Читать книгу Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 1-3 - Frances Evesham - Страница 8

The early morning sun peeped, pink and coy, over the horizon, as though the past two days of storms and wind belonged to another era. Libby walked Shipley along the beach in the opposite direction from the lighthouse. She wasn't ready to repeat yesterday's disastrous trip.

She'd tossed and turned all night, unable to forget Susie's face, the pink plastic ring, or the nagging suspicion that Susie might be a victim. She hoped the walk would clear her mind.

A dozen fishermen, with all the time in the world, leaned against the sea wall, rods extended into an ebbing tide. They nodded, mumbling a greeting as Libby passed and George Edwards wrapped a fish in newspaper, holding it out to Libby. ‘For breakfast.’

She took the package, stowing it safely in her backpack, hoping it wouldn't leave too pungent a smell.

‘How's your wife?’ She asked, wondering if she'd ever meet the woman.

‘On the mend. The voice is back, more's the pity. By the way,’ he called Libby back. ‘She loved the cake. Let me have a copy of your book, will you? Do for her Christmas present.’ Poor Mrs Edwards, was that going to be her only gift?

When Libby arrived home, Fuzzy left the airing cupboard to follow her mistress into the kitchen, meowing pitifully.

‘Are you hungry, then?’ Libby picked her up, nuzzling the soft fur. Fuzzy allowed this display of affection for a count of three, then squirmed, squeaked and wriggled away. For some reason, she'd never taken to Libby, always preferring Trevor. Trying to please, Libby opened a can of salmon.

Full, content and purring, Fuzzy left the house via the cat flap in the back door. She'd work off breakfast chasing the mice, frogs and birds that had made the neglected garden their home long before Libby moved in.

‘A wildlife garden,’ Libby explained, when Ali phoned. ‘No need to weed the borders.’ Her daughter, like Robert, had been nonplussed by Libby's crazy move from London to a quiet seaside town.

Libby downed a second mug of tea, shrugged on a bright red trench coat guaranteed to brighten her mood, and climbed into her tiny, eleven year old Citroen, to drive to work at the bakery.

Reversing out of the drive could be a challenge. The road she lived on wasn't exactly busy, for most traffic used the parallel main road, but it was ever-changing. Mums and Dads walked their children around the corner of the road each day, heading for the nearby primary school. Teenagers, ears plugged with headphones, materialised suddenly from behind parked vans, mouths open in amazement at finding cars on the road.

It was too early for young people, today. They'd still be struggling awake. Libby switched on the ignition and reversed the car, hands light on the wheel, head turned to peer through the rear window.

A flurry of barking exploded nearby, like breakfast time at the boarding kennels. Libby jumped, foot jerking on the accelerator. The vehicle lurched. She jammed on the brake, but it was too late. The rear of the car crumpled with a sickening crunch as it hit the lamp post opposite her house.

Libby threw the door open, to find her exit blocked by a dog. It reached almost to her shoulder as it struggled on its lead, howling like a wolf. ‘Be quiet, Bear.’ The grey haired man on the other end of the lead yanked the dog back to let Libby out of the car. ‘Sit down.’

The dog subsided, panting, saliva dribbling from its tongue. Libby slammed the door. ‘That animal should be locked up.’

The man bent over the rear of the Citroen. ‘I'm afraid there's a dent.’

‘Of course there is. Your dog's a menace.’

He straightened up, towering several inches above Libby. ‘He's not mine,’ he said. ‘I hope you're not hurt?’

Libby pointed. ‘Just look what you've done to my car.’

‘Forgive me, but you were driving. All Bear did was bark at that cat.’

Libby followed the pointing finger. Her shoulders slumped. Fuzzy crouched on top of the fence, fur fluffed out, laser beam eyes trained on Bear. The dog, tantalised by a tormentor so close, yet out of range, howled again.

If a cat could be said to smirk, that's what Fuzzy did. Libby groaned. ‘Oh. That's my cat,’ she blurted. ‘Well, my husband's. Late husband.’ The back of her neck was hot. She tried to smile. ‘I'm afraid Fuzzy's nothing but trouble.’

‘Fuzzy?’ The man grinned.

‘Her fur goes fuzzy in the rain.’

‘Well, I'm afraid there's not much we can do about the car. Your insurance will cover it.’ The stranger smiled, waved and went on his way. Bear barked once more, in a forlorn attempt to entice Fuzzy down from the fence.

Libby rubbed at the dent. The paint was intact, and it was only a tiny bump. A garage would knock it out in minutes. She straightened up. That man could have apologised a bit more, though. Who was he? Where had he come from? She hadn't seen him before but he looked familiar, nevertheless.

She glared at Fuzzy. ‘Last salmon you'll get from me.’