The Avalon Chanter
“Jean wasn’t fooling him one bit. She never could. He reached out an arm and she tucked herself into his embrace. Funny how she fit so well against his side. How many years had they each hung stubbornly onto loneliness before fate threw them together?
If, as feminists once said, a woman needed a man like a fish needed a bicycle, then Jean would keep right on pedaling away, fins and all.
“I’ve phoned an acquaintance in the Cumbrian Constabulary,” Alasdair said, “one who knew Grinsell at the time ...of the Borders stramash. He sent me on to a friend of his in the south.”
“Looking up his background, huh?
There’s a nice tasty sauce for the gander. Plus, if he thinks you’re interfering then you might as well interfere.”
“There’s interfering, and there’s minding truth and justice and all. Long story short”—his voice went dry and distant—“Cumbria was not the man’s first stop on his tour of Britain’s police agencies. He came originally from Cambridgeshire.”
“Cambridgeshire?”MoreLess
If, as feminists once said, a woman needed a man like a fish needed a bicycle, then Jean would keep right on pedaling away, fins and all.
“I’ve phoned an acquaintance in the Cumbrian Constabulary,” Alasdair said, “one who knew Grinsell at the time ...of the Borders stramash. He sent me on to a friend of his in the south.”
“Looking up his background, huh?
There’s a nice tasty sauce for the gander. Plus, if he thinks you’re interfering then you might as well interfere.”
“There’s interfering, and there’s minding truth and justice and all. Long story short”—his voice went dry and distant—“Cumbria was not the man’s first stop on his tour of Britain’s police agencies. He came originally from Cambridgeshire.”
“Cambridgeshire?”MoreLess
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