Free Wellies and Westies by Cressida McLaughlin Page A

watching. There was also al fresco seating under a wide awning that provided shelter from sun, rain and wind, and the Greek owner, George Ambrosia, left bowls of water outside for the dogs. Cat tied the leads to her table leg so the Westies could reach the water, and sat down, rubbing her hands.
    George was out in a moment, his white apron gleaming, his glasses on the edge of his nose. His beard and moustache gave the impression of great wisdom or wholehearted scruffiness. Cat hadn’t yet decided which it was.
    ‘Hi, George,’ she said. ‘Lovely day for a kite.’
    ‘Kites wouldn’t stand for this,’ George said. ‘All end up in the trees.’ His voice was low and gruff, the words getting lost in his beard. ‘What can I get you?’ He had his pen poised, his thumb pressed against the pages of his notebook to stop them from flying away.
    ‘A large tea, please.’
    ‘Milk, no sugar.’

    ‘Right.’ Cat grinned.
    ‘A nice cake? Muffin, or Bakewell? Slice of lemon sponge?’
    ‘No, thanks.’
    George nodded and reread his notebook, as if Cat had ordered an eight-piece breakfast rather than a cup of tea, then disappeared inside. Cat checked on the dogs – who were taking turns at the water bowl, their white tails wagging, pink tongues lapping quickly – and scanned the park.
    It was busy, despite the bluster, and Cat could see why. It had just the right amount of open space and shelter, the tall trees providing a barrier against the outside world. She hadn’t yet been here during the summer, though she’d come walking with Polly occasionally when she visited her from Brighton. She knew that the park would be as popular as the beach for picnics, ball games and sunbathing.
    But now, on the edge of spring, People were hunched into their coats, hands deep in pockets. A young family raced with a small spaniel, the mother pushing a pram behind the elder children. Cat peered, thought she might recognize them from the nursery, but was distracted by a tall, striding figure walking ahead of a collie, tennis ball in hand.
    Cat inhaled, then jumped when she saw that George was standing silently next to her table, holding her mug of tea. He put it in front of her, followed her sight line and nodded slowly. ‘The man, the one with the dog. Saved you from the squirrel.’
    ‘Y-yes. Although you make it sound like I was being attacked, like the squirrel was enormous, with big teeth and claws.’ She started to laugh, but George was still looking at Mark.
    ‘You need to watch that one.’
    ‘Sorry? I need to watch who?’
    ‘The man.’ George nodded his head towards Mark.
    ‘Why?’ Cat’s mouth went dry, sure George was about to impart a piece of the jigsaw puzzle.

    ‘Watches people, writes it all down. Sits in here with coffee, black, no sugar, and a macaroon.’
    He said it as if that, in itself, was suspicious. Those treacherous macaroons. ‘And…?’ Cat prompted.
    ‘He watches people, writes it in his book. Big, leather, silver fountain pen. Spying maybe, taking notes, reporting back. Too quiet, brooding. Just like that programme, Spookies . Maybe he is one, a Spooky?’ George turned to Cat, a bushy eyebrow raised.
    Cat bit back her laughter, wondered if she should point out that George was doing just what he was accusing Mark of: spying on people, reporting his observations to others. ‘I’ll make sure to be wary of him. Thanks, George.’
    ‘No more squirrels, young lady.’ He said it with sudden fervour. ‘The squirrels lead you to the man, and to all sorts of trouble.’
    ‘The squirrel wasn’t my decision.’
    ‘Take more care, avoid the squirrels.’ He wagged his finger at Cat, then each of the dogs in turn, before going back inside.
    ‘Wow,’ Cat murmured. ‘That was intense, wasn’t it?’ Dior looked up and gave a single, affirming bark. ‘What do we think? Do we think George has a point? What is Mark up to? Is he spooky, or just sexy?’ Cat bit her lip, refused to acknowledge that