‘There seems to be a misunderstanding,’ he said, eventually.
‘I don’t think so,’ Margaret said. ‘You got my message, and you wanted to talk to me. My understanding seems to be spot on.’
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘We’ve been getting complaints,’ she said. ‘Through various channels. Untoward goings-on at the hotel.’
‘Your message referred to a path forward,’ Mr Jones said. ‘I believe you mentioned continued and unfettered access. Which leads me to wonder what you’d want in return.’
‘Oh, I’m just here to listen to the music,’ Margaret said.
She passed a slip of paper across the table. He unfolded it, read it, and passed it back.
‘You’re with the farmer,’ he said.
‘Not really.’
‘I don’t want to see him again.’
‘He has that effect on people.’
101
‘What’s going on?’ Gracie asked as she stepped through the door, into the pub.
Cook and Reynolds followed close behind, wrapped up in their failure.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Reynolds asked, as he saw what Gracie had seen – Frankie sat at the corner table, by the front window, half a cheese sandwich on a plate and a mug of tea in front of him. Annie at his side.
‘He’s got a postcard from Ruby,’ Dottie said, from behind the bar.
Cook realised Frankie didn’t know. He’d left the boy in the dark, thinking his sister was still dead.
Gracie took Frankie’s face in her hands.
‘You’re a good lad,’ she said, kissing him on the forehead. ‘Let’s see it.’
Frankie showed her the postcard, and Gracie pulled her own one from her pocket.
‘Let’s hope she’s all right,’ Gracie said.
Dottie pulled two pints and passed them across the bar to Cook and Reynolds.
‘Now what?’ Reynolds asked.
Cook sipped his pint.
‘Wait for Beaumont to make an appearance,’ he said.
‘What if he doesn’t?’ Reynolds said. ‘What if he knows we’re on to him?’
Frankie ran past them, and Cook heard his footsteps on the wooden stairs. He’d never thought about where the family lived, presumably in rooms above the bar. He could hear Frankie clattering around up there, then the footsteps on the stairs again, coming back down.
‘Look,’ Frankie said. He had another postcard in his hand. A plain one, a simple rectangle of card, space on the front for the stamp and the address, and on the back for the message.
Frankie put this new card on the bar, next to the one he’d got from Ruby.
‘Whose is that chicken-scratch?’ Reynolds asked.
