“No, we won’t.” He let out the air he’d been holding in and took in the other cottages, the neat and tidy lawns. Another swinging sign caught his attention, and he narrowed his eyes to try to make it out. “Simmons’ Café’s there, look. Doesn’t seem like much of a café to me.”
“More like a restaurant or hotel. See? There’s hope for us here yet.” Oliver smiled at him.
They stopped beside a low wall, the top of it no higher than Langham’s knees. There was a break in it, an entry to the car park, and quite a few vehicles occupied the spaces. Simmons’ was another building that didn’t fit in here. Modern brick, white uPVC windows and doors, a slab of decking with wooden railing around it, keeping it enclosed yet open at the same time. Small fir trees in pots positioned around the edges. Wooden tables, the slat-top kind, could easily seat six apiece.
Langham spotted a sign in the window: VACANCIES.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he said. “Why wasn’t this on the bloody booking agency site?” He clamped his lips together in annoyance. “Would you mind if I went in and paid for a room there? Sod shelling out twice. That pub…it’s filthy, and I don’t like it. I don’t want to sleep in a bed that might be unclean once I turn back the quilt.”
Oliver shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy. And something has to.” He grinned, probably to take the sting out of his words.
“Been that bad, have I?”
“Bit of a bear with a sore head.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Langham nodded. “Then let’s go in and sort our accommodation, go to the pub and sign out, then come back here. I feel for the old dear in The Running Hare, but… I just can’t bloody stay there.” An image of the sign came to mind. “And it beats me why it’s called that anyway. The damn creepy hare on the sign is sitting.”
They walked across the car park and entered Simmons’, and thank God, it was clean, smelt of decent food cooking, and Langham was comfortable. It was a far cry from the pub. Not a dull horseshoe in sight. Instead, a gleaming wooden reception desk was ahead, a young blonde woman sitting behind it, the walls decorated in tasteful dark-plum paint with black-and-white pictures of world landmarks.
Langham went up to the desk, and in no time they were booked in, a set of keys in his hand.
“Out of curiosity,” he said to her, “why’s this place called a café?”
She smiled as though she’d been asked the same question a million times. “It used to be one years ago, until my dad inherited it from his mum, Granny Matilda. We knocked it down and started all over again. We kept the name, although I keep saying that people won’t realise exactly what kind of business we are now.”
“No, I thought you were literally a café.” Langham smiled. “But still, we’ve found you, and I can’t tell you how bloody—pardon me—how pleased I am that we have.”
“Booked in at The Running Hare, did you?” She smiled again.
Langham grimaced. “We did.”
“Well, just a word of warning. She’s nice enough if you stay on her good side, but if she finds out you’ve come here… Quite a bit of bad blood there.”
“I understand. So we’ll be needing to use tact then?”
“You will. If you chose to just leave without telling her, it would be less hassle. For everyone. Not that I’m telling you to do that, of course.”
“No, but I understand where you’re coming from. And do you cook all day, or are there specific times?”
“All day,” she said, “just like it was before. We have a party in the dining room at the moment, thirty people who are nearly done, so if you want to wait”—she glanced at her watch—“say, twenty minutes, it’ll be quieter in there then.”
“Thanks very much.” Langham pocketed the new set of keys. “We’ll just nip back to the pub then.”
Back out in the car park, Langham let out a huge sigh of relief.
“Want me to go in and get our things?” Oliver asked as they walked down the road. “Wouldn’t want the old dear to turn nasty on you, scare you.”
Langham laughed. “Cheeky bastard. Like she’d scare me. It isn’t her as such, it’s the building.”
Oliver nodded. “Once we’re back in Simmons’, I’ll tell you what happened in The Running Hare, if you like.”
“What, about the dead people?”
“Yeah. Something to natter about over dinner, isn’t it?”
If Oliver wanted to chat shit about dead people, so be it.
“So long as it isn’t gruesome and puts me off my food,” Langham said.
“You’ve seen and heard worse and still managed to eat a curry.”
Langham’s attention was snagged by movement behind the hedge the bike was leaning against. A uniformed officer came out to stand on the pavement, nudging the bike with his leg then scrabbling to grab it before it fell over. The poor man looked sick to his stomach, face pale.
“I’d say that’s his first death,” Langham said.
“It was. Some old dear.”
Langham shook his head. “Broad daylight… I shouldn’t be surprised, but I always am. It’s like the whole world’s turned to shit.” He stared ahead at the pub. “And the sooner we get out of there the better.”
Inside The Running Hare, the old man still sat in the corner nursing his Guinness. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Quickly, Langham led the way to the stairs then bolted up them, making his way to their room as though someone watched him on hidden cameras. He slid the key into the lock, going in with the idea of grabbing their bags and hoofing it back to Simmons’ without being spotted.
The old woman was sitting on Oliver’s bed.
