Libby dropped the rump steak in an old bowl and Bear leaped on it with enthusiasm. ‘You're either hungry, or greedy.’ She set a bowl of water near the food.
The builder, Samantha's husband, arrived on time, built like a wrestler, with enormous thighs and shoulders, his biceps tight inside a sleeveless t-shirt. He squeezed past Bear. Comfortably full, the dog was taking a nap, stretched out along the hall, snoring happily. Ned considered the bathroom, sucking his teeth and accepting Libby's offer of cake. ‘These avocado suites were put in during the seventies,’ he said. ‘Don't see them around very often, these days.’ He laughed.
She sighed, ‘I can't wait to get rid of the tiles.’
‘It'll take me a week,’ he announced, once he'd measured the room. ‘I'll email the quote for the work, while you choose the units. Here.’ He thrust a shiny catalogue in Libby's hands, swallowed her last brownie in one bite, and left.
Head teeming with plans for a spa bathroom that she knew she could not afford, Libby climbed the stairs to the study, opened her laptop and pulled up a list of a hundred and twenty emails. Most were junk. A long page from her daughter tempted her, but she moved on. Ali would ring if there was a problem. This was a news bulletin. She'd enjoy it later.
Ah, there it was. Max had checked in, as promised. She'd exchanged emails with him before he left for the States and been secretly hoping to hear from him. She'd liked the man's eyes, and she was touched that he'd chosen to look after Mrs Thomson and Bear.
She felt like she had as a teenager when a boy she fancied smiled at her. This is ridiculous. I'm far too old for that nonsense, and a respectable widow of two years. Max and I are collaborating for the sake of Susie.
She forced herself to concentrate on the email.
Staying in luxury in Hollywood
he gloated.
Contacted Mickey's company and got an appointment to see him this afternoon. Told them I was an old friend of Susie's and it was personal and urgent. Will let you know what happens.
Libby snorted. Luxury in Hollywood would mean five-star glamour. Flowers in the room, champagne on ice. Libby's family holidays had been camping in Scotland or a week in a chilly holiday cottage or, when the kids were teenagers, caravan holidays in France. Trevor never wasted money. Max, it seemed, had plenty.
She knew he had retired early, and she suspected he'd been more senior than a 'bank manager', judging by the sizeable farm he'd bought from the Thomsons. He had contacts in America – maybe he was a kind of consultant, charging thousands for a day's work.
Libby closed the laptop, retrieved Bear from the hall, wiped up the water he'd splashed on the wooden floor and set off, anorak hood firmly in place against the weather. It had turned nasty again. The wind and rain grew stronger every moment. It was going to be a rough afternoon and probably a stormy night. Summer seemed a very long time ago.
She rejected a walk on the beach, heading for the countryside, and choosing a couple of fields with no livestock. She wasn't taking any chances, although Carpathian Sheepdogs, she'd discovered online, were peaceful, placid animals with an affinity for sheep, able to roam long distances in the Romanian hills to keep their charges safe.
She found a stick and threw it. Bear charged away, fur flying, grasped it in his teeth with hardly a pause, raced back and dropped it triumphantly at her feet. Libby laughed aloud, pulled his ears and threw the stick again. Fuzzy would never dream of such undignified behaviour.
‘Oi. You.’ The voice came from behind. ‘What the devil d'you think you're doing?’
A short, squat man wearing a waxed jacket and flat cap appeared at Libby's side. ‘We're not doing any harm.’ How dare he shout at her? This was a public footpath.
Oh. No. Now Libby thought about it, she realised it wasn't. She'd left the path some way behind. Still, there weren't any crops here to be trampled, and no sheep or cows. She'd brazen it out. The man's face was very red, his nose enormous and lumpy. Drinks too much.
‘That dog's not on a lead. I could shoot him.’ The man's eyes were small. He narrowed them into angry slits.
‘You haven't got a gun.’
‘Didn't say I was gonna shoot, did I? But I could.’
They summed each other up. Libby stood as tall as her five foot four inches allowed and glared, hiding triumph as the man's gaze dropped. ‘What you doin' with Bear?’
‘You know him, then?’
‘'Course I know him.’ He called out, ‘Hey, Bear.’
The dog raced over to lick his hand, happy to transfer his allegiance from Libby.
‘Oh. Well, I'm walking him for Mrs Thomson. Max asked me to.’
‘Ah. Max.’ He drew the word out. The grin was insulting. ‘Friend of yours, is he?’
‘Not really. I like walking dogs. I'm just helping out Mrs Thomson while Max is away.’
The man nodded; the smile even broader. ‘Gone far, has he?’
About to tell him to mind his own business, Libby stopped. Instead, she tried her best smile, head on one side, eyelashes fluttering. ‘I don't know him well. He seems very busy. I've no idea what he does all the time.’
The man laughed. ‘Max has his fingers poking into all sorts of pies. You be careful, now, a nice lady like you.’ His eyes travelled up and down Libby's body.
Glad of the shapeless anorak, Libby tried another tack. ‘Do you live around here?’
‘Over yonder, t'other side of the hill. Want to come and see?’
‘Why not?’ Was she mad? Libby straightened her shoulders. She could look after herself.
They trudged along the lane without speaking. He was definitely the strong, silent type. They turned the corner, but saw was no sign of a house. The edge of the village began a hundred yards down the road, and the nearest building bore a garish sign, ‘Jenkins Garage.’ Libby's spirits rose, despite the missing apostrophe. That was the garage Max had mentioned. ‘Is that yours?’
‘Yep. Alan Jenkins at your service, Ma'am.’ There was grime under his nails and oil stains on his coat. He was not a farmer, after all. He'd been stringing her along. Libby wouldn't make much of a Sherlock Holmes. She hadn't even recognised him as one of the boys in Mrs Thomson's photo album.
He might be a useful source of information. He knew Max, Susie and the others. In any case, her car needed him. ‘Maybe you can help me. There's a dent in the back of my car.’
‘Jag, is it?’
‘I wish. Citroen.’
‘You bring it round; I'll see what I can do.’
Libby took Bear back to the house. She found Fuzzy in the airing cupboard where she'd been hidden in a nest of Libby's towels all the time the builder had been there. She shut the dog in the hall, barricading the stairs with kitchen chairs, and took the car round to Alan Jenkins at the garage.
He pursed his mouth. Ramping up the bad news so he could overcharge her, Libby decided.
‘Tell you what,’ he said.
‘Yes?’ She braced herself.
‘Seeing as you're a friend of Max's, I'll do it for nothing.’
‘What? Don't be ridiculous. Why would you do that?’
He grimaced. ‘The thing is, Mrs-er…’
‘Mrs Forest.’
‘Mrs Forest. The thing is, I owe Max a favour, just at the minute. I reckon, seeing as you and he are good friends, like, this 'ere'll pay it off.’
Libby's blush rose hotly up her neck. ‘We're