Wychwood--Hallowdene by George Mann

Author:George Mann
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan

CHAPTER TWENTY

With Abigail safely deposited at the train station in Charlbury – and promises made to meet at Paddington the following night for the party – Elspeth had struck out for Hallowdene and her appointment with the co-organiser of the Hallowdene Summer Fayre, Iain Hardwick.

That had been an hour ago, and she was still trying desperately to find a route through the traffic. She’d already put a quick call in to Iain via her hands-free system – which she absolutely abhorred – and he’d seemed very understanding, telling her to get to him when she could. Nevertheless, she could feel herself getting wound up, the muscles in her neck and shoulders tightening with every incremental tick of the clock. It was an essential dichotomy of Elspeth’s life that she hated being late, but was, inevitably, always the last to arrive. She could never explain why this was. She always set out to be on time, but then something would happen, and by the time she arrived at her destination she’d be running behind schedule and feeling fraught. Today was no exception.

She willed herself to breathe steadily as she threw the Mini around another corner, saw an opportunity to make a break for it, and put her foot down. Peter would approve, she thought. She finally left the city behind and sped off down the back lanes towards Hallowdene, nudging seventy miles per hour on a road that was capped at sixty, Wolf Alice blaring on her stereo.

She arrived a short while later, parking outside the front of Iain’s house, having successfully negotiated the winding lanes of the village. It was bigger than she’d realised, the houses spreading back from the main thoroughfare to form a number of small estates she’d never seen before – although none of the houses appeared to be younger than a hundred years old. Iain’s house was no exception; a beautiful thatched cottage with brightly coloured hanging baskets, a front garden filled with wondrous-smelling flowers, thick, whitewashed walls and an irregularly shaped front window.

He met her at the door, a broad grin on his face. He was a tall, balding man in his forties, with a ruddy complexion and an appealing, friendly manner. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a tweed jacket over a black T-shirt and jeans. “I’m so sorry you’ve had such a nightmare journey over,” he said, ushering her inside. “I’ve got the kettle on, and I’ve got cake.”

“You’re a man after my own heart,” said Elspeth, with feeling. She followed him towards the living room where another man was sitting on the sofa, reading a book. He looked up and smiled, folding his book on his lap.

“This is Carl, my husband,” said Iain. “Carl, this is Elspeth Reeves, from the Heighton Observer.”

Carl shook her hand and looked at her with renewed interest. “Ms Reeves of Carrion King fame,” he said. “You’re most welcome.”

She’d had this occasionally in the months following the coverage of the Carrion King case – people who’d been fascinated to follow all the details of the story, reading along with her articles and blog posts.

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