Cold Coffin (29 page)
“In future, Kate, when you solve a case,” Richard grumbled, “kindly remember that the
Gazette’s
press day is Wednesday. By next week this will all be stale news.”
She laughed at him. “Don’t whinge, Gower.”
It was Saturday lunchtime, and they were enjoying a drink and a chicken salad at one of the garden tables at the Wagon and Horses in Chipping Bassett. Felix would have joined them, but she was taking pictures at a Pony Club gymkhana at Dodford.
“Your press conference on Thursday,” he went on, “was about as informative as a parliamentary answer. How about giving me the nitty-gritty, Kate?”
She tore off a scrap of bread and tossed it to a sparrow. “Strictly off the record?”
“Cross my honest old heart.”
She owed Richard something, after all, for several instances of help he’d given her in this case. She treated him to a mildly edited version of the sequence of events leading to the arrest of Aidan and Paula Kimberley.
When she’d come to the end, he said, “That was a neat dodge, using the redial button of their phone to get onto Kimberley’s trail. Clever stuff!”
“Tell Jolly Joliffe that. He took it in his stride as routine procedure.”
Richard smiled sympathetically.
“I
appreciate you, Kate, anyway. So, it’s all over?”
“You think? You’d never believe the paperwork.”
“How’s Lady Kimberley taking it?”
“So-so. It’s been a tough time for her.”
“What will happen at Croptech, d’you reckon?”
“I’ve no doubt that Lord Balmayne will advise her well. He’s a good friend to her. One thing, I hope that whatever happens to the firm, Cheryl Miller doesn’t get overlooked. She’d be more than capable of running the whole show. That is, if she wants to any more.”
“What about those two who were on the fiddle, young Roger Barlow and the secretary ... what’s her name?”
“Sandra English.”
“Will you be bringing charges?”
“I can’t be bothered. But they’ll be sweating, no doubt. Wondering.” That made Kate think of Don Trotton, and she laughed. “They aren’t the only ones sweating just now.”
“Uh?”
“Don Trotton—you remember? He fell right into my lap the other night.” She enlarged.
“Oho! Your chance for revenge. What are you doing about it?”
“Nothing. But Trotton can’t know that. He’ll sweat for days until it finally dawns on him that I haven’t spread the story around. And then, he’ll start sweating all over again wondering why.”
“Serve the bugger right. This is really turning out to be your week, Kate, because I’ve got some good news for you.”
“Good news?”
“I’ve found you somewhere to live. Somewhere very nice.”
“You’ve
what?
Tell me, quickly.”
“There’s a stable block in the grounds of a big old house near Ampney-on-the-Water which the owner intends to convert into four residential units, and he’s got planning permission. It’s in a marvellous setting, and according to the architect’s drawings, each unit will be pretty damn good. They’re not too pricey, either, considering. And you can have first pick.”
“That’s incredible, Richard. Wonderful. How do I come to be so lucky?”
“The guy owes me some favours. Besides, I pointed out to him the security advantages of having a top brass police person living right on his doorstep.”
“Richard, you’re an absolute darling. Though how you could calmly sit there all this time and not tell me, I do not know.”
“I was waiting for the psychological moment.”
“When can I see the place?”
“There isn’t a lot to be seen, as yet. Still, if we drive over there you’ll be able to get a rough idea. And I’ve got photocopies of the plans in my car.”
“Wow!” She jumped up and buttoned the jacket of her white blazer. “Come on, Richard, let’s move.”
“As soon as we’ve finished our lunch.”
“For heaven’s sake, who cares about food now?”
“I do.” In leisurely protest, Richard set about making himself a sandwich, breaking open a length of French bread and stuffing it with the choicest remaining slivers of chicken from both their plates. Then he got up and walked limpingly over to where an impatient Kate stood waiting beside his Volvo. She looked good, tall and poised and confident, her short black hair riffled by the summer breeze.
He felt happier than he’d felt in years.
Copyright © 1990 by Erica Quest/Nancy Buckingham
Originally published by Doubleday/Crime Club [ISBN 0385411871]
Electronically published in 2014 by Belgrave House/Regency
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
