrasting shadows across the cobbles. As the car turned in, Scrumpy, the collie who followed Dad everywhere by day but slept at night in her kennel, set up a frenzied barking and I called to her softly to let her know I wasnât an intruder.
Rachel waited for me to make it to the door, doing a three-point â or, more accurately, a six-point â turn while I fitted my key into the lock. Then, when I turned and gave her a wave, she drove off. I stood for a moment watching her tail lights disappear down the track, and breathing in the cool night air, still faintly scented with the unmistakable smell of home.
In summer that smell could be overpowering at times â slurry and manure, the sweet aroma of silage, all
Andy Griffiths and Terry Denton