Just Desserts by Jan Jones Page A

laptop. ‘That’s terrific. Cheers. I owe you.’ Hardly pausing for breath he broke the connection and keyed in the number he’d just made a note of. ‘Mr Fraser? Good morning, my name is Leo Williams and I’m enquiring into …’
    Penny continued to drive. This was a very different Leo to the ingenuous journalist who happily invited himself to lunch in search of a story or who took advantage of any free offers going as a matter of right. Or was it? Even over lunch the other day he’d had that touch of watchfulness, asking just the right questions of her son-in-law to trigger a flood of information about Lowdale Screw Fittings that Tom didn’t even know he possessed.
    Now he was concentrating, typing one-handed while listening to the man on the other end of the phone. ‘Thank you,’ he said eventually. ‘You’ve been very helpful. I appreciate it.’ He shut off the phone and sat quite still, staring ahead as the car ate up another mile of motorway. ‘There was nothing special about Andrew Collins’s plane,’ he said at last. ‘It was a normal development aircraft, no orders waiting on it, nothing sensitive fitted to it, just a slightly different taper to the wing that they’d already changed in the next version anyway.’
    â€˜Did he know what Andrew Collins was supposed to be doing during the test flight?’
    Leo snorted. ‘Getting home for his mate’s stag night, I suspect. It was marked in the log as ‘Night flight. Lost.’ No other information.’ He looked at her. ‘If I buy you lunch at the next service station, can you bear to take us up to the tarn again?’
    After a drive of more than two hundred miles, Penny would rather have flopped on her sofa with a mug of tea. ‘As it’s you,’ she said with a sigh.
    But during the quick meal he changed his mind. ‘Forget it, I need to get this copy to the Messenger in time for this week’s issue. Make sure people know about the show. Can you drop me at the office instead?’
    â€˜Sure.’
    Her route home from the newspaper office took her past Leo’s boat. Penny slowed down, frowning, seeing a couple of men peering intently at the neat, blue-hulled cruiser. There was nothing unusual in them looking, Salthaven was a pretty town, people often strolled alongside the river watching the boats. But these two … Penny couldn’t quite define it, but they were too still, they seemed to be there for a purpose. On impulse, she parked and went to sit on one of the fancy benches lining the waterside.
    One of the men flicked a tiny, lightning-sharp, assessing glance at her. In that moment she was quite sure they weren’t tourists. She opened the carrier bag she’d pulled at random from the car and almost laughed aloud. Inside was the end of a loaf of bread that Leo’s mother had been going to throw out. Penny had said she’d take it so her grandson could feed the ducks. Now she pulled off a few bits and lobbed them at the water. Instantly, two arrows of fast-moving waterfowl scooted towards her, quacking loudly, drawing attention from passers-by. Penny threw more bread. The men conferred, took one last look at Leo’s boat, and walked away. Penny casually got out her phone. Leo, she texted. I’m at the boat. You might want to get back here.
    Leo hadn’t even had to argue with his editor to push Mrs Ingle’s story up in importance. Harry knew the value of a local rallying cry in a regional paper. ‘Nice tight copy,’ he grunted, scanning the report. ‘She was a game lass, wasn’t she? Got a photo?’
    â€˜I emailed it already.’ His phone beeped. He read the text.
    â€˜Trouble?’ asked Harry shrewdly.
    â€˜Maybe. Or maybe chickens coming home to roost. Do you mind if I give Penny your number? Just in case.’
    He hurried back to the boat, texting Penny as he walked. He