Graham Locke came into the kitchen and dropped the mid-week edition of the Cumbrian Courier on the table. At the top a small heading, ‘EC Decision “Any Day Now” predicts Councillor,’ preceded the main headline: ‘MARINA GETS GREEN LIGHT.’ There was a photograph showing spidery gantry towers against a skyline, with the caption ‘Before’, and an artist’s impression of the finished marina – ‘After’.
‘That’s the last time I do Edinburgh,’ Graham Locke said, putting the kettle on the gas-flame and reaching for the tea caddy. ‘I stayed with Michael, which saved on hotel bills, but I’m still out of pocket, what with petrol and meals.’
‘Why, didn’t you sell much?’
‘About two hundred quids’ worth,’ he said gloomily. ‘Which works out at less than seventy clear profit for three days’ work.’
He craned his head round to read the title of the book next to his daughter’s coffee cup. ‘Flight to Arras. Is that one of ours?’
‘It was on the shelf in the living-room.’
‘Don’t think I’ve read it. Any good?’
‘I haven’t started it yet,’ Diane Locke said, finishing her coffee and getting up from the table.
Her father poured hot water into the teapot, scratching the back of his head at the same time, making tufts of white hair stand awry. He glanced towards the kitchen window, boarded up with plywood. ‘Must get that fixed today, and put a new catch on,’ he said, nodding sternly as if to remind himself. He brought the teapot to the table. ‘Though what they expected to find is beyond me. Nothing’s safe nowadays, is it? Lucky you were here at the time.’
‘Yes, I suppose it was. Very lucky.’
‘Driving into Granthelme, are you?’
‘To the post office,’ she said, picking up the book and the tiny cassette tape. ‘Anything to post?’
‘No thanks. I’ll see you at lunch?’
‘Yes. I shan’t be more than an hour.’
Diane Locke went through into the hallway and came back a minute later wearing a long tweed double-breasted coat, arranging a pale blue chiffon scarf at her throat. She smiled and said, ‘Right. See you later then.’
‘Did you find that address?’ he asked her.
‘Yes, it was in the phone book, as you said. Potter J. W. Those are the right initials, aren’t they?’
Her father nodded. ‘Councillor James Walter Potter. I’ve sold him one or two books on industrial archaeology. Cantankerous old cove.’
Diane Locke kissed her father and ruffled his hair, and went out into the crisp bright day, which seemed to promise the first touch of spring. She got into the car and drove off down the muddy lane.