Page 29 of Too Busy for Love

He gently loosens his grip, holding me by my shoulders at arms’ length as we look into each other’s eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he replies. ‘Apart from the police thing, this has been one of the best weeks of my life.’

‘Mine too,’ I agree.

‘Do you want to keep in touch?’

‘Sure.’

He smiles as we swap numbers, and I’m glad to have given the right answer. I think, deep down, we both know it won’t happen. As soon as we’re both settled in new jobs, we’ll be flat-out busy again and the time we spent together will become nothing but a distant memory. All we’re doing is fooling ourselves, so parting doesn’t feel so final.

‘OK,’ he says decisively. ‘Kings Cross, here I come. Safe travels, Beatrice, and I’ll see you around.’

‘Safe travels yourself,’ I reply, before giving him a quick final kiss. He turns and starts to walk towards the main road, and I stand and watch until he’s out of sight.

I’m in a reflective mood as my taxi heads towards Paddington station. I’m thinking about Jock, obviously, but I’m also tryingto decide whether I should call DI Winter and let her know what Maria is planning. It’s the right thing to do, but she might want to interview me again, and I don’t want to go anywhere near that custody suite. By the time the taxi drops me off, I’ve decided. That doesn’t stop me feeling nervous as I pull out her card and dial the number, but I know I won’t be able to sleep easily if I don’t do it.

‘DI Winter speaking,’ she says when the call connects.

‘Hello, this is Beatrice Fairhead. You interviewed me in connection with Eileen Strickland?’

‘I remember you, Beatrice. What’s up?’

‘Can I give you some information in confidence, without coming in and being interviewed?’

‘Of course. What is it?’

I tell her about Maria being Eileen’s daughter, which she already knew. Their plan for Eileen to take the hit to allow Maria to stay free is obviously news, but when I tell her she’s planning to reopen the brothel just as before, she laughs softly.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘That’s exactly what we suspected she was going to do. Thank you for the information, Beatrice. We’ll be keeping a very close eye on her, don’t worry.’

I’d forgotten how long the train from London to Ludlow takes. With a change at Crewe, the overall journey time is predicted to be over three hours. With nothing else to distract me, I fish out the digital camera and scroll through the photos I’ve taken during Jock’s and my week together. We certainly crammed a lot in. There are selfies at most of the tourist attractions we visited, as well as a surprising number of photos of the various dishesJock prepared in the evenings. There’s a lovely one of him doing the flambé, which makes me smile. He’s seriously talented; I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so well. Someone will snap him up, no doubt.

To begin with, the scenery outside the window is the urban landscape I’m used to. London is not at its prettiest from the railway – too much concrete and graffiti – but I feel affection for it nonetheless. Shropshire is beautiful but very rural, so London always seemed like a glittering world full of amazing possibilities when I was growing up. As we leave the city behind and the view changes to fields and trees, my mood only darkens.

This is temporary, I remind myself.I’ll be back before I know it. It doesn’t seem to help.

By the time the train finally rattles into Ludlow station, it seems the weather has come out in sympathy with me, as the sky has darkened and heavy rain has started to fall. There’s no canopy over the platform, so the few of us that disembark are decidedly bedraggled by the time we’ve crossed the bridge over the tracks to reach the ticket hall. My mood isn’t improved when I realise that there’s no sign of my dad, despite me texting him earlier with my arrival time. I pull out my phone to see if I’ve missed a message, but there’s nothing. I flick through the list of numbers until I find his mobile.

‘Hi, Beatrice,’ he answers when the call connects. ‘I haven’t forgotten you, I’m just a bit held up. I don’t suppose there are any taxis at the station, are there?’

I look out of the window at the bare taxi rank. ‘No, Dad,’ I tell him. ‘There never are.’

‘OK,’ he sighs. ‘Give me half an hour to sort this and I’ll be with you.’

At least there are a couple of seats in the ticket office, so I plonk myself down on one of them to wait. After around ten minutes, I’m surprised to see a taxi splash to a halt in the rankoutside. Grabbing my case, I hurry out. The driver lowers his window a fraction.

‘Are you Clare?’ he asks.

‘No, Beatrice. Why?’

‘I’m here for Clare.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Did you need a taxi then?’

‘Yes please.’

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