He seems to be thinking something complicated.
At last, he offers half a smile. “The thing is, it’ll be pitch dark very soon, and you won’t be able to walk anywhere. I live nearby, you’re more than welcome to my spare room. I promise. No funny business.”
His words, and more than anything, his voice, are calm and reassuring. I hate to admit it, but he is probably right; the dark would soon be impenetrable. I could hardly stand in the rain all night.
Runaway parliamentary researcher found dead in doorway to derelict ferry station.
Disgraced Alice Trapper. From the corridors of power to obscure country lanes.
On the other hand, who was this man?
Alice goes from politician lover to unknown rapist.
Before my mind can run away with more lurid headlines, I yank it back to something more sensible.
“Look, I work for the government and if I’m harmed in any way, there’ll be an almighty fuss.”
Immediately, I want to snatch the words back. Of all the stupid things to say, so much for flying under the radar.
Is he smiling? Hard to see in the dark, but he reaches for his back pocket. “I work for the Queen Elizabeth Chamber Orchestra.” He extracts a couple cards from his wallet and hands them to me then switches on his phone flashlight to help me read.
The first is a business card for Brandon Hazelwood, Oboe & Cor Anglais. I flip the card to find the address on the back. QECO, 104 Chancel Street, London, SE1 3PQ.
The other is a credit card in the name of Brandon Hazelwood.
“I’m also fairly well known around here.” he says lightly enough. “And people keep coming to my door bringing me baskets of vegetables and jars of preserves. This is a friendly island. So, it’ll be hard for me to hide a body. If you like, we can knock on my neighbour’s cottage and tell them you’re here so if I kill you during the night, they’ll know.”
He might be humouring me, but he’s also making good sense. There’s no point in me being stubborn just to win a point. So, after a moment, I hand his cards back and start to wheel the case.
He falls into step beside me, and we walk in silence to the end of the paved forecourt. The lane is less even here, and Brandon holds out his hand towards my suitcase. “You might damage your wheels on this, I’m happy to carry it.”
Oh, all right. If he wants to play hero-gentleman, let him.
He sets an easy pace but keeps quiet. After a few minutes it’s me who breaks the silence. “I’m sorry. My job makes it hard to trust people.”
He takes his time before answering. “Do you trust people with your name at least?”
“I’m Al–” I close my mouth just in time. I’ve already said far too much. Honestly, what was wrong with me?
“Nice to meet you, Al.”
“Sorry, it’s Lessa.” No one in the world would associate the name with me.
“Lisa?”
“Lessa.” I correct him.
“We’re nearly here.” He indicates a collection of what looks like country cottages. And he’s as good as his word, knocking on several doors down one lane before turning into another and knocking on one more which he says is his next-door neighbour. “This is Lessa.” He introduces me. “She just arrived on the last ferry, so she’ll be staying with me.”
The neighbours did indeed seem to know him, and he hasn’t lied about being new here because they still call him “Mr Hazelwood.”
His own cottage, when we reach it, is blissfully warm. It also has a faint smell of...orange zest? Yes, orange and something like resin. It’s oddly comforting like a big warm hug.
Brandon Hazelwood, oboe and something player for the QueenSomethingorchestra is clean and tidy to the point of being monastic. The cottage has very little furnishings and the spare bedroom, up some wooden stairs, contains nothing except a double bed.
“Are you warm enough?” He doesn’t even meet my eyes as he shows me the room, then goes out and makes noises opening and shutting things before coming back, his arms full of clean linen and towels. “Umm…” He stands in the middle of the room looking awkward.
“It’s okay, I can make my own bed. Thank you.”
