‘Well, hello again!’
I turned my head sharply, almost causing me to lose my balance, to see Josh Williams drawing level with me.
‘Hey – careful!’ His hand shot out to catch my elbow, steadying me.
‘You made me jump,’ I said, feeling a little foolish.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘It’s OK. And I must admit I was far away.’
‘Anywhere interesting?’
‘Not really. I was revisiting my past. Looking at how the Stoke Compton I used to know has changed.’
‘Used to know?’
‘I grew up round here, but I’ve been away for a long time. I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for . . .’ I nodded my head in the direction of my crutches. ‘I came home for a spot of TLC.’
‘And you thought you’d do some work on your thesis while you’re here.’
‘My thesis?’ For a moment I couldn’t think what he meant, then I remembered – the story I’d invented for the benefit of the receptionist at the Gazette. ‘Oh yes . . . my thesis,’ I said lamely, and felt myself begin to blush.
We’d reached the corner of the Square.
‘Well, good luck with Lewis Crighton,’ Josh said, his tone slightly ironic, I thought. ‘I take it that’s where you’re headed.’
‘How did you know?’ I asked, startled.
‘Just guessing. If I was investigating the fire, it would be one of my first ports of call.’
Investigating the fire . . . Not really the way you’d talk about a thesis . . . I had the uncomfortable feeling Josh hadn’t been taken in by my story at all. And, in reality, why would he be? I was a good bit older than the average uni student, after all – something I hadn’t thought of when I’d come up with my spur-of-the-moment excuse.
‘This is me, then.’ Josh was now jiggling a set of car keys; there was a sharp click nearby and lights flashed briefly on a blue Peugeot estate standing in one of the few parking spaces in the Square.
‘So –’ His eyes, dark hazel flecked with gold, met mine – ‘how about I take you for a drink this evening and you can tell me how you got on?’
To say I was taken by surprise would be an understatement. More to the point, I was speechless.
‘I’m quite harmless, I promise,’ he added in an amused tone.
‘I’m sure you are,’ I managed. ‘But . . .’
‘But you have other plans.’
‘Um . . . yes.’ It was a lie, of course – another lie! – but it was a whole lot easier than turning him down flat, or explaining that I had broken up with my long-term boyfriend only yesterday, and was nowhere near ready to date anyone, least of all someone I’d exchanged only a few brief words with.
‘Some other time then, maybe?’ He didn’t look a bit abashed by the rejection; I guessed it would take a great deal more than that to faze Josh Williams.
‘Yes, maybe . . .’
‘Take care then.’ He gave a wicked nod in the direction of my crutches, opened the door of his car, and got in.
Feeling totally flustered, I made my way across the Square in the direction of Compton Properties.
The estate agent’s office was a tall, double-fronted building of the same grey stone as most of the town centre, with a ladies’ hairdressing salon on one side and a charity shop on the other. The windows either side of the door were packed with display boards of properties for sale in Stoke Compton and the surrounding area, and there was a model layout showing a small development of new houses out on the bypass. I gave it the briefest of glances, pushed open the door, and went inside.
In the airy, open-plan office two girls were seated at desks. One was on the telephone, the other working on her computer. Both looked like glamour models, or cosmetic consultants in a department store. They were out of exactly the same mould as Dawn, if the photographs of her that I’d seen were anything to go by. Lewis Crighton had certain criteria where his employees were concerned, it seemed.
I didn’t think either of them was Dawn, though. The girl on the telephone was a redhead, and a natural one at that, judging by her creamy complexion and light dusting of freckles, whilst the other was very dark – the coffee-coloured skin and glossy black hair that suggested she may be of mixed race. She looked up as I entered the office, flashing me a practised smile.
‘Good morning. How may I help you?’
I crossed to her desk, and noticed that an identification brooch pinned to her jacket that read ‘Sarah’.
‘I understand you run an auction house,’ I said.
‘We organize auctions once a month, yes,’ she corrected me.