Where Everything Seems Double, Penny Freedman [best inspirational books txt] 📗

investigation in which I had become a suspect, I was rescued by him. The memory of it is so acute that my heart does something strange and I give an odd little gasp, which attracts the attention of a man at the next table. I recall the moment of rescue so vividly – David, tall and tanned, jumping out of a taxi and whisking me off, sweaty and bedraggled, from the house I was sharing with a group of overwrought students, and transporting me to a luxury seaside hotel, where he put me to bed and went off to sort out the local police. We subsequently had a terrible row, but I remember it as one of the happiest times of my life. I was in love with him then, I suppose. Am I in love with him now? I would have to resort to the weasel words of the Prince of Wales: ‘Whatever in love means’. I am so flustered by this memory that by the time I stumble out into the lobby and accost David at the reception desk I have tears in my eyes, and he greets me with, ‘Are you all right?’ in a tone that is less sympathetic than you might think.

‘Absolutely fine,’ I say briskly, and we don’t kiss, or even touch. He collects his key and I go with him to his room, feeling odd in the forced intimacy of the lift. I feel odd in his room too, with its enormous bed, so I ask him if he has had lunch and say that I will order him a sandwich and meet him down in the bar.

By the time he comes down, I have adjusted my mental picture and actually he looks rather good in a nice blue, short-sleeved shirt. I let him swig his beer and make inroads on his beef sandwich before I say, ‘So shall I tell you what’s going on?’

He nods, and says rather indistinctly, ‘They’re not dragging the lake, then?’

‘They’re not. The local kids who feel they own the lake are expecting it, but I don’t know if that’s based on actual information.’

‘They feel they own the lake?’

‘I’ll tell you. You eat and I’ll talk.’

And so I tell him, with admirable lucidity and economy, I think, though I don’t get any commendation. I explain about the ‘gang’ – the provenance of its members and Freda’s insertion into it – about the craft centre and Ruby Buxton’s parents, about Colin’s chemistry coaching for Ruby, about The Dream and the floating fairies and the abandoned canoe, about Dumitru and the mystery phone call, about Milo and Ruby’s phone and, finally, about Freda’s night-time encounter with Dumitru and the mystery bundle. Then I pause for breath and ask if I can have a sip of his beer.

‘Obviously what I don’t know,’ I say, after rather more than a sip, ‘is all the police stuff. Have they got any useful CCTV footage? Have they traced the call to the theatre? Any forensic evidence from the abandoned canoe? Why haven’t they dragged the lake?’

He has finished his sandwich and drains the last of his beer. ‘Cost,’ he says, ‘is the answer to that. They’ll want to exhaust other possibilities first.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I might as well go into the station now. I said early afternoon.’

‘You’ve talked to them already?’

‘I wasn’t going to come all this way on spec. They’re certainly taking this case seriously – I was able to talk to the SIO at 8.30 this morning.’

‘Eve had told them about Ruby’s phone.’

‘Yes. Tell me, what sort of alibi has Colin Fletcher got for the relevant time?’

‘He was ushering at the theatre – helping to manage the crowd going to the lakeside and back at the interval.’

‘And there are witnesses who saw him there – and saw him in the theatre afterwards?’

‘That I’m not sure about. He and Eve are very prickly. The police have interviewed him three times now so they should know, but it doesn’t sound as though he has a cast iron alibi does it?’

‘It doesn’t.’ He gets up. ‘I’ll just go and pay for this.’

‘I paid. It’s on my tab.’

‘Right. Thank you.’

‘I assumed that you weren’t on expenses.’

‘Probably not.’

Oh God. Are we going to talk to each other like this for the whole weekend?

‘Well, good luck with the local bobbies,’ I say. ‘I’ll probably be here when you get back. Remember mobiles don’t work in the hotel so you’ll need to knock on my door if I’m not in here or in the garden. Room 118.’

He gives a vague wave and off he goes.

And then, as soon as he has gone, I am seized with the panicky realisation that Freda isn’t back yet and it is two o’clock. Shouldn’t she be back? I look helplessly at my dead phone and decide to go to the car park sweet spot to see if there has been a message. There has not: two bars spring up obediently for me but no message chatters its way in. Damn. I walk along to the jetty to consult the ferry timetable, find that the next one won’t be in for over an hour, and am turning back towards the hotel when a shout of ‘Gran’ attracts me and I turn to see Freda hopping nimbly out of a rowing boat, assisted by a round-faced boy who I think is Micky. She waves him off and turns to me, smiling. ‘I missed the ferry,’ she says, ‘so he rowed me. He’s good, isn’t he?’

I ruin the moment for her. ‘Did you give her a life jacket?’ I call to the boy, and I can feel Freda’s eyes rolling even though I am not looking at her. Micky grins, though, brandishes a life jacket and sets off down the lake with long, even pulls on his oars. Freda doesn’t say anything right away, but as we are walking across to the hotel she says, ‘You have to do it, don’t you? You