Thelma nodded. Annie reached for her phone and peered at it for a moment. ‘Friday June 13th,’ she said, ‘was when we had the memorial service in school for Davey Fletcher.’
Thelma frowned. ‘About what time was this?’ she said.
‘About an hour or so after school finished.’ Annie’s voice dropped. ‘That was the last time I set foot in the building.’ She looked at Thelma. ‘I daresay you’re thinking that one or more of my staff were fired up by the service into an emotional frenzy and drove over to Neville Hilton’s house, pitchforks in hand. But I can reassure you, Thelma Cooper, it wasn’t like that at all. That gathering was about celebrating all that Davey was and all that he meant to us.Notabout denouncing Neville Hilton.’
She slumped back and all at once it wasn’t difficult to see how ill Annie Golightly really was.
‘We’ll leave you in peace now,’ said Thelma gently.
Annie nodded. ‘Remember,’ she said insistently, ‘it wasn’t any of my staff went over there.’
As Teddy stood up, she raised a hand in his direction. ‘As you might have gathered,’ she said, ‘I’m not a particularly religious woman. I’m afraid to me the Almighty has been largely confined to Nativity plays and Easter baskets … But sitting here … looking out at that remarkable view …’ She gave the faintest twitch of her head in the direction of Roseberry Topping. ‘One thinks … and I wonder, if at some point you would mind saying a prayer for me?’
* * *
Annie insisted on showing the two of them out, even though Thelma was sure she’d have been better off staying where she was. In the hallway Annie paused by the yellow flowers, as if getting her energy up.
‘I was thinking before,’ said Thelma. ‘What gorgeous flowers.’
Annie nodded. ‘For Davey,’ she said. ‘I know I keep saying it, but I feel so very bad for him. I can somehow bear whatever comes my way. It’s other people’s pain I find so very distressing.’ Was that a tear or two brimming in the clear grey eyes? She gently fingered the petals. ‘The nights I can’t sleep … I keep thinking of how it must have been for him – tearing off in a total “Davey Fletcher” state—’
‘Where was he going?’ said Thelma suddenly.
Annie frowned. ‘He was going—’ She stopped herself. ‘Somewhere. Where, I have absolutely no idea,’ she said airily.
There was a curious note in her voice that Thelma couldn’t fail to pick up on. That was the thing about totally straightforward people like Annie Golightly, she thought, walking down the path.
When they lied, it was so glaringly apparent.
She was standing by the five-bar gate, hand on the latch, bunch of yellow carnations tucked under one arm, a slight figure with white-gold hair. In one swift transformation, her face turned from recognition to surprise to anger.
‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing here?’ demanded Chloe Lord.
Chapter Seventeen
Wednesday 23rd July
Hambleton Council: Hot tips for hot weather:
If you have to go out during the day, try and walk in the shade and ALWAYS wear a wide-brimmed hat.
Cooling the inside of the white Fiat by a combination of door wafting and waving her handbag, Liz was aware that her earlier excitement had evaporated like water in the sun. What if Ffion Hunterwereto come out and confront her? What if Derekhadnoticed her prolonged absence and was even now scouring the baking streets of Thirsk looking for her? And what if her thumping headache wasn’t just due to the pollen but was in fact the precursor to full-blown heatstroke?
Taking a mouthful of water she checked her phone: no panicky texts from Derek, thank goodness. She cast an uneasy glance back up Chapel Lane – no signs of a vengeful Ffion Hilton. But the headache still remained, defiantly pounding.
Get a grip, Liz! Drive home now, and everything will be fine. She could pick up some frozen spinach, lie down in the cool and then update her food diary all ready for pre-diabetes awareness.
But looking at the postcard cottages drowsing by the villagegreen, she became aware of a growing sense of something left undone, some question unasked …
She scanned the baking street, the deserted, grass-fringed pavements.
What question? Asked of who?
The place looked the stuff of calendars and tea towels andYorkshire Livingmagazines – but the sad reality was that, despite all the rural loveliness, there was hardly any community here to ask anything. Driving off, she passed the scaffolded structure of the pub, being converted (according to an excited billboard) into four luxury apartments. Beyond that: ‘The Old Post Office’, then what had obviously been the village school – somewhere in the place was the deconsecrated parish church. All now expensive holiday accommodation for people who came and went but knew nothing of the actual soul and life of the village.
On the outskirts of Hollinby Quernhow were two pairs of semis, obviously one-time council houses. These did at least have some signs of real life – a washing line, a rabbit hutch, a cluster of garden furniture. This must be where Zippy Doodah lived, one of the last fragments of the village community. And that was what she needed – community. People who had known Neville.
It was then she saw the cherry-red hatchback parked on the verge opposite in front of a Sixties semi, which declared itself to be the Old Police House.
