Harrison, who showed up on the hill in the wake of Constable Frye and half an hour before the heavy artillery from the police, Alex had been released from the cold and horrifying woods to the warmth of the Black Dog.
Doc James was Tonyâs father and the local GP.
The reprieve from questions wouldnât last long but she intended to make the best of whatever thinking time she could get. The two Harrisons had threatened a Detective Inspector Dan OâReilly with Alexâs impending collapse from shock and probable essential sedation (answering no questions at all for days) if he didnât get her driven down the hill.
As the police car, with its yellow and blue checkerboard motif, had arrived at the pub and drawn around into the yard behind the building, Alex had seen a row of faces at the front windows of the public bar.
Once inside, her mother had been waiting to give her the rundown about the way the news had spread through the locals, but when Alex made herself appear behind the bar, she was still jumpy and wished she could hide.
Hiding, Lily Duggins had assured her, was something they didnât do.
Bloody Saturday morning, as some wag had already dubbed this horrible day, gave the locals too much time to hang around in the Black Dog asking questions and coming up with answers based on nothing but conjecture.
âThere you are, Alex,â Major Stroud, long-time retired and a fixture in the pub, announced loudly the instant she appeared. âAbout time, too, old thing. You canât pretend nothingâs happened forever, yâknow. Best way to put silly rumors to rest is with the truth. Tell us all about it.â His nose looked more bulbous and purplish than usual and his small, watery eyes skewered Alex.
Will Cummings, busy changing over beer barrels, gave Alex a sympathetic look. His wife wasnât so calm. Tight-lipped, Cathy Cummings drew beers as fast as she could and slapped glasses under the pours to measure spirits. A slight, blonde woman, her thin face showed how strained she felt. Highly strung, everyone dubbed her, but to Alex she seemed to be overreacting today. Something horrible had taken place but Cathy wouldnât help by going to pieces. Cathy was a little younger than Will, or so Alex thought, probably early fifties to his late fifties or so. She had noticed how he often treated her like a teenager rather than an adult. He was paternal toward her.
âThis lot were all milling around outside,â Will said. âI let âem in early rather than have anyone freeze out there.â
Usually they opened around ten and it was the coffee and biscuits group until just before noon.
Alex smelled the coffee and freshly baked sugar biscuits, but for most customers a death on the hill was obviously an excuse for a wee, or not-so-wee dram of something to calm the nerves.
Barely contained excitement, only slightly dampened by the serious reaction the customers knew was expected of them, brought the noise level to a buzzing pitch.
Alex rubbed her still-cold palms down the sides of her jeans. Her brain didnât want to track with her eyes and she couldnât think of anything to say. She supposed she really was shocked but couldnât bring herself to pour a brandy.
Will did it for her, setting a full shot glass on the wooden sill beneath the upturned bottles of spirits. Stocky, balding and affable, he was the perfect pub manager. âThisâll hit the spot,â he said to Alex.
She nodded and took a sip; the heat felt good going down. The police who arrived in response to Constable Fryeâs phone calls had kept her up on the hill for an hour, shivering and watching the clinical official activity around the body, intermittently peppered with questions or left alone to stare at the efficient activity at the death scene. She could have kissed both of the Harrisons when they had come to her rescue. What they had told the detective wasnât far from the
Doc James was Tonyâs father and the local GP.
The reprieve from questions wouldnât last long but she intended to make the best of whatever thinking time she could get. The two Harrisons had threatened a Detective Inspector Dan OâReilly with Alexâs impending collapse from shock and probable essential sedation (answering no questions at all for days) if he didnât get her driven down the hill.
As the police car, with its yellow and blue checkerboard motif, had arrived at the pub and drawn around into the yard behind the building, Alex had seen a row of faces at the front windows of the public bar.
Once inside, her mother had been waiting to give her the rundown about the way the news had spread through the locals, but when Alex made herself appear behind the bar, she was still jumpy and wished she could hide.
Hiding, Lily Duggins had assured her, was something they didnât do.
Bloody Saturday morning, as some wag had already dubbed this horrible day, gave the locals too much time to hang around in the Black Dog asking questions and coming up with answers based on nothing but conjecture.
âThere you are, Alex,â Major Stroud, long-time retired and a fixture in the pub, announced loudly the instant she appeared. âAbout time, too, old thing. You canât pretend nothingâs happened forever, yâknow. Best way to put silly rumors to rest is with the truth. Tell us all about it.â His nose looked more bulbous and purplish than usual and his small, watery eyes skewered Alex.
Will Cummings, busy changing over beer barrels, gave Alex a sympathetic look. His wife wasnât so calm. Tight-lipped, Cathy Cummings drew beers as fast as she could and slapped glasses under the pours to measure spirits. A slight, blonde woman, her thin face showed how strained she felt. Highly strung, everyone dubbed her, but to Alex she seemed to be overreacting today. Something horrible had taken place but Cathy wouldnât help by going to pieces. Cathy was a little younger than Will, or so Alex thought, probably early fifties to his late fifties or so. She had noticed how he often treated her like a teenager rather than an adult. He was paternal toward her.
âThis lot were all milling around outside,â Will said. âI let âem in early rather than have anyone freeze out there.â
Usually they opened around ten and it was the coffee and biscuits group until just before noon.
Alex smelled the coffee and freshly baked sugar biscuits, but for most customers a death on the hill was obviously an excuse for a wee, or not-so-wee dram of something to calm the nerves.
Barely contained excitement, only slightly dampened by the serious reaction the customers knew was expected of them, brought the noise level to a buzzing pitch.
Alex rubbed her still-cold palms down the sides of her jeans. Her brain didnât want to track with her eyes and she couldnât think of anything to say. She supposed she really was shocked but couldnât bring herself to pour a brandy.
Will did it for her, setting a full shot glass on the wooden sill beneath the upturned bottles of spirits. Stocky, balding and affable, he was the perfect pub manager. âThisâll hit the spot,â he said to Alex.
She nodded and took a sip; the heat felt good going down. The police who arrived in response to Constable Fryeâs phone calls had kept her up on the hill for an hour, shivering and watching the clinical official activity around the body, intermittently peppered with questions or left alone to stare at the efficient activity at the death scene. She could have kissed both of the Harrisons when they had come to her rescue. What they had told the detective wasnât far from the
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