‘I know, but I want to get ready.’
Nancy smiled. ‘Breakfast first!’
NINETY-FOUR
Saturday 20 March
Imogen swiftly tied her trainer laces. She was feeling agitated today. Silly really, as it was just a village festival but every time she thought of what was going to happen later – her husband being part of a procession through the village accompanied by a young girl on a pony – she got a tight feeling in her chest. It should be Rosie on Lupin next to her dad.
She called out her goodbyes, leaving Rosie and Dylan to their pancakes, and set off. The thoughts consumed her brain as she ran, going round and round in circles. Nancy. Lara. Her beloved house. Her daughter’s rightful place. So much taken from them. She ran harder, knowing the pounding would help to settle her.
Imogen heard another pair of footsteps fall in beside her and turned to see James. They exchanged a look. At least one thing was going her way, she thought. James had mentioned about Miss Young leaving them at the end of the academic year.Good. It served her right for the way she’d treated Rosie.
She let him go on ahead a safe distance, then once he’d turned up the driveway to his house, she checked behind her. No one was about and she followed him up the path and through the door he’d left open.
Later, in the shower, Imogen didn’t know that Dylan had picked up the running watch she’d left on the kitchen table. He guiltily listened out, heard the water running and clicked on the buttons at the side of the watch face, telling himself there was nothing odd, nothing to explain. It was just his imagination running wild. Everything was fine.
A map came up on the screen and Dylan looked at it. A line marked out the route Imogen had taken that morning. She’d run down Cuckoo Lane then through the outskirts of the village in a circular route back to their place. He felt bad about looking and was about to put the watch down when he noticed something that landed a sucker punch to his stomach.
The line was all reds and oranges. He knew the colours indicated Imogen’s pace. She was fast, consistently so.
So why was there a very tiny section of the line that was blue?
It meant she’d gone slow, very slow indeed. Or she’d stopped.
He looked at the map again, wondering what had made her stop running. Had she injured herself? Of course not, she hadn’t mentioned anything and had been absolutely fine when she’d come back. He suddenly realized that at thepoint at which she’d stopped, there was a house. A house he knew. So she must have gone in.
He needed to know more. He clicked again, frustrated at not knowing how the watch worked but managing to navigate his way around by pressing various buttons. Gradually more of the watch’s intel revealed itself to him. He saw Imogen had taken the same route the previous Saturday too. And the one before that. Each time she’d stopped at the house.
Two weeks ago she’d gone in for twenty-five minutes. He thought back – that was the day she said she was only going to be an hour but had ended up staying out for ninety minutes. He delved further. More Saturdays. More stopping at the house for twenty, forty-five, even fifty minutes. He looked at the map. Pictured the house, its shiny black front door. James and Carol Whitman’s house.
Why was Imogen going to their house every Saturday morning? Maybe it had been to talk about the restaurant, go over various business issues? But why keep it a secret from him?
He heard footsteps on the stairs and hurriedly reset the watch to how it had been and put it back where he’d picked it up off the table.
Imogen came into the kitchen, her hair still damp from the shower. She picked up her watch and put it on.
‘I’ll grab some breakfast at the restaurant,’ she said. She gave him a kiss. ‘See you in all your finery later. I’ll try and escape as soon as I can, even if it’s only to see the finale down at Heron Water.’
He nodded his agreement then heard her dash into the living room to say goodbye to Rosie. Two minutes later he heard the front door shut.
NINETY-FIVE
Saturday 20 March
Twelve red buckets, each with a label sellotaped on the front: ‘Ripton Rhinos Straw Bear collection.’ Lorna put the roll of tape away in the kitchen drawer and surveyed her handiwork. Each of these money-collecting tubs would be held by a member of the Ripton Rhinos at various points on the straw bear route through the village. Once the procession had passed and the villagers had followed on behind, the custodian of the bucket would bring it, full of cash, down to Heron Water, where Lorna would be waiting in her car. They would hand it over and Lorna would wait until all twelve buckets were safely with her before taking them home, where she would count the donations then later hand them to Simon for banking.
After she had proposed her idea to Simon, also suggesting that he and the rest of the Rhinos could go for a well-earned pint after the festival if she took the money home, he had put her completely in charge of looking after the buckets. Carol was supervising the children at the parade. All Lorna had to do was wait for the cash to be brought to her.
It was easy. Too easy. For a moment, Lorna had a stab of conscience. She shouldn’t really be taking from the people she lived and worked with, the parents whose children went to school with hers.
But no one would know.
A part of her felt scornful of the system. At the way so much money was allowed to be handled by just one person. Even the bucket holders themselves, standing in the street in the dark; they had plenty of opportunity to relieve the weight of their load by several pounds. She sighed. It was a massive oversight really. Maybe in the future she’d point it out to someone.
For now, she picked up the stack of buckets and took them out to her car. When she next saw them, they’d be full.
NINETY-SIX
