Free The Warning by Sophie Hannah

bizarrely, at the market’s waffle stall in the square. Simon’s choice, according to Lorna, because he didn’t like the Eagle yesterday. Apparently neither Charlotte nor Lorna succeeded in suggesting another indoor venue that met with his approval.
    What the hell’s wrong with him? Why didn’t he like the Eagle? How can an open-to-the-elements market stall be the best option? It’s cold, windy, raining, and the four of us are shivering in plastic chairs around a wobbly table. Our heads are protected from the rain by a canvas cover, but we’re still getting damp because it’s blowing in horizontally. Simon didn’t even order a waffle—just a cup of tea. The man who handed it to him, who is now making waffles for the rest of us, keeps shooting bemused looks in our direction. I can tell he’s thinking, “Why on earth do they want to sit here on a day like today?”
    One good thing about being freezing cold is that I can keep my scarf wrapped tightly around my neck and hide the gold chain I don’t normally wear. My engagement ring is dangling from the end of it, since it’s currently too loose to wear on my finger, and Lorna would spot it straightaway, given half a chance.
    Everyone assumed I would cancel my dinner with Tom last night. No one has thought it worth asking me today, to check that I did.
    Simon’s holding a notebook in his hand—the kind only a man would choose, with nothing decorative about it. He’s not reading from its pages yet, but he stares at it as he speaks, as if his dialogue is written down there. “All right, there’s a lot of detail and none of it remarkable, so you’ll need to pay attention. I’ll repeat it if I have to but I’d rather not have to.”
    I’d rather not be accused in advance of falling short when I’ve done nothing wrong, but, unlike Simon, I’m too polite to say so.
    “Overview first, then specifics,” he says in the same slightly disapproving tone. “Everything Tom Rigbey told you about himself and his life appears to be true. He’s got no criminal record. On paper he seems to be a blameless citizen.”
    I’m basking in the warmth of the relief that’s flooding my system when Simon adds, “That’s why I said listen carefully. You’ll also need to think carefully. The answer—the missing information—isn’t obvious, but it’s here, contained in what you already know and what I’m about to tell you. Once you see it, you can’t miss it . . . but you might have to look hard in order to see it.”
    Charlotte says, “I feel obliged to say, Chloe: I haven’t a clue what Simon’s talking about, and I’ve heard the full spiel twice already today, so you’re not the only one in the dark.”
    I don’t understand. Isn’t she his wife? Why didn’t she ask him to explain it to her before they got here? That’s what I would have done.
    “Tom Rigbey was born in Levenshulme, Manchester, in 1981. He has one brother—Julian, the Fallowfield dentist—and a sister, Rebecca. Did he mention her to you?”
    “Yes, but not by name. He said they weren’t close.”
    “They aren’t,” Simon agrees. “She lives in London and works for the CBI.”
    “Which is what?” I ask.
    “The Confederation of British Industry.”
    “Oh.” I’m none the wiser. Okay. Tom’s sister works . . . somewhere businessy. That’ll do. “He told me she lived in London.”
    “Right. Parents—Fort Lauderdale, Florida, for the last five years, as he said. They have a shared swimming pool at their apartment building, as Tom described, and I’ve found no reason to disbelieve that the armadillo in his Twitter avatar isn’t one he encountered and photographed beside that pool.”
    “Is the armadillo relevant to anything?” Lorna asks impatiently.
    “Anything might be relevant,” says Charlotte. “We don’t know yet.”
    “No,” Simon says flatly. “The armadillo’s got fuck all to do it. Forget him. It,” Simon corrects himself.
    “Right.” Charlotte mutters.