Part 7 (2/2)

Worse still were the former pupils, many of whom seemed to have had one drink too many and were now intent on telling her how much they'd fancied her when she was teaching Romeo and Juliet.

She scanned the room for a saviour, and found him in the unlikely form of the large bearded man towards the edge of the room who wore his casual suit as neatly as he would his uniform. He was clearly even more lost in this ocean of inconsequential niceties than she was.

'It's Sergeant Denman, isn't it?' she said, tapping the man on the shoulder. In feet, Rebecca knew only too well what the man's real rank was. It wasn't just the people of Hexen Bridge who kept an eye on Denman.

'Chief Constable,' said Denman automatically. He'd been watching a small group of men on the edge of the hall, and he switched his attention to her with apparent irritation. 'No one's called me that for more years than I care to remember, young lady,' he said at last, looking her up and down.

'Well, you were were a sergeant when I knew you,' said Rebecca, returning the smile. 'It was the week before you left for Liverpool. You caught me and Trevor Winstone in the Hatch orchard scrumping for apples. You said eight was old enough to know right from wrong and took me back to the vicarage where, I'd like you to know, I got the hiding of my life!' a sergeant when I knew you,' said Rebecca, returning the smile. 'It was the week before you left for Liverpool. You caught me and Trevor Winstone in the Hatch orchard scrumping for apples. You said eight was old enough to know right from wrong and took me back to the vicarage where, I'd like you to know, I got the hiding of my life!'

'Rebecca?' asked an astonished Denman. 'My stars, but you've grown.'

'But of course,' said Rebecca with a grin. 'Twenty years is a long time in anybody's book.'

'The last time your father wrote to me, you were about to go to university. Then your ma died. I was sorry about that.'

Rebecca took a sip from her Malibu and orange and patted the policeman's arm. 'It's OK.'

'Is your father well?' asked Denman.

Rebecca hedged her bets. 'Much the same as ever.'

'I must call in and see him before I return,' said Denman.

'I'm sure he'd like that. Have you been back long?'

'We arrived today.'

'We? Is Nicola here?'

'No,' said Denman forcefully.

'That's a shame,' said Rebecca.

'She never went to school here,' explained Denman.

'I didn't know the invitation was as strict as that,' said Rebecca.

'I'm sure you could have -'

'She's staying with a friend in Bristol,' interrupted Denman.

'They've not seen each other in a while. I'm picking her up on my way back tomorrow.' The disappointment in Rebecca's face must have been obvious. 'I'm surprised you even remember Nicola. She was only two when we left.'

'I used to play with her in your front garden, don't you remember?'

'Well, yes,' said Denman, 'but there's quite a difference in age between you...'

'It would have been nice to have seen her, that's all,' said Rebecca. 'Anyway, the bonds of Hexen Bridge are hard to break. You of all people should know that. I mean, here you are.'

'Seemed rude not to come,' said Denman bluntly. He quickly glanced over to the other side of the room, and Rebecca followed his gaze. 'Your boyfriend seems to be moving in exalted circles these days,' he continued.

'Oh, Trevor's not my boyfriend any more,' said Rebecca hurriedly. 'Not since he went off to Oxford when I was seventeen. We lost touch for a long time. And, a lot of things can happen to two people in ”a long time”, can't they?'

Denman nodded, and Rebecca found herself staring across the room at Trevor. He'd seemed so like his old self when they'd met earlier, but she knew that, paradoxically, he was a quite different man now. There was a deeper melancholy that she couldn't quite fathom. Of course, those summer days down by the river had been laced with their own teenage sadnesses, but nothing like this.

She remembered the little wicker basket that her mother dutifully packed for them, full of cheese sandwiches, fairy cakes, and strawberry lemonade. With a s.h.i.+ver she recalled Trevor letting her hair down and clumsily unb.u.t.toning her blouse. Then there was the time Trevor had tried to climb the old wooden bridge and ended up falling into the river, and he'd had to wear her sweater to cover his dignity while the soaked clothes dried on the riverbank. They had been two poets, inspired by the beauty all around them. And now...

Now, he was a man who worked with dangerous people, and she... She was talking to a policeman.

Rebecca glanced at Denman, but his eyes hadn't moved from the group. His expression had darkened, like a black thundercloud on a summer's day.

'You must excuse me,' Denman said. 'I think it's time I...'

One of the men glanced around, and appeared to notice Denman for the first time. He seemed amused, made a brief apology to Trevor and the swaggering Hatch, and strolled towards Rebecca and Denman.

'What brings you down to these parts, Sergeant?' asked the man in a thick Liverpudlian accent. He looked about forty and was beginning to lose some of his blond hair. He was thin, almost gaunt in appearance, wearing a collarless white s.h.i.+rt and a waistcoat from which clanked a chain containing his car keys. The impression was that of extreme wealth but a complete lack of social grace. A rich vulgarian.

Denman didn't even attempt to correct him, clearly used to the insult. '”Down” is about right,' he snapped.

'I didn't think you'd be caught dead in Hexen Bridge again.'

'But here I am.'

The man from Liverpool nodded, and looked at Rebecca.

'Aye, it's the vicar's daughter, innit? Trevor's bird?'

Rebecca returned her attention to her drink. Her mother had always said that if you ignore people like that then they might just go away.

'I see your taste in friends hasn't changed,' said Denman, nodding towards the group.

'Matty Hatch and Phil Burridge were the only friends I had when I was in this c.r.a.p-hole,' said the man angrily. 'And you spent all your time trying to stop us breathing.'

'Just doing my job,' replied Denman.

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