only three incidents so far.’
‘With three people dead and two in hospital,’ Ginny interrupted. ‘How many more d’you want before you take it seriously?’
‘Believe me, love, I’m taking it seriously.’
He slowed down. Ahead of them, at the side of the dark country road, was a patch of bright light which appeared shapeless and undefined through the rain-drenched windscreen. As they approached it, she recognised theoutlines of the area’s most exclusive hotel.
‘I’d like to invite you to a spot of dinner,’ Bernie informed her, turning into the drive. ‘If you’ve no objection.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t eat dinner!’ she exclaimed. Even the very thought of it seemed repulsive. ‘Honestly, I just couldn’t face it. I’m not hungry.’
‘Well, I am,’ he said firmly. ‘I need to refuel, so could you at least toy with something while I have a meal? Please? It’ll save one of us the bother of cooking when we get home.’
She agreed reluctantly. Judging from the number of cars outside, the restaurant was probably full anyway. Expensive cars too, all of them.
Bernie eased into a parking space and they had another dash through the rain to reach the entrance. Once inside, she went in search of the Ladies to tidy herself up. The door was mock-rustic with painted black iron hinges. It was marked, coyly,
Lasses
. Ginny snorted contemptuously when she saw it.
A man on the other side of the corridor, emerging from the corresponding door labelled
Lads
, laughed sympathetically and made some approving remark which she didn’t quite catch.
She took her time over tidying up, feeling she should have insisted on Bernie taking her home. There was something indefinably obscene about coming to eat in a place like this directly after that business in the mortuary. It was pagan: a heartless funeral feast with the victims still cold on their slabs, not yet even buried.
In the bar, Bernie handed her the large printed menu and left her to study it while he bought her a drink. Whisky again. Why she was drinking whisky these days, she didn’t know; she’d never done so before moving into the cottage. At a table near the bar sat the lean-jawed man from the corridor. Bernie seemed to know him, shenoticed; they exchanged a couple of words before he brought the whisky over.
‘He was at the hospital visiting our caterpillar patient,’ he explained as he sat down. ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers,’ she responded automatically, but even after the first sip she felt it doing her good already. ‘How’s the patient? I haven’t asked you how he’s getting on. He was with Mrs Kinley, wasn’t he?’
‘He was there with Harry Smith. A Mr Ferguson – a fertiliser salesman, apparently. Quite severe bites on his forearm. In fact he might have bled to death if the constable hadn’t applied a tourniquet.’
‘And fever, same as Lesley?’
‘Not quite so bad. But yes, the same symptoms.’
The head waiter came to take their orders, recommending the specialities of the day. Ginny declared again that she was not hungry. Reluctantly she yielded to his suggestion that she might try the shrimps, just to keep Bernie company. How he could even think of eating after all that had happened she could not understand.
When the head waiter returned to call them into the restaurant she discovered they had been allocated a small table in a corner where they could at least talk privately. Bernie was obviously hungry judging from the way he tucked into his pâté and curly toast. He was accustomed to big meals and probably missed Lesley’s cooking.
The shrimps were gathered like pink caterpillars on a pair of large lettuce leaves. She poked at them halfheartedly with her fork, almost expecting them to bite back. They were both arthropods, she remembered Lesley explaining: these shrimps and her moths. She had made some joke about flying prawns. At that time neither of them had suspected how dangerous these creatures could be.
‘Aren’t you
‘With three people dead and two in hospital,’ Ginny interrupted. ‘How many more d’you want before you take it seriously?’
‘Believe me, love, I’m taking it seriously.’
He slowed down. Ahead of them, at the side of the dark country road, was a patch of bright light which appeared shapeless and undefined through the rain-drenched windscreen. As they approached it, she recognised theoutlines of the area’s most exclusive hotel.
‘I’d like to invite you to a spot of dinner,’ Bernie informed her, turning into the drive. ‘If you’ve no objection.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t eat dinner!’ she exclaimed. Even the very thought of it seemed repulsive. ‘Honestly, I just couldn’t face it. I’m not hungry.’
‘Well, I am,’ he said firmly. ‘I need to refuel, so could you at least toy with something while I have a meal? Please? It’ll save one of us the bother of cooking when we get home.’
She agreed reluctantly. Judging from the number of cars outside, the restaurant was probably full anyway. Expensive cars too, all of them.
Bernie eased into a parking space and they had another dash through the rain to reach the entrance. Once inside, she went in search of the Ladies to tidy herself up. The door was mock-rustic with painted black iron hinges. It was marked, coyly,
Lasses
. Ginny snorted contemptuously when she saw it.
A man on the other side of the corridor, emerging from the corresponding door labelled
Lads
, laughed sympathetically and made some approving remark which she didn’t quite catch.
She took her time over tidying up, feeling she should have insisted on Bernie taking her home. There was something indefinably obscene about coming to eat in a place like this directly after that business in the mortuary. It was pagan: a heartless funeral feast with the victims still cold on their slabs, not yet even buried.
In the bar, Bernie handed her the large printed menu and left her to study it while he bought her a drink. Whisky again. Why she was drinking whisky these days, she didn’t know; she’d never done so before moving into the cottage. At a table near the bar sat the lean-jawed man from the corridor. Bernie seemed to know him, shenoticed; they exchanged a couple of words before he brought the whisky over.
‘He was at the hospital visiting our caterpillar patient,’ he explained as he sat down. ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers,’ she responded automatically, but even after the first sip she felt it doing her good already. ‘How’s the patient? I haven’t asked you how he’s getting on. He was with Mrs Kinley, wasn’t he?’
‘He was there with Harry Smith. A Mr Ferguson – a fertiliser salesman, apparently. Quite severe bites on his forearm. In fact he might have bled to death if the constable hadn’t applied a tourniquet.’
‘And fever, same as Lesley?’
‘Not quite so bad. But yes, the same symptoms.’
The head waiter came to take their orders, recommending the specialities of the day. Ginny declared again that she was not hungry. Reluctantly she yielded to his suggestion that she might try the shrimps, just to keep Bernie company. How he could even think of eating after all that had happened she could not understand.
When the head waiter returned to call them into the restaurant she discovered they had been allocated a small table in a corner where they could at least talk privately. Bernie was obviously hungry judging from the way he tucked into his pâté and curly toast. He was accustomed to big meals and probably missed Lesley’s cooking.
The shrimps were gathered like pink caterpillars on a pair of large lettuce leaves. She poked at them halfheartedly with her fork, almost expecting them to bite back. They were both arthropods, she remembered Lesley explaining: these shrimps and her moths. She had made some joke about flying prawns. At that time neither of them had suspected how dangerous these creatures could be.
‘Aren’t you
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