Page 11 of The Black Trilogy

In a daze, I followed him to the door and climbed down. The bus chugged away, and as it receded into the distance, I found I’d been deposited in a small village. Time warp sprang to mind, and not the Rocky Horror version.

My stomach gurgled, reminding me it was almost lunchtime. I wasn’t hungry, but as I’d given up on making the breakfast decision, I knew I should have something. I’d lost half a stone over the last couple of weeks through being too miserable to eat, and while I might end up looking like a supermodel, I’d make myself ill if I kept that diet up.

The tiny high street was terribly quaint. If not for the brand new Range Rover parked outside the post office and a teenage girl texting on her smartphone as she walked, oblivious to everything around her, I could easily believe I’d travelled back half a century.

I walked past a small supermarket with old-fashioned produce displays stacked in the windows and paused outside a bakery. The delicious aromas drifting out of the door tempted me, but I couldn’t see anywhere to sit down in there. The temperature hovered in the low single figures, too cold to find a bench and eat outside.

I carried on, barely glancing at the hardware store, the hairdresser, or the florist, until I arrived in the car park of a pub. A faded wooden sign creaked above my head, swaying in the breeze.

The Coach and Horses. That looked like my best option.

I had to stoop as I crossed the threshold. The inside was dim and dingy, all dark wood and low ceilings studded with blackened wood beams. A nook to my left housed a roaring fire, so I snagged a menu and curled myself into one of the leather wingback chairs set in front of it.

After I’d been there a few minutes, a kind-looking woman in her fifties came over, wiping her hands on her apron.

“What do you want, love?”

The grown-up in me knew what I should pick—salad or soup, or maybe a grilled chicken breast with steamed vegetables. But the child I’d regressed to wanted comfort food.

“I’ll have the macaroni and cheese, with a side order of chips and some onion rings,” I said, feeling a little guilty but beyond caring about it.

The food came out quickly, piping hot and steaming. If Toby, my nutritionist, saw me now, he’d drag me out by my feet before I could raise the fork to my mouth. I could just imagine him. A sharp intake of breath, followed by, “Don’t you dare! That’s got so much oil on it, America’s gonna invade the plate.”

It was delicious.

After eating that amount of stodge, I felt tired, so I spent the rest of the afternoon hiding out by the fire, reading the newspapers that were scattered on the coffee table next to me. By 4 p.m. I started feeling guilty. Guilty that I’d just spent four hours doing nothing. I normally spent every waking minute on the job. I never had time to just be.

My mind churned. I should be working towards catching my husband’s killer. There wasn’t much I could do without tipping the man off, but I had the files to review. Even if I wasn’t doing that, I should at the very least be finding myself a job and somewhere to live. The cash I had with me wouldn’t last long, and I didn’t know when I’d be ready to go back and face the remnants of my life.

I knew that was what I should be doing, but I couldn’t bring myself to actually do it. I picked up the paper and began to read again instead. The lives of Hollywood Z-listers had never been so fascinating.

Ten minutes later, the barmaid interrupted me.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thanks. I was planning to leave soon.” Just as soon as I could drag myself away from the nice warm fire and an article about the dangers of false eyelashes.

“Visiting someone, are you?”

“Er, no.”

“It’s just I haven’t seen you around here before. I thought you must be stopping in to see someone.”

I’d only been in the countryside from time to time on assignment, and I’d forgotten how nosey its inhabitants could be. In London, everyone studiously ignored everybody else, and if you did accidentally make eye contact, people automatically assumed you’d escaped from the nearest secure hospital and gave you a wide berth.

“I’m only passing through.”

“Lower Foxford’s a funny place to pass through. It’s not really on the way to anywhere,” she said, eyeing me a bit suspiciously.

“Perhaps passing through is the wrong term. I didn’t exactly plan where I was going, and this was where I ended up.”

“Argument with the boyfriend was it?”

Well, thanks, that’ll do. “Yeah, it was.”

She laid a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, you poor love. Are you planning to go home, or do you need somewhere to stay for the night?”

“I could do with a place to sleep if you know of any hotels around here?”

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