SEVEN DEADLY THINGS (Henry & Sparrow Book 3), A FOX [good books to read for adults .TXT] 📗

they would be fascinated with those stories, she didn’t doubt, the truth was she was still getting over the trauma and this daft holiday reunion was part of that process.

It would be lovely to just get silly and forget about her work for Salisbury CID — forget about murderers and kidnappers and victims… and dowsers. Yes. She was going to forget about dowsers too…

‘So… tell me again who I’m going to meet,’ said Francis. ‘Give them a rating — Snog, Marry or Avoid.’

She laughed. ‘That’s a very wise idea! Well, OK. Number one is Talia, who I think you met a few times when we were at college together.’

‘Oh — the hot black chick,’ said Francis.

‘I think you’ll find we say “woman of colour” these days,’ Kate said, primly. ‘But yeah — she’s the hot black chick and I think she’d prefer that title. She always wanted to be an actress and she almost made it. Now she’s doing teacher training in Bristol.’

‘Boyfriend?’ he asked. ‘Or… girlfriend?’

‘Between men at the moment,’ said Kate. ‘Possibly quite literally if I know Talia. You must DEFINITELY AVOID. OK. Number two - that’ll be Craig. He’s camp as a row of tents and working for British Airways as a steward. Also wanted to be an actor.’

‘OK… avoid too?’

‘That’s your call,’ she said. ‘He was always mad as a jar of gerbils, but under it he’s a sweetie.’

‘Noted,’ said Francis, changing gear with a struggle. Kate winced but resisted making another disparaging comment on his baffling vehicle choice, grateful that there was no car in front for the Capri to snuggle up to.

‘Then there’s Martin,’ went on Kate. ‘He stayed on at Buntin’s when we all went at the end of the summer season and he’s never left. The pool is open to locals in the off-season months, so he’s always had work. He’s kind of half-Bluecoat, half-lifeguard, really. Big, manly, sporty — not too bright.’

‘Snobby graduate elitist,’ accused Francis. He hadn’t bothered with uni himself and was now earning a shedload of money, without forty thousand in student debt hanging over him. He liked to rub it in from time to time.

‘You can’t avoid him — he’s too big,’ Kate said, ignoring the dig. ‘You probably won’t want to marry him but who knows? A snog might not be out of the question.’

Francis grinned and shook his head.

‘Then there’s Handy Bendy Julie,’ she continued. ‘She ran all the fitness sessions. Body to die for — double-jointed. Can literally bite her own buttocks.’

Francis gaped through the windscreen, clearly picturing this. ‘Marrying her — definitely,’ he said.

‘Think she’s a PE teacher now… Number five is Bill — works in finance these days, but back then he was a singer and he always fancied himself as Idris Elba with vocals. Massive ego, shagged anything with a pulse.’

‘You included?’ Francis shot her a worried glance.

‘Shit, no! I mean, god, I’d do real Idris on the bonnet of my car… in Sainsbury’s car park on a Saturday morning,’ she said. ‘But Bill? Avoid, avoid! Was always way too in love with himself for me. But not for most. Which brings me to Nikki — number six.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Sharp, funny, Welsh,’ she said. ‘Kind of Rizzo in Grease with a Cardiff twang. But she fell hard for Bill and he took full advantage, and then dumped her mid-season.’

‘And they’re both coming along on the Magnificent Seven After Seven?’ he marvelled.

‘Yup! Apparently it’s water under the bridge,’ said Kate. ‘If you can believe that. Nikki runs a nursery school now, apparently. Snog at your own risk, I’d say. Anyway, number seven is me, who you can’t avoid or snog or marry.’

‘Don’t be so sure. We’re in darkest Suffolk now.’

She chortled and rolled her eyes. ‘I think Norfolk has the edge on that,’ she quipped. ‘Every other baby grows an extra finger up there… here it’s only one in four. Oh my god - this is it!’

The gateway to Buntin’s Lakefield Holiday Village suddenly loomed up on the left, so incredibly familiar to Kate, and yet so strange. Seven years had seen the trees along its perimeter grow to almost twice the height she remembered, and there was now an electronic car barrier and a guy sitting in a little hut next to it. He got out as they arrived, smiling in his Buntin’s blazer, and asked for their booking number and their names. ‘Cool car,’ he said to Francis. He’s just young enough to think that, thought Kate. He hadn’t been here seven years ago; he was probably still in school back then.

As Car Park Youth checked down his clipboard of incoming guests and car registration numbers, pen poised to tick them off, Kate saw something shift in his expression. ‘Oh,’ he said, a flush creeping up his face. ‘You’re in the Talia Kingston party.’

‘We are,’ said Francis, a querying note in his voice.

But the guard just nodded, avoiding eye contact, coughed and then said, ‘Go right on in, sir. Park up and take your bags into reception. Have a… a nice stay.’

Francis said thanks and drove carefully along the tarmac drive. Kate turned around in her seat to peer back at Car Park Youth and saw him scurry into his little wooden hut and pick up a landline phone. She didn’t get a chance to see much more, but still caught the agitation in his movements. What the hell..? Suddenly, goosebumps rose across her skin. She reached into her jacket pocket and mashed up a lump of plasticine she liked to keep there. Her panicky episodes had been receding for some time now, but she was glad to be able to squeeze the modelling clay whenever she got a fizz of anxiety. Joanna, her therapist, had recommended the plasticine-squishing approach as a distraction and it worked very well. In fact, it had been an absolute lifesaver.

It worked again now. By the time they’d parked up and got out of the Capri, hauling their holdalls out of the boot, she’d dismissed her