The Depths of Solitude by Jo Bannister Page B

not the world. Life would continue, so would the need to make money. Brodie turned her attention to other things that needed finding, that grateful clients would pay her to find.
    Clients like Geoffrey Harcourt. She could do a trawl of the south coast curio trade, see if she could spot
something to interest him. There was also Mrs Pangbourn’s collection of nineteenth century linens, which would dovetail nicely. The antiques trade, at least at the lower end, is much more eclectic than people suppose. For every Sheraton sideboard there are a dozen Victorian chamber-pots (one careful owner), tippling sticks (one careful toper), unattractive Staffordshire fairings, late copies of unattractive Staffordshire fairings, sepia prints of The View From Beachy Head , watercolours of sheep in meadows by artists who should never have been allowed to pick up a brush, tin trays advertising Guinness, tinplate automata with the key missing, cut-glass decanters with the stopper missing, collections of Famous Footballer cigarette cards with Stanley Matthews missing, and Whitby jet necklaces that turn out to be Bakelite.
    For Brodie, the satisfaction was in sifting the dross to find a small gem. Not a big gem – even junk-shop owners knew too much to display a Fabergé egg with sundry Easter commemoratives or sell off a Modigliani cheap because the artist forgot to paint the eyes. But with her books now full of commissions she didn’t often leave a shop empty-handed and everything she bought paid her a profit.
    But first she was going to have to buy a car. A true replacement would have to wait until the insurance came through, but there was enough in the emergencies fund – all right, her building society account – to buy a tolerable second-hand car to keep her mobile in the meantime. After she’d taken Paddy to school she headed for a likely dealer.
    All she wanted was something safe and reliable that would run for a few months with no trouble. She settled for a six-year-old hatchback with seventy thousand on the clock and a three-month warranty. The salesman, who
thought it was Christmas when a well-dressed woman with no male companion walked into his yard, mopped his brow and settled for clearing fifteen percent on his outlay, which was about half what he’d been hoping for even without the warranty. It would be a while before he saw a good-looking woman in the same light again.
    Before she set off for Brighton Brodie called at her office to collect her messages. There was one from Daniel.
    It was a long time starting, as if he couldn’t decide whether to speak or not. Finally he stumbled a few words. “It’s … kind of awkward. Can you meet me? We need to talk. The library? I’ll wait for you. Thanks.”
    For a couple of minutes, which is a long time when nothing is happening, Brodie just leaned against the office door, staring at the machine. Only when her eyes started to smart did she remember to blink. So he was safe, and back, and he wanted to see her. But not here, nor at her home or his. The library was a neutral venue, and he may have hoped the signs would discourage her from shouting at him. Which suggested he had something to say that she wouldn’t want to hear.
    Another time she might have worried about that. After yesterday she was so relieved he was all right she could have burst into tears.
    All thoughts of the flea markets dissolved instantly. The message was an hour old: he could have been waiting for her most of that time already. He could have got tired of waiting and left. But he’d said he wouldn’t do that, and his word was good. He’d wait if he had to wait all day.
    Brodie wiped the machine, slammed the office door and ran out to her new car.
     
    Dimmock’s public library was on the top floor of a new building overlooking the park. For years there had been
arguments over how this desirable site should be used, with competing causes lobbying the council. Finally someone came up with the obvious