‘What’s your line?’ asked Roddy, jerking his chin towards Kim. It was a strange expression to use, almost 1970s, and Kim looked at the deep troughs in his face again. This twenty-five-year-old had done fifty years of living already. He had the parched skin of a smoker and even his frown had wrinkles.
‘Estate agent,’ Kim replied.
‘Good money. You put ’em in, we take ’em out.’
Stevie put in, ‘It’s not always about the money, Roddy—’
‘It’s not, but it sort of is.’
Kim tried to help. ‘It’s not about money for me. I just love my customers.’
‘Says the lady with the bright red Porsche.’
How had Roddy clocked which car she drove, especially since the Porsche was currently stranded elsewhere? Perhaps Stevie had mentioned it; or perhaps Roddy had seen the car in Sidmouth and thought he would like to confiscate it at some point after so many dirty rugs and children’s coats? Did he measure the asset value of everyone he met?
‘Roddy says I can have it off on the wedding day if I want to, the patch.’
‘Have it off on the wedding day!’ repeated Roddy, pleased with his seizing of the innuendo. ‘Only a few weeks to go now,babe!’ he said with a leer at Stevie, then he walked to the counter to get a drink, whistling under his breath, having not offered a refill to either woman.
Kim wanted to ask,Is he kind to you?Her abusive marriage had made her spot red flags everywhere. But she had not seen Stevie for a year and did not feel it was her place to point out danger with Stevie’s wedding day so close.
‘What’s that tattoo – the number “100” inked on his wrist?’
‘He’s getting it taken off.’
‘But what does it mean? I’ve seen it or heard about it. “One hundred” in red?’
‘Means nothing,’ Stevie deadpanned.
Kim sensed hazard in the conversation and fell silent. She saw a smattering of rain above the sea, moving backwards and forwards like water from a garden sprinkler. The sun was still bright. ‘I was just talking to Edward; he’ll be so thrilled to hear I bumped into you.’
‘The radio god!’ Stevie blurted, laughing as if in relief. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s having a difficult day. He had to speak in public with no voice,’ said Kim. ‘Actually,’ she went on, struck by a thought, ‘we were cut off when he started telling me about this lady he’d met. Crossbow lady, he said. Name wasn’t familiar.’
‘Can you remember it?’
Kim put her head in her hands. ‘You and your true crime, Stevie.’ The young woman was a repository for murder stories she had seen online and on TV. ‘Now let me think. The name was – hmm, chewing gum. Spearmint. No, Wrigley.’
‘Crossbow, you said?’ said Stevie.
‘Yes, he said “crossbow” and “Wrigley”. Came from Birmingham.’
Stevie set down her tea and toyed with the remains of a cookie on her plate. ‘Hmm. Birmingham? I thought North Devon.’
‘Honestly,’ Kim said, ‘I might have got it all wrong.’
‘I did hear of a case involving a crossbow. Not around here, for sure.’
‘Like I say, the line went.’
‘Ah! I have it! The case I heard about was a doctor in North Devon. And the wife,’ said Stevie with sudden certainty. ‘Wendy Wrigley gets away with a crossbow murder.’
‘That’s it! I’m sure that was it. Wendy Wrigley.’
‘I’ll tell you the story because I remember it. But listen, she killed her husband and she got away with it. We need to tell Edward to stay away from that dangerous bitch.’
‘Which bitch?’ asked Roddy, who had arrived behind them silently, holding the mug while he popped five artificial sweeteners into his tea.
