Free The Stranger House by Reginald Hill Page A

And the man she was talking to was Gerry the Son.
    “We’ve just been talking about your accident, dear,” said the landlady, her pleasant round face touched with concern, “How’re you feeling now?”
    “I’m good,” said Sam, “No problem, really.”
    The pub had been empty when she returned and she’d worked out that Mrs Appledore must have been one of the funeral congregation singing that cheerful hymn.
    “That’s good to hear,” said Woollass, “We were all very concerned.”
    He sounded sincere enough and his gaze felt less like that of an angler examining a strange fish than it had in the church.
    “No need,” she said, “Thanks again for your help.”
    Not that it had amounted to much but, like Pa said, always be polite till you’ve got good reason not to be.
    “Excellent. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay. Now, I must be off. You’ll remember my message, Edie?”
    “Ten, not nine thirty. I think I can just about manage that, Gerry. My best to your dad. It’s a long time since we saw him down here.”
    “He feels very susceptible to cold draughts these days,” said Woollass.
    “Does he? Well, tell him the only cold draught he’ll find here is the beer,” retorted the landlady, “Goodnight now.”
    As the door closed behind Woollass, she turned to Sam and smiled. “He’s a good man, Gerry, but diplomacy’s not his strong point.”
    “He didn’t come here just to enquire after my health, did he?” asked Sam.
    “No. He wanted to leave a message, though as you heard it wasn’t much of a message. But he was very concerned about you. That’s Gerry all over. As someone said, he’s got such a bleeding heart, you can hear it squelching when he breathes.”
    “That wouldn’t be Mr Winander, would it?”
    Mrs Appledore laughed out loud.
    “You’re the sharp one, aren’t you? Of course you met him up at the church.”
    “That’s right. He was very kind. So what’s he do for a living?”
    “Winanders have been blacksmiths and general craftsmen in the village since way back. Thor’s branched out, but. Does arty stuff. And he’s a real salesman, so take care. Now you’ll be wanting something to eat, I expect. Unless you’re planning on going out?”
    Memory of the caustic cob had made Sam consider driving down to the fancy-priced hotel in search of dinner, but answers to her questions lay here.
    She said, “Yeah, I’m hungry enough to eat shoe leather. What have you got?”
    “Anything you like so long as it’s sausage or ham.”
    “Sausage sounds great.”
    “OK. In you go. I reserved a table for you. I’d better get back behind the bar before the natives get restless.”
    The ringing of the bar bell and cries of “Shop!” had already been audible from the bar, but all sound stopped for a moment as Sam pushed open the door and stepped inside.
    The room was crowded but a path opened up for her leading to a small round table with a handwritten
Reserved
sign draped across an ashtray, and the noise resumed as she sat down. She’d brought the Reverend Peter K.’s
Guide
with her, but before she could open it a pint glass was slammed on the table. She looked up to find Thor Winander smiling down at her.
    “A belated welcome to Illthwaite, Miss Flood,” he said, “Glad to see you looking so spry after your adventure.”
    “You’re looking pretty spry yourself, considering, Mr Winander,” she replied.
    He laughed, showing good strong teeth, and said, “I won’t ask, considering what? I’m sorry your family enquiries came to a dead end.”
    “One man’s dead end can be someone else’s starting point,” she said.
    He looked at her speculatively. She met his gaze square on. He wasn’t totally unattractive for a geriatric, and he still had a certain Viking swagger to go with his name.
    Thought of names made her ask, “You never told me how you knew what I was called. I’d guess you’d been talking to Mrs Appledore. Right?”
    “Quite right. I ran into her and