Free Murder in Time by Veronica Heley

she’d expected, but then, she hadn’t really known what to expect. A weakling who had given Vera up at the first sign of trouble? He’d been eighteen years old, then. This was a man, and a mature man at that.
    His eyes were sharp and didn’t miss much … such as the fact that she’d shrugged on a jacket which had a button missing. She thought he’d have made a good doctor.
    The years had taken him even farther away from Vera-at-the-chippy than they might have done. He looked erudite, charming, steely … and seemed out of place in this humdrum road. He was definitely a ‘Dan’ rather than a ‘Danny’.
    He ushered her into a brightly painted but bare hall. The only furniture was two good-looking bicycles. Not the sort you did the shopping with.
    â€˜Mrs Quicke? The school said you wanted to talk to me about my ride for charity. A long-held ambition of mine, thankfully fulfilled without accident.’
    â€˜Did you have to do a lot of training for it?’
    â€˜Almost every day, yes. I’m glad it’s over, in a way. It took up a lot of time. May I say how grateful we were for your earlier gift, which helped us to send our youth choir to the Eisteddfod? Would you care for some coffee? Only instant, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜â€œYes” to a cup of tea, if you’re making one. That was the first time we’ve provided money for a school project, but we might do more of that sort of thing in future. The choir did well, I believe. Congratulations.’
    The two reception rooms had been thrown into one. More bright paint, more clean-looking cheap furniture, no art or mirrors on the walls, no pot plants. Paperback books, higgledy-piggledy; hardbacks in a solid oak bookcase. More books in piles on the floor. A stack of CDs.
    Was this a rented house? There were several items of furniture here which didn’t match the image: an antique walnut desk with a laptop computer up and running on it; a couple of good watercolours propped up on the mantelpiece; a La-Z-Boy chair. There were stacks of files in office-type trays. A pile of papers … from school, ready for marking? A telly smaller than she might have expected, a CD player with speakers. No children’s toys.
    He raised his voice, speaking from a galley kitchen at the back. ‘Apologies for the disorder. I’m renting this place for six months while my own house is being underpinned. Subsidence. One of the consequences of building on clay. How do you like your tea?’
    â€˜No sugar, a little milk.’ A rented house. That explained it.
    There was a photograph of a dark-haired toddler, a girl, on the mantelpiece between the two watercolours. The fireplace itself had been blocked off, but there was an efficient-looking central heating radiator under the bay window. Curtains also from Ikea.
    â€˜Coming up.’ A kettle shrilled, and he appeared with a tray containing tea in matching china mugs – surprise! – and some biscuits on a plate. ‘I’m not terribly domesticated, but I do like a biscuit with my tea.’
    Ellie quoted from the nursery rhyme, ‘I do like a bit of butter with my bread.’
    Warily polite, he waved her to a seat. The chairs were comfortable enough, and the tea hot. Time to talk. She said, ‘I read about your bike ride in the local paper. Congratulations. I thought you might like me to add something to the amount you collected.’
    â€˜That’s good of you.’ Warmth in his tone for the first time, but bright eyes said she could have sent a cheque. Why was she here in person?
    She felt embarrassed, looked away. ‘All right, I had an ulterior motive and used that as an excuse to get to talk to you. But I did bring a cheque as well.’ She fished it out of her handbag and laid it on the coffee table.
    He dropped his eyes to look at the amount and produced a real smile. ‘Thank you. That is most