Never Tell. Claire Seeber

like that. I knew his son, Dalziel.’

      ‘The one who killed himself?’

      The years rolled back like the tide.

      ‘Rose?’

      ‘Yes,’ I mumbled. ‘Yes, that one.’

      ‘You have depths, my dear Rose, I’ve not yet plumbed.’

      I jumped half a foot as a voice spoke in my ear.

      ‘Rose!’

      Helen Kelsey. I forced a smile. ‘I’ll call you back, Xav.’

      ‘Before it’s too late,’ he drawled, and rang off.

      Too late.

      I summoned a smile for Helen; I wished my heart would stop beating so very fast.

       Chapter Two

      I arrived at the paper at eleven, which meant they’d all be on a fag-break out the back. I needed to busy myself: to stay in the present. Making myself a cup of strong tea, I checked the boards in the faint hope there might be a half-decent story for once.

      ‘Edna Brown’s prize-winning vegetables sabotaged.’ Next to this someone had scrawled ‘Watch out for her melons’ in green marker.

      ‘High School Musical comes to Cheltenham.’

      ‘Five sheep savaged near Ostley Woods – return of the Burford Beast?’

      The only story that looked remotely exciting was apparent police interest in a local MP and an allegation of bribery. I vaguely remembered him from Alicia’s school fête, a sweaty, corpulent man more interested in the refreshment stall than the children.

      Tina banged through the doors. Ex-Fleet Street herself, but sick of the horrendous hours and the in-fighting, she was happy and efficient running this little paper.

      ‘Hello, stranger.’ She slammed a pile of files down on her immaculate desk. ‘How’s tricks?’

      ‘Tricks are OK, thanks, Tina.’

      ‘How’s the gorgeous husband?’

      Everyone always loved James. The life and soul. ‘Good, thanks. Pretty busy with the relaunch of the club.’ I pointed to the board. ‘What’s Johnson being investigated for?’

      ‘Not sure exactly,’ she shrugged. ‘Something to do with taking some kind of bung, I think.’

      ‘Really?’ I perked up.

      ‘The by-election’s coming up. All sorts are stirring.’

      ‘Shall I take a look?’ I said carefully. I didn’t want to admit to myself how much I needed some kind of spur.

      ‘I think Richard’s on it, thanks, love.’ She booted her old computer up. It made a sound like it was dying inside. ‘Why don’t you take a look at Edna Brown’s lovely vegetables?’

      ‘Oh, right.’ I suppressed the sudden urge to scream. ‘Yes, of course.’

      Richard Sawton rushed through the door and scooped his car keys off the desk.

      ‘Hey Rosie,’ he winked, his long face almost excited, ‘fancy a spot of doorstepping?’

      ‘I was going to talk to Edna Brown about her—’

      ‘Fuck Edna Brown.’

      ‘I’d really rather not,’ I grinned.

      ‘Come on. The word is Johnson’s going to get picked up again today.’ He was almost out the door by now. ‘I could do with a second opinion.’

      I glanced at Tina; she waved us onwards with her trusty green Pentel. Grabbing my bag I followed Richard, feeling something I hadn’t for the longest time. Adrenalin.

      The Johnson story turned out to be a damp squib. Richard and I spent a chilly hour supposedly hiding outside his house, drinking stewed tea in polystyrene cups from the Copper Kettle, only for the wife to arrive at our window and bang on it with a cross be-ringed hand.

      ‘This is private property, I’ll thank you.’ Her front tooth was tipped with fuchsia lipstick.

      ‘It’s not you know, love, it’s a public highway, actually,’ Richard pointed out affably. ‘Have you got any comment on your husband’s recent arrest?’

      ‘He was not arrested.’ Her soft chin quivered as she drew her camel coat tighter around her. ‘He was merely ‘elping the police with enquiries.’ She’d got very grand, apparently, since her husband won his seat four years ago. A stone squirrel gazed at us from the pillar behind her, concrete nut held forever between his paws.

      ‘Rightio. And why was that, then?’

      She drew herself up to her inconsiderable height. ‘I wouldn’t know. You’d have to ask him. But, I might add,’ she fixed us with steely little eyes, ‘he won’t tell you.’

      ‘Rightio,’ Richard repeated. ‘Well, thanks for your help.’

      I leaned across him, offered her my hand. ‘Hi, Mrs Johnson. Rose Miller.’ She refused my hand and glared at me instead. ‘We will find out, you know, Mrs Johnson. It’ll be in the public domain before long, so you’d be doing yourself a big favour by telling us your side of things now.’

      ‘I have no interest in speaking with you,’ she said stiffly. ‘None whatsoever.’

      ‘This is your chance to put your side of the story across. We could offer you an exclusive.’

      ‘No comment,’ she sniffed. The little boy statue peeing into the lily pond looked on languidly as she slammed the garden gate behind her and sailed towards her house.

      Richard sighed, and started the car without looking at me.

      ‘Richard, I—’

      ‘What?’ He concentrated overhard as he pulled out.

      ‘I hope – I mean, you didn’t think I was stepping on your toes back there?’

      ‘Of course not.’ He was obviously lying.

      ‘I just thought – she needed some coercion, and—’

      ‘Rose, it’s fine really.’ We slowed to a crawl behind an old red tractor. ‘I understand, honestly.’

      But he still stared straight ahead, refusing to look at me. My heart sank. I rarely mentioned my previous incarnation, and although sometimes they actually asked my advice at the Burford Chronicle, it was hard not to see how differently we had done things on the nationals. I was used to the pace of the major broadsheets, the fast-track of a story you had to turn around immediately. I was used to working alone, pushing on despite being told no, unrelenting when I was on the trail of a story. But in Burford they ran a polite ship – it was just that kind of operation. However welcoming they’d been since I’d joined their ranks a year ago, sometimes I felt they just suffered me because they were just – well, polite.

      ‘So, what now—’ I began as a shiny black Range Rover with partially-tinted windows swung into the small lane far too fast, ragga music pumping from it, narrowly missing our wing mirror. I ducked instinctively as Richard swerved into the hedgerow.

      ‘Blimey!’

      An indignant crow flapped out with a rusty squawk.

      ‘Bloody idiots,’ Richard muttered. ‘Can’t even drive the bloody things. I don’t know why they bother.’

      In the mirror I watched the Range Rover disappear round the bend. It was impossible to see who was driving.

      ‘Stupid poser,’ Richard muttered, reversing.

      I thought of my husband’s