Who Needs Mr Willoughby?

“A bit,” he said, and frowned. “Is the engine petrol or diesel?”

“Erm…petrol.”

“Right. I’m Brian,” he said by way of introduction, and smiled. “I tinker a bit with cars. Let’s have a look at the dashboard works.” He slid in behind the wheel and turned the key until the gauges and dashboard info came to life. “Ah, there’s your problem. The temperature gauge is pegged high.”

“That’s not good, is it?” Marianne ventured.

He didn’t answer, but called out to the other man in the Hyundai. “Danny, fetch me that water jug from the boot.”

“Aye.”

Brian walked around to the engine and peered under the bonnet. “Just as I thought, your coolant’s low. You’ve probably got a crack in the water pump. I can fill it with water, and it should get you wherever you’re going, but you’ll need a new pump soon as you can manage it.” He took the jug from Danny and poured water into the coolant tank.

“A new water pump,” she echoed. “Right.”

He lowered the bonnet. “Now let’s see if she’ll start back up. If she does, you can be on your way.”

“Thank you,” Marianne breathed, “thank you so much. I’ve an interview in Endwhistle tomorrow – in fact, I just came from there – and I was afraid I wouldn’t make it back home.”

Danny, she noticed, had returned to the Accent, opened the driver’s side door, and got in behind the wheel. She frowned. Strange. Hadn’t Brian been the one driving?

“Let’s start ‘’er up,” Brian said. “I’ll just have a look at your temperature gauge and make sure the engine’s cooled properly afore you take off again.”

“That’s so kind,” Marianne exclaimed. “Thanks.”

With a nod, he slid once again behind the wheel as she stood on the side of the road and waited.

As Brian reached down to start the engine, Danny did the same, loudly revving the Accent’s engine; then he shifted into gear, peeled away from the layby, and sped off with a spray of gravel.

Marianne stared after him. She scarcely had time to wonder where he was off to in such a hurry when Brian turned the estate car’s ignition and started the engine.

“It’s started,” she called out, excited. “Thank you!”

But her joy was short-lived.

Without warning, the driver’s door slammed, nearly catching the hem of her skirt as it shut; and the car lurched forward with a spray of gravel and a squeal of tyres. Marianne, her mouth rounded in shock, stood at the edge of the road and gawped stupidly at the estate car’s rapidly retreating rear end.

She let out a shriek of delayed outrage and ran forward, shouting, “Wait – come back here! That’s my car, you sneaky bastard!”

Although she gave chase, it was no use. The lumbering old estate car picked up speed, and with a cheery wave of his arm out of the window, Brian floored it, and he and Lady Violet’s car were soon lost to view.

Chapter 7 (#ulink_83b00224-b084-547c-9415-9a8069fd7e0b)

Marianne couldn’t believe it. She simply couldn’t believe it. Brian and Danny had stolen Lady Violet’s bloody car right out from under her.

The cheeky bastards!

“Have to…to call…the police,” she huffed, winded after running down the road in fruitless pursuit.

She grabbed her mobile and notified the local police, who took down the information and said they’d file a report straight away.

“Can you send a car to pick me up?” she asked.

“It’ll be a while, miss. The only squad car’s gone off to Carywick to check on a reported robbery.”

“It’s probably mine,” Marianne snapped, and rang off. “Idiots.”

Another growl of thunder rumbled overhead.

She’d barely finished the call when rain began to fall, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Within seconds – déjà vu all over again – she was wet through and shivering, her hair plastered to her head.

At least the slime-sucking, lying bastards who’d stolen Lady Violet’s car hadn’t got her handbag…or her mobile.

But how, she thought with a sinking feeling, was she to get back to Barton Park now?

Marianne was about to turn around – to do what, exactly, she had no idea – when a pickup truck, battered and faded, approached and slowed down. Three dogs – border collies, one black, one reddish-brown, and one white and tan – occupied the truck’s bed.

She froze and eyed the vehicle warily as the driver let his window down. He had rumpled brown hair and wore a quizzical expression on his face.

“Having a bad day, are you?” he inquired in a broad Northumberland accent.

“I’ve had better,” Marianne retorted, and kept walking.

The truck kept pace and drew alongside her once again. “It’s not the right sort of weather for a walk today.”

“Do tell,” Marianne snapped.

“What’s happened? Did your car break down? And if it did,” he added, frowning as he surveyed the road behind and ahead of him, “where is it?”

“Yes, my car broke down. A lovely man named Brian stopped to fix it,” she informed him grimly, still walking, “and after he started it up, he stole it right out from under me.”

“Did he, now?” His eyebrows shot skyward. “So did you call the police?”

“I did,” she said. “But there’s nothing they can do, apparently, aside from filling out forms and making excuses, and they told me their only squad car’s out on a robbery call.”

“Aye,” he nodded, “that’ll be the hardware store in Carywick, I reckon. Someone threw a wrench through the front window this morning and broke in.”

“Was one of them driving a yellow Hyundai?” Marianne asked. “If so, they’re the same bastards who stole my car.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “Did you call a petrol station?”

Her feet were beginning to ache, but she kept walking. “Yes, I did,” she snapped. “I called all two of them. No one answered.”

“Well, the one in Lambert’s closed, now that I think of it. Bobby’s wife just had their sixth this morning. Six kids!” He shook his head. “And if you call the Endwhistle station, you need to hang on the line for at least seventeen rings before old Malcolm’ll hear and answer the phone.”

“Good to know,” she gritted.

“I’m headed to Endwhistle now. I can give you a lift if you like. If you don’t mind sitting in the back of the truck with the sheepdogs, that is,” he added.