Free Cradle to Grave by Aline Templeton

more, she had the permanent feeling of being spied on, followed, though when she turned her head, all she could ever see was the usual thronged London pavement, with indifferent people busy about their indifferent lives.
    She was permanently afraid of being recognised. She never shopped twice in the same place so no one would be interested enough to look at her closely.
    She was queuing with her chicken tikka and pint of milk in a tiny, cluttered corner shop which smelled of curry when he joined the queue behind her and said, glancing at her basket, ‘My favourite too.’
    She looked round. He was fit, he was smiling, and she’d barely spoken to anyone for days. His casual friendliness was like a blink of sunshine in a long, dark day.
    She smiled back. ‘Everyone’s favourite, probably.’
    He nodded, paused, then said, ‘Do you come here often? Oh, I know it’s a cheesy chat-up line, but it was all I could think of.’
    It made her laugh, and when he said, ‘Fancy a beer before that?’ she agreed.
    She was flattered, hungry for company, desperate to talk to someone – anyone. She hadn’t meant to tell him what had happened, but she found herself pouring it all out.
    He was sympathetic. He took her hand in both of his. ‘That’s tough, babe! You’ve had a bum deal. Now, how do we fix it?’
    It was a new experience – a man who cared. She allowed herself to believe that there and then, over a beer in a squalid little pub, he was appointing himself to do battle for her, relieving her of the fear that stalked her daily life.
    Lies, lies, lies! Her whole life she had been surrounded with lies. Even her own mother hadn’t been straight with her – you would think you’d recognise a lie when you heard it by now. But how dumb could you be? How stupid, how pig-stupid? He hadn’t meant any of it. He’d been playing some sort of game, though Beth still didn’t understand quite what it was.
    Would there be any money left at all in the joint bank account she’d been besotted enough to agree to? Or would she have nothing left, except a house buried under several tons of earth?
    Even being totally cleaned out wasn’t the greatest of her worries. Now, once again, she was afraid. Now she knew Lee’s promises had been false, she was back where she had been, only worse. In the wrong place – in entirely the wrong place. She felt a chill down her spine and looked over her shoulder. Did they know she was here? Were they watching her, even now?
     
    At the disaster scene, the emergency services had swung into action. A JCB with earth-moving equipment was attacking the pile of mud and rubble, and behind it the approach road was clogged with police cars, two fire engines with cutting gear and an ambulance on standby. A coastguard cutter was acting as a ferry to take necessary personnel on the two-minute trip round to the cottages until there was a clear way through.
    By the time DS Macdonald and DC Campbell were dropped at the site, there wasn’t much for them to do. They’d been planning to take witness statements, but the inhabitants had been airlifted out already. Inspector Michie from Kirkcudbright was busily in charge, at the moment speaking into a radio phone; it looked as if he had mounted a textbook operation, with blue-and-white tape round the cottage where the body had been found and a constable logging their names as the officers came on shore.
    Feeling surplus to requirements, the detectives stood awkwardly on the area in front of the cottages, while men in yellow jackets, with shovels and stiff brushes, attempted to clear the treacherous sludge from underfoot.
    Suddenly Campbell declaimed, ‘ “If seven maids with seven mops swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,” the Walrus said, “that they could get it clear?” ’ Then, encountering an astonished look from his colleague, he mumbled, ‘Sorry. Lewis Carroll. Alice – you know. Just came into my mind.’
    ‘You’re weird, frankly,’ Macdonald