Killing Me Softly by Marjorie Eccles Page B

weather.’
    He hesitated only fractionally, then answered with a quick smile, ‘That sounds like a very good idea.’
    The car was roomy and luxurious and smelled of warm leather. ‘Mozart, country and western, or what?’ he asked. He seemed cheerful and not at all put out or disappointed by the outcome of their visit though, as far as she recollected, he’d seemed quite keen on the house when he’d spoken of it in his office. She was sure he’d told her that he’d seen it several times and thought it might be just the thing.
    She looked sideways at him as she settled back into her comfortable seat and mellow music swept softly through the car, aware of a breadth of shoulder next to hers, reminding her how athletic he was, despite his desk job. Had he then used this visit simply as an excuse for her company? The unexpected thought pleased her and brought a warmth to her cheeks, but was at the same time disconcerting. He wasn’t the sort, David Neale, to use subterfuge. Or was he? She was suddenly deeply aware that she really knew very little about him, but also that she would indeed like to learn more.
    â€˜I know of a property which might possibly be coming on the market quite soon,’ she told him rather breathlessly. They were driving towards Lavenstock, the hills either side disappearing into the lowering clouds. It had come to her that Mary Bellamy’s place, not too far out of the town, would suit David admirably. ‘I can’t say any more than that just yet, but I could let you know, if you’re interested. It’s a very nice bungalow, going out towards Lattimer.’
    â€˜Sounds fine. Not too large, I hope? Good, I was brought up in an Edinburgh semi. I’ll need a bit more than that to accommodate my furniture, but anything too big is still inclined to give me a guilt complex.’
    She thought of the beautiful house by the river, large by any standards, especially for one man, but failed to imagine him satisfied with anything less. Smaller, yes, but not less. Quick to catch her reaction, he explained, with his slow smile, ‘My father was an elder in the Presbyterian Church and I was brought up to believe that material possessions were not things to be enjoyed. That sort of attitude’s hard to put behind you.’
    She’d wondered once or twice about his background, but he’d never talked about it before.
    â€˜Believe it or not, but when the parental home was sold up, there was a needlepoint chair worked by my grandmother, still in mint condition. My mother took great pride in the fact that no one in our house had ever been allowed to sit on it!’
    Clare couldn’t think of a comment that wouldn’t reveal what she thought of that. An immediate picture of a dour, joyless Scottish household and repressive parents had sprung fully formed into her mind, a chilling impression. She looked at him to find him watching her quizzically.
    â€˜You’re meant to laugh at that! Though it’s not as unusual as you might think, par for the course with the Scots, in fact. We’re a canny nation. You must have noticed, the way I look after your money.’
    She did laugh then. It was extraordinary, how different he was, away from Miller’s Wife, how easy and comfortable she felt with him. Perhaps his upbringing had also taught him business and friendship should be kept separate. ‘Were you an only child, like me?’
    â€˜Yes. It’s not always easy, is it? Too much is expected of you.’
    â€˜Not in my case. I always remember my childhood as very happy.’ And who wouldn’t, surrounded by love and good humour, with a sweet-natured mother and Sam for a father?
    â€˜I can imagine. I’ve heard a lot about Sam Nash, and liked what I saw when I met him just now.’
    The wipers flicked and the tyres hissed, and they came over the ridge and down into a Lavenstock grey and murky with drizzle, but with