Free Death at the Cafe by Alison Golden Page A

mirror so small? It’s just your mind playing tricks.” Mary drew close to Annabelle, clutching her tightly. “Ow! That hurts!” she said.
    “Let’s go, Annabelle. Please.”
    “Okay, okay. The tube station is nearby. Here, have some fudge to calm yourself down.”
    Though Mary scanned her surroundings as they entered the station with all the intensity and thoroughness of a tourist, she could not find the man again. They boarded the tube, and she found herself relaxed in the safety of the carriage.
    “See?” Annabelle said. “We would have seen him if he was following us.”
    Mary didn’t reply. Annabelle noticed that she wasn’t looking back at her. She followed Mary’s eyes to the window at the back of the carriage. Standing in the carriage two behind theirs was a man in a tweed suit.
    “That’s him,” Mary said coldly, her face a mask of stilled fear.
    Annabelle jostled through the people to get to the window and take a closer look. It was difficult to see clearly through the crowd of the intervening carriage, not least because the curvature of the rail tracks brought him in and out of view. He was a slim, tall man, with dark skin but with features which didn’t seem entirely African – much as Mary had described him.
    Annabelle turned around.
    “Are you sure that’s him?”
    Mary simply nodded and grabbed Annabelle’s arm tightly once again.
    “We’re safe, he can’t do anything to us.”
    “What if he’s just waiting for the right moment?” Mary said in a shaky voice. “We have to call the detective.”
    “I agree, but you know there’s no phone reception on the tube. Let’s try something. I saw it in a film once. Just do as I say.”
    Mary nodded.
    As the train rolled to a stop at the next station, Annabelle ushered Mary toward the door, keeping her eyes on the carriage she had seen the man in. The doors opened with a sharp hiss, and Annabelle stepped out of the train clutching Mary’s arm. They stood in front of the doors of the train as people pushed and pressed past them, Annabelle’s eyes searching through the marching crowd of commuters for sight of the tweed-suited man. At the very last moment, with the expert timing of someone intimately familiar with London’s transport system, Annabelle shoved Mary back onto the train and jumped in behind her. The doors closed, and the train started pulling away.
    Mary glanced around her, checking for any sign of him.
    “Did he get off? Is he still here?”
    “I don’t know,” replied Annabelle, “but I don’t see him. Yes, I think he’s gone.”
    Mary allowed herself a brief sigh of relief. “Let’s just go somewhere safe.”
    “I’ll take you to my church. We’ll call DI Cutcliffe on the way.”
    Shaking with nerves but somewhat eased by Annabelle’s firm presence, Mary allowed herself to be taken all the way to Old Street Station, where they left the train and made their way up the escalators to the many exits.
    As soon as they emerged into the bright daylight, Annabelle pulled out her phone and foraged in her pockets for the card that DI Cutcliffe had given her.
    “Blast! I’ve lost the Inspector’s number!” she said.
    “No need,” uttered a rough voice behind her.
    Annabelle and Mary spun around and saw DI Cutcliffe standing feet away, two of his officers standing behind him as if flying in perfect formation.
    “Detective!” Mary explained, with relieved surprise.
    “We have to tell you something, Inspector.”
    Cutcliffe raised a broad hand to stop them. “There will be plenty of time for that,” he said, in an even firmer, more authoritative, and antagonistic tone than the one he usually used. Annabelle and Mary looked at each other curiously.
    “Mary Willis. Annabelle Dixon,” he continued, as his officers stepped forward. “I am arresting you on suspicion of murder and burglary. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned anything which you later rely