She had to put a stop to this. She didn’t want to hear Gabe waxing lyrical about what could be. ‘Let me think about it,’ she said curtly. That was the best way to handle Gabe.
‘Do you mean it? You’ll really think about it?’
‘I said so, didn’t I? Now I have to go. I have a paper to read and you’re disturbing my morning routine.’
She could almost see him rolling his eyes in mock frustration. ‘Have it your way,’ he chuckled.
It was peaceful in the morning, her favourite time of day, the grass ice-tipped and crunchy, the sun low in the sky, making the trees in the wood look black. Gabe was disturbing all that with his talk of new collections.
‘One more thing …’
‘Gabe.’
‘It’s important, Dot.’
‘Fine.’ She suppressed a sigh and smoothed down the newspaper that she’d laid across her lap.
‘A man has called here a few times, asking questions about you.’
She froze, alarmed. ‘What? Who?’
‘His name is Sidney Crane and he says he’s writing a biography.’
‘A biography? Whatever for?’
‘Money, I suppose. He wants information. Obviously, I haven’t given him any.’
‘I should hope not.’ Her mind raced. Why now? Could this biographer have found out what she had done? Images from that terrible night flashed through her head: the chip in the glass ashtray, that spot of blood on the mushroom-coloured carpet. And then an even more horrifying thought occurred to her. If he knew about that, did that mean he also knew what happened afterwards? ‘And it’s doubtful he’ll find anyone to talk to,’ Gabe continued, and Dorothea had to zone back in to what he was saying. ‘But maybe you should warnAnnette, Maisie and Rosemary. Just in case he tries to harass them.’
‘You don’t have to worry about them,’ she said confidently. She trusted the three of them with her life. ‘Thanks for letting me know. Now, can I get back to my paper?’ She tried to sound nonchalant, but she felt sick.
‘Absolutely. Remember to think about the collection.’
‘Goodbye, Gabe.’
Her heart was still thudding as she ended the call, and she placed a hand on her chest and breathed deeply.
She needed to find this Sidney Crane. She couldn’t allow that book to be published. She had to put a stop to it at once.
18
Imogen
Josh comes into the kitchen carrying one of Dorothea’s throws and drapes it over my shoulders. ‘You’re shaking,’ he says, running his hands up and down the top of my arms. ‘Do you want a cuppa?’
I nod, thanking him, while trying to push the image of Dennis’s prostrate body from my mind. His face had been so pale and there was so much blood. Josh keeps throwing me looks of concern as he puts the kettle on the hob. The two dogs are lying by my feet under the kitchen table. I had to bring Cady back with me, I couldn’t just take Solly.
‘I can’t stop thinking about Dennis.’
‘Well, he’s lucky to be alive by the sounds of it.’
‘I wonder what happened. Do you think he had a heart attack and then hit his head or something?’
‘God, it’s likeMidsomer Murdersaround here.’
‘Don’t say that. Dennis hasn’t been murdered.’
But I can’t ignore the possibility that Dennis was attacked. First someone locks us in the bunker and now this.
