Free No Holds Barred by Lyndon Stacey Page B

clones of the one he’d come to visit. Three had handrails from pavement to door, indicating elderly residents, one had a child’s bicycle tumbled on the front lawn and all had brown wheelie bins parked ready for collection. A dog-waste bin adorned the nearest lamppost, and above it was pinned a notice of a fundraising coffee morning and a plea for information on a missing cat.
    Jenny had said the Coombes’ new home was modern, but for some reason Daniel hadn’t pictured anything quite as suburban as this. He wondered how a couple who’d lived for thirty years in glorious isolation in the cottage in the woods could bear to settle in such a place.
    Treading up the concrete garden path between beds of annuals that would have made the collective chests of any parks authority swell with righteous pride, Daniel pressed his finger to the doorbell button.
    In due course, a chain rattled, a Yale lock clicked open and a dumpy woman stood in front of him in a shapeless, flowery dress, her plain face made all the more so by wispy grey hair pulled into an unimaginative bun. She looked him up and down and then peered past him as if expecting something or somebody else.
    â€˜Marian Coombes?’
    â€˜Have you brought the cooker?’ she asked, peering at him under untidy brows. A pair of spectacles hung on a cord about her neck and Daniel thought she would do better to put them on.
    â€˜No, I’m not delivering anything, I’m from Maidstone Farm. I work for Jenny Summers.’ He pointed to the logo on his shirt to back up his statement.
    Marian Coombes’ expression softened.
    â€˜Oh, the poor girl! How is she?’
    This was a more encouraging start.
    â€˜She’s coping remarkably well,’ Daniel said. ‘She’s very brave.’
    â€˜She’s a good girl. We’ve known her since she was a wee thing. And Mr Summers? Any change?’
    â€˜Not as far as I’m aware.’
    â€˜What’s the world coming to when you’re not even safe on your own land?’ she asked, shaking her head and pursing her lips. ‘It’s frightening. Anyway, what can I do for you, Mr  . . . er?’
    â€˜Daniel. I’m a friend of Jenny’s, and I’m here helping out with the driving. Actually, I’m staying in your old cottage.’
    â€˜Oh, I see.’ She plainly didn’t.
    â€˜I wondered if I could ask you and your husband a couple of questions.’
    â€˜What about?’ There again was the guarded look Daniel had seen on Sally Fletcher’s face.
    â€˜Is George in?’
    â€˜He won’t want to see you. He doesn’t see anyone much,’ she said uncompromisingly.
    â€˜Could you at least ask?’
    Marian gave him a long hard look and then stood back a little.
    â€˜You’d better come in, I suppose, as you’re a friend of Jenny’s.’
    Daniel took her up on the offer with alacrity, in case she thought better of it, and followed her down a short, carpeted hallway to a surprisingly spacious lounge, decorated and furnished with more enthusiasm than taste.
    In one, pink velour-covered armchair, a small, wiry man sat staring out of the plate-glass French windows. Outside was an area of pink and grey paved patio on which stood a bird table hung with more feeders than Daniel thought he’d ever seen in one place. Beyond it a neat square of emerald lawn was bordered by brightly flowering annuals, the whole surrounded by a recently treated wooden fence.
    The man looked round as they entered and regarded Daniel with a slightly puzzled expression, as if trying to place him in his memory. Above a wrinkled, weather-beaten face on which the tan was fading, a few wisps of white hair decorated an otherwise bald pate.
    â€˜Hello, Mr Coombes. We haven’t met. My name’s Daniel Whelan. I work for Jenny Summers,’ Daniel said, going towards the man.
    George Coombes ignored his outstretched hand.
    â€˜Why