Free The Fox in the Forest by J. M. Gregson Page B

that damned dog of his. If he was right, it was probably safe to go to the phone-box now. He had no wish to be observed, least of all by them.
    “His wife will be at the bottom of it, somewhere, you mark my word,” said Gran. She spoke it into her paper, as though it were a reflection not meant for him, but she was delighted when he reacted. Sometimes the generations fell away and they were like husband and wife, with him making the necessary punctuations in her monologues.
    He grinned. “Why on earth should you think that, Gran? You don’t even know the woman.”
    “Too pretty for her own good, that one!” said Mrs Webb, nodding as though she had produced the most convincing possible argument. “Blonde hussy!” All blondes were hussies to her; the notion had an obscure origin in her youth, when the cinema had brought impossible excitement to country towns and Jean Harlow had been followed by Veronica Lake.
    Charlie knew the script and delivered his next line with impeccable timing. “But what about Grace Kelly?” he said.
    “Princess Grace, you mean,” she corrected him loftily. “She was all right, so they killed her.” She made haste to relate this irrefutable logic to the particular local event. “I’m not saying that Mrs Barton killed him herself, mind, though she might have. But she’ll be involved in it somewhere.” She ceased her pretence of perusing the paper, folded it upon her lap, and rocked slowly back and fourth on her chair, gazing contentedly into the fire. Hollywood scenarios with poor Clare Barton as a femme fatale began to seep into her delighted imagination.
    Charlie was never sure how seriously she entertained the wild speculations she retailed to him. Perhaps they were all part of an elaborate comic world she created to compensate for her lack of mobility. He scratched his long nose and threw back his narrow shoulders: if he was to feature in one of her fantasies, it had better be as the handsome hero. “It’s still fine,” he said. “I think I’ll go for a little spin on the bike. I’ve put a new plug in this morning.”
    “Damned Japanese rubbish! Always breaking down: I tried to warn you,” she said with immense satisfaction.
    He was quite relieved. There wasn’t a lot wrong with the old girl’s brain if she could switch her ideas as promptly as that. “But the Japanese make the best bikes now, Gran.”
    “Triumph was good enough for your Dad. Norton’s still the best in the world. Got to be.”
    For a moment he saw her as Supergran on the telly, astride her machine like a dark avenger. He went and started up the Honda and rode it slowly through the village. He had thought he might ride over to Ashbridge and use the phone-box there, but there was a police road block where the lane from Woodford joined the road to the next village. He turned the bike in the space where a five-barred gate led into a field of winter barley and rode slowly back to the village, feeling as though a net was being drawn tighter about him.
    Tommy Farr was back in his shop; the lights glowed gold in the gloom of the afternoon. As he stopped his bike and took off his helmet, he toyed with the idea of going in and trying to find what Tommy had been doing when he saw him with the police. But he knew he would be unable to do it casually. Tommy had that way of looking straight through you and seeing what you were really thinking. He treated Charlie with the amusement of an adult dealing with an inexperienced child, and Charlie felt himself grow more gauche even as he tried to shrug it off.
    He went instead to make his phone call. For a moment, he thought there was going to be no answer. Then the connection was made and he said, “Dave? It’s Charlie. Listen, don’t forget I didn’t ever leave work that night…I know…I know our arrangement…I know you wouldn’t. It’s just that it might be more vital than usual this time. So remember, if the police come asking questions…the police, yes. Just