Free Dying Fall by Judith Cutler Page B

eyebrow. ‘Ms Rivers?’ he repeated, sotto voce.
    As Chris shouldered forwards, Stobbard took my hand lightly between his, and brushed a kiss on to it. Then he backed away and was gone.
    There didn’t seem to be any special reason for Groom’s interruption. He made a few bland comments, and then, almost as an afterthought, asked me if I fancied a sandwich. Which is how we came to be sitting in a miserably loud wine bar, drinking an exceedingly quiet mineral water apiece. Chris was officially on duty, after all, and I had to battle later with a stroppy group of GCSE repeats. Aftab’s group, as it happened.
    We had started to bicker.
    â€˜Of course we make mistakes. Very highly publicised mistakes they are, too. But we get it right most of the time.’
    â€˜So I should bloody hope. But you haven’t got it right this time.’
    â€˜So you’re suggesting someone lured this absent-minded old geezer out into the mud and whacked him?’
    â€˜Take out those derogatory adjectives and yes, you have it to a T.’
    William Murdock has the sort of minimalist sartorial philosophy that means if you turn up in a suit people will ask how you got on in your interview. So I preferred to dash home to change before I tackled the GCSE group.
    I was just putting the key into my front door when a car sighed to a halt. Another status symbol for my neighbour, no doubt. Should I even bother to look round? They’d expect me to admire the bloody thing and I wasn’t in the mood for giving fulsome praise.
    â€˜Sophie?’
    The big Renault wasn’t a new toy for the neighbours, then. It was a new toy for Tony Rossiter. He smiled, perhaps a little shamefaced.
    â€˜OK, so you wanted to show off to someone,’ I said. Then I grinned. ‘Tell me all about it.’
    He opened his mouth, then closed it. We both understood that all those years behind us made apology difficult but forgiveness essential. And in a way, showing me this car – only 459 miles on the clock! – was his apology.
    The car sat sleek and opulent among the beat-up Fiestas and Allegros (most of them
non troppo
by now), and asked to be stroked or vandalised, depending on your persuasion.
    â€˜Five-speed gearbox –’
    â€˜So I should hope,’ I said seriously.
    He looked at me sideways. ‘And air conditioning –’
    â€˜For this climate!’
    â€˜Well … ’ He looked sheepish. Perhaps I should give up baiting him and try to be simply nice. He joggled his keys at me. ‘Try it?’
    I knew better than to think he meant me to drive it. What he wanted me to do was savour the leather upholstery.
    A couple of neighbouring curtains twitched. Him in his executive suit, me in my serious-occasions one. A posh car. The man waving phallic symbols around. I felt as if I’d stepped into a TV advertisement. At least I could do something about my clothes.
    â€˜Give me two minutes to change and you can run me in to college if you like.’
    â€˜Want to see what’ll be pulling you?’
    Another man, another relationship, I might have suspected him of an awful pun. But the bonnet was already up. The engine was very clean. I peered at the front wheels.
    â€˜They’ll have those off in two minutes. They used to collect mine.’
    â€˜Ah, but yours were only wheel trims. These are integral. Alloy wheels,’ he said clearly, as if to a child.
    â€˜You’re sure you won’t wake up one day to find the whole thing sitting on little piles of bricks?’
    â€˜I should hear them at it. A very efficient theft alarm – shall I –’
    I shook my head. Almost as an afterthought, he went back and opened the boot. I thought for an unworthy moment that he merely wanted to show off a bit more, but no: as he straightened I saw in his right hand an instrument case.
    â€˜Tony, that’s George’s.’
    â€˜Of course it is.’ He pressed a finger to