‘I hope the pub is still serving food,’ Josh said after we’d showered and dressed again.
‘I don’t care much if they’re not,’ I laughed.
‘Speak for yourself! I’m starving! Josh retorted. ‘If we’re too late we’ll just have to find a fish and chip shop.’
‘As long as that doesn’t mean driving around for miles. I haven’t got that much fuel. I should have filled up, but it’s such a hassle and I thought I had enough for what I needed tonight.’
‘No problem.’ He picked up his car keys. ‘I’m driving anyway.’
‘But we agreed . . .’
‘I know, but I’ve changed my mind. When I take a lady out I don’t like being in the passenger seat. And if you’re low on fuel, that settles it. Come on, don’t argue. Just do as you’re told.’
I shook my head in mock exasperation, but there was a warmth inside me that would not be denied. I felt cherished, protected. It was a good feeling.
We were in luck – the pub was still serving food, albeit a limited menu. I chose lasagne, and Josh had steak pie with a huge bowl of chips on the side, and a pint of locally brewed beer.
‘I should be all right if I stick to just the one,’ he said, licking foam from his lips. ‘So, you were going to tell me how you got on in Dorset yesterday.’
Between mouthfuls of lasagne I filled him in, though I avoided mentioning the motorcycle that had appeared to be following us on the way home. I still wasn’t sure if I was being paranoid, and in any case I didn’t want to get into another argument about the risks of what I was doing.
‘Something is definitely going on at the warehouse, I’m sure of it,’ I said. ‘I don’t know yet what it is, but I’m guessing it’s something like drugs – that’s how Lewis is making his money. And I don’t know where the mystery ‘partner’ fits in, or who he is. But I’ve asked Jeremy, and he’s going to try to find out.’
‘You think he’ll be able to?’ Josh asked.
‘There’s a pretty good chance, I’d say. He’s well in with the business community. And once I know that, I’m going to go to the police with my suspicions.’
‘I thought you were dead set on getting to the bottom of it by yourself.’ Josh took a judicious pull of his beer – making it last, I guessed.
‘To be honest, I don’t think there’s much more I can do,’ I said. ‘And besides, I’m thinking about Alice. I don’t know whether she’s still missing, or ever was, but if she is, then I owe it to her to go to the police with as much as I know. No, I’m afraid I’m out of my depth here, Josh.’
‘Which is what I’ve been saying all along.’
I ignored that.
‘At least I’ll have an insider’s take on the story,’ I said.
When we’d finished our meals we lingered for a little longer, enjoying cups of frothy cappuccino, then headed back to Josh’s cottage and went to bed, where once again we made wonderful, exhilarating love.
Afterwards I felt replete and happy. Whether anything came of my story or not, at least investigating it had been the cause of my meeting Josh. If I hadn’t gone to the Gazette office to research the fire, I’d never have met him, and I’d have missed out on something wonderful.
The word ‘serendipity’ floated into my mind; it was still there, warming me, as I fell asleep in his arms.
It must have been an hour or so later when I woke with a raging thirst – the result of drinking too much wine, I thought. Josh was fast asleep and snoring gently; I slid out from beneath the duvet and crept downstairs in search of a glass so that I could get a drink of water.
Josh’s kitchen was at the back of the cottage. I padded across the open-plan living room, where moonlight made silvery pools and shadows on the woodblock floor, and pushed open the door. I hadn’t been in the kitchen before – had had no cause to. Now I took in the shaker-style cupboards and worktops, the free-standing cooker and fridge, the microwave propped on a shelf, and imagined myself cooking for Josh here. At the moment it was typically a man’s domain – basic and a bit untidy – but nothing that wouldn’t be improved by a few pots of herbs on the window sill and perhaps a string of garlic bulbs and bunches of dried flowers hanging from the beams between the copper pans. I smiled to myself – how presumptuous was that?
I found a glass in one of the wall cabinets, filled it at the big stone sink, and sat down at the small, rickety table to drink it. My elbow brushed a pile of what looked to be motorcycling magazines stacked on the corner, and as I moved them aside so as not to drip water on them they slipped a bit, revealing . . .