Showering and throwing on a clean set of clothes, her last, she left her room and wandered downstairs. According to the hotel’s information pack, breakfast wouldn’t be served until seven but she saw no harm in waiting. At the back of the building the proprietors had built a dining space, all glass and steel, with which to maximise the views over the marshland. The exterior terrace offered outdoor seating but even she thought that a step too far this morning. Instead, she stood at the floor to ceiling glass taking in the vista. The sun was cresting the horizon now. More used to coastal sunsets this made a nice change.
A sound came from behind and a member of staff appeared, startled to find a guest already present. Tamara smiled to her. They exchanged pleasantries and the lady offered to get her a coffee while she set about laying out a selection of fresh breads, pastries, and what Tamara hoped would be fresh local produce. Another employee appeared and before the laying out was complete, Tamara descended upon the offering. Not a big fan of eating a large breakfast first thing in the morning, though, she selected a seeded roll and some cheese. No one appeared to mind as she found herself a knife, plate and a packet of butter and retreated to the far end of the room, taking a table by the window. Coffee arrived shortly and she was grateful.
Absently buttering her bread, her eyes drifting over the view, she heard her phone beep. It was a text from Janssen asking what time he should pick her up. He must be an early riser too. Perhaps it was the child. She replied to say she was ready. Barely had she sent it when he responded. Pick you up in ten minutes. A very early riser, she thought.
She was outside waiting for him as Janssen pulled into the car park. He acknowledged her with a wave and she crossed the distance between them quickly, climbing into the passenger seat. They exchanged morning greetings but then she was straight onto the case. “I want to speak to the parents this morning. The Bettanys. We should call ahead. I don’t want them to feel ambushed.”
“I figured as much,” Janssen replied with a half-smile. “I called them last night and arranged for us to drop by first thing. They’re expecting us. How is the hotel?”
“Good. The coffee was lousy but everything else is grand,” she replied. He laughed. It appeared to come naturally to him, reinforcing her impression that when off-duty, Janssen laughed a lot.
“I know somewhere we can call in on the way. They won’t be open but I know the owner and he’ll be there.” She checked the time and then looked across at him. A decent cup of coffee was appealing but she wanted to speak to the Bettanys while they were still processing what she referred to as the morning fug. That period of the day when you exist almost on auto pilot. It was true she didn’t want them to feel ambushed but, at the same time, if there was something they were reluctant to share then she didn’t want to give them the opportunity to plan what they would and wouldn’t say.
Janssen appeared to see her mulling over the timings. “I said first thing but not the crack of dawn. They’ll not be expecting us right now, unless you want to catch them in their pyjamas? We have time.”
She relented with a smile. “Who is this friend of yours, then?”
The place was nearby. It was a little seafood restaurant near to Burnham Norton. The sign positioned outside, handwritten in chalk, advertised their focus on the best that Norfolk could produce, oysters collected from the creeks running into Brancaster Bay, crab and fresh fish from the market, supplied by local trawlers. Janssen walked towards the rear of the building. It appeared deserted, closed up, but he hammered on a side door. Sure enough, soon after, it cracked open and a face appeared from within. The newcomer was short and muscular, greeting Janssen with a firm handshake. He really did stand out. Callum McCall was right, Janssen didn’t look like the other locals, towering above most.
Watching from her vantage point in the car, she looked at her watch. Everyone knew everyone else. The benefit of an enclosed community but also its curse. He was only out of view for around five minutes. It felt like longer. Enough time to test her patience, at least. Reappearing with two coffees in brown takeaway cups, lids securely fastened, Janssen crossed to the car. She leaned over and popped the door for him. He angled it open the rest of the way with his knee, reaching in and passing her one of the cups. It was hot to the touch and she set it down.
What passed for rush hour traffic in this area was steadily building. Janssen drove them back towards Burnham Market, turning off the main arterial route. Most of the traffic was heading in the opposite direction but as they approached the village itself, roadworks and temporary traffic lights ensured they had time to enjoy their coffee before arriving at Brancaster House, the Bettany family home.
Marie Bettany was ready for them, inviting the two of them through to the sitting room. She already had a tray set out with a teapot and biscuits, apparently hosting manners were still observed under any circumstances. Tamara found it a little odd but made appreciative noises nonetheless. Their host encouraged them to sit down, taking up a seat opposite and pouring out the tea.
“Will your husband be joining us?” she asked. Marie’s expression altered but only for a
