Pitch Imperfect(93)

Anjuli digested the information slowly. Her head ached, and finding out that the orchestrator was someone she knew was making it worse. “I knew the man was a jerk but I never thought he was a criminal jerk. I want him fined to within an inch of his misogynistic, xenophobic arse or better yet, put away for life. Failing that, I’ll consider capital punishment.”

“He’s denying it, saying he doesn’t know why the materials were on his farm.”

“Bastard!” she cried.

Ouch. One should avoid loud outbursts after near-death experiences, lest one’s head explode. “Do you mind if I shut my eyes?”

She couldn’t look at him without thinking of Rob.

A few tapping noises on his tablet. “Is Castle Manor insured?”

She nodded, hoping he wouldn’t ask to see the policy. Then he’d note the enrolment date and tell Rob it was after the materials had been stolen. She might have come clean to him about her finances but she didn’t have to reveal all her stupid mistakes, did she? She’d spoken to the insurers that morning, answering their pedantic questions. No, she hadn’t left a burning log in the fireplace, lit a sparkler indoors or fallen asleep with candles burning. She’d had no visitors who’d acted negligently. Yes, she had a pet but he restricted his smoking habit to the great outdoors.

Her exasperated comment hadn’t gone down so well.

The good news: the fire brigade had arrived in time to contain the flames to the sitting room and library, and not all her furniture or books had burned. The bad: everything else about her life. Every. Bloody. Thing.

At least she’d sold her piano; losing it to flames would have been hard to bear, but not nearly as hard as the loss of one small, crystal sparrow. Ash had found the broken, blackened figurine on the floor, perhaps knocked over by a burning book. When she got out of hospital she would bury the shards in the garden or trek to Jamie’s Iron Age hillfort.

“Were you alone?” Ben said.

His disembodied voice sounded faintly accusing. What did it matter if she was alone? She’d almost got burnt to crispy crackling. Wasn’t that more important?

“Damien Mitchell came over for a little while. We had dinner and then he left.”

“I see.”

Anjuli controlled her irritation, counting the seconds as they ticked by. Fifteen...eighteen...Ben was a master at creating pregnant silences and then pushing out a ten-pound sentence at the end of them.

“I spoke to Rob last night. He told me you’ve been having some financial problems.”

Anjuli’s eyes popped open. Had Ben told him about the fire? Had he asked about her? Would he phone, and what would she say to him if he did? Slowly, Ben’s suspicious tone worked its way to her brain, and Anjuli sat up and scowled. A mistake, as she had to wait for three blurry Bens to merge into one.

He looked down at her impassively, seemingly alert to her every gesture and expression. “Anything you want to tell me?”

Well, you take the high road and I’ll take the low, and hopefully never the two shall meet again. “I didn’t set fire to my own house, if that’s what you mean. The only incendiary tendencies I have involve people, not property. I’m the victim, remember? Ash said that somebody made an anonymous call from somewhere outside Heaverlock.”

A curt nod.

“Then it’s obviously that person who started the fire. How could I phone it in while I busy inhaling smoke, almost dying?”

“Not impossible.”

“Do you honestly believe I would do such a thing?”

His silence was answer enough.

“Rob knows what happened?”

“Aye.”

“Did he say anything?”

“About what?”

Obtuse, or what? “The fire...or me.”

If Rob still loved her he would have asked Ben about her, wouldn’t he? He would be desperate for news, wanting every detail from his brother. Her conscience twanged discordantly. She should want to spare him any worry, yet she found that she wanted Rob’s heart to pound at the thought of losing her. She wanted him to be desperate to talk to her, to hear his deep voice infused with concern. He would tell her he’d take the next flight to Scotland, and then she would swallow her discomfort, brush off her near-death experience and insist he stay in Boston.

What a perverse woman she was.

“He asked if the conservatory was damaged.”

And she was a masochist.

Ben turned around at the door. “I’m glad you’re okay. Whoever started the fire has a lot to answer for.”

So do I, Anjuli thought, staring at her screensaver morosely. And so did the new visitor hovering at her doorway. Well, Mac could either come in and say her piece or leave. The latter, hopefully. How could her nice-as-pie friend have turned into such a bitch? No matter all the times she had defended Mac to Ash and others, it still hurt that Mac blamed her for Craig’s behaviour.