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e second one back on the shelf. Two was enough, especially when they were so perfect. One had a feature on Bambi and the other had several pictures from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. She added them to her basket and advanced to the counter.
‘Right-o, my friend, let’s see what you’ve got.’
Beth watched him. She didn’t have nearly enough cash, but she wasn’t worried because she knew what she would do.
‘I’ll pay with this,’ she said, waving a debit card at him.
He frowned. ‘Is that yours?’
‘My dad’s,’ she said. ‘He’s out there in that silver car with my mum. You can go and ask him if you want, but he’s got mental health problems so he might not like it.’ She smiled at him. Mum had always said she had the smile of an angel and already in her short life she had learned how effective it could be.
The man licked his lips and frowned. He looked out of the window across the forecourt. Then he turned back to her and shrugged.
‘OK. So you know the pin code?’
‘Of course not. But all I have to do is tap it. Right?’
‘Right.’ The man spoke slowly. He was, Beth reckoned, rather stupid. She had seen Sam tap his card in the corner shop at home and the coffee shop in the high street. He had even let her do it once or twice.
‘Dad will get cross if I take much longer,’ she lied. ‘And so will my mother.’ She gave another smile. ‘They might think you’re chatting me up.’
She wasn’t sure what chatting up involved, but she had overheard Sam and her mum discussing it in relation to one of the teachers at school.
‘OK,’ the man said. ‘You can tap your card now.’
* * *
Abingdon’s market square was empty. That didn’t surprise Evans. It was nearly six o’clock, but rain was lashing diagonally across the market square, and no one in their right mind would want to be out in that. Bowman was late. The prerogative of rank, Evans supposed. He pulled his mackintosh closer around him and tried not to care. At least the Corn Exchange offered protection from the rain, though he was half soaked already, just from walking from the car park.
At least I am in Bowman’s good books, he thought to himself. At least he is making use of me. After the cock-up with the tailing of the Rogers woman, he had thought he was for the high jump, but that turned out not to be the case. Quite the opposite.
‘Evans!’
He jumped and turned.
Bowman shook his umbrella and closed it. ‘Not much bloody use in the wind.’
‘No, sir.’ Evans felt a spike of annoyance that the old man had managed to get so close without him noticing. The Corn Exchange was open on three sides and he thought he had got all the angles covered. How on earth had he failed to spot him?
‘Sorry if I took you by surprise.’ Bowman smiled as if he was joshing. But Bowman didn’t do joshing. He was making a point. Even Evans recognised that.
‘So, show me what you’ve got.’
He handed over two envelopes. Bowman adjusted his glasses on his nose and studied the envelopes. The writing was distinctive and arty. The lettering was almost but not quite joined up and the ink was reddish brown. Both were addressed to Maggie Rogers c/o Hairdelicious. Bowman grunted and opened the two envelopes, reading and then replacing the single sheets of writing without comment. Evans had read them himself, of course. They were short and circumspect, asking politely after Maggie, wishing her a happy birthday in one case, and telling her in both cases a little about how Beth was growing up.
Bowman slipped the envelopes into a pocket inside his coat and buttoned it up again.
‘What do you make of them, Evans?’
Evans had anticipated the question, but even so he wasn’t sure how to respond. ‘They aren’t exactly gushing,’ he said. ‘Just an attempt to keep in touch. Tell her how her daughter Beth was.’
Bowman grunted. ‘Who runs Hairdelicious?’
‘A woman called Zoe Fisher,’ Evans replied. He had anticipated that question too. ‘I’ve got her home address.’
‘Ah, of course. Zoe Fisher.’
‘You know her, sir?’
