I’m sitting here, on the bench by the pond. A solitary white duck is swimming towards me in the mistaken belief that I’m going to feed it.
It’s Saturday afternoon. I’ve finished my lunchtime shift at the pub and I’m enjoying the sunshine while I’m waiting for Will. We’re going to the village Flower and Produce Show together. He and his dad are presenting the Sally Manning Cup for the best baker, in memory of Will’s mum, who made the best meat and potato pies on the planet.
I’m covering the show for The Chronicle and am hoping there will be a bit of a showdown between Olive Shrewton, who has won the Victoria sponge class for the last twenty-eight years, and Jane Bixton, a newcomer to the village who thinks she’s in with a chance just because Mary Berry once told her that her rock cakes ‘showed promise.’
When my phone rings, I groan, thinking it’s Will, standing me up again. He does this on a regular basis.
Only it’s not Will.
“Hello there,” says this lovely Irish voice. You know, the sort of soft, sexy lilt that can make a shopping list sound like a poem. “Would I be talking to the Miss Marple of Much Winchmoor?”
“Liam? What do you want?” I asked, warily. The last time I’d had dealings with this smooth-talking, ruthlessly ambitious journo, he’d called me an amateur. Among other things. And we hadn’t parted on the best of terms.
“I might have some freelance work I could put your way, if you’re interested? NUJ rates and a by-line. This could be your big break, Kat Latcham, so it could.”
THE END
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Rough And Deadly (A Much Winchmoor Mystery Book 2) Page 24
