In the Moors Read Online Free PDF Page B

thought I would need it again.
    I reached out and laid one index finger on its cool, indented surface. Sometime during this next week, I would have to travel into Cliff’s spirit world again, and I was not looking forward to it one little bit.

FOUR
    The following morning, I indulged an impulse and went to the Sunday car boot sale they always hold on Plum Lane—Bridgwater’s finest. I had appointments back-to-back from two until seven in the evening, so I reckoned I deserved the morning off. I fed my three sad hens. Juniper, Ginger, and Melissa peered nervously at me from their fox fortress. They reminded me forcefully of Cliff—how he’d turn his lips into a beak and the way the dark pupils of his eyes were tiny, bright dots.
    I made the one-mile walk through the houses to Plum Lane, letting the sharp wind blow my cobwebs away. The sale was already buzzing when I got there. I pushed into the browsing, haggling crowds and began to trawl for bargains. Some of my favourite stalls are those I never buy from. I love the philatelist who turns up with albums and cellophane packets of brilliantly coloured foreign stamps, and the chap who sells rusty, archaic, and seemingly useless tools from a blanket laid on the ground, which is constantly surrounded by men of a certain age.
    I sifted through the second-hand clothes, treated myself to a Will Smith DVD (he is on my “want to marry” list), almost won a fight over a cut-glass salad bowl, then made a beeline for my favourite stall, a chap who comes once a fortnight to sell CDs at amazing cut prices. Barty (as he’s called) will put a CD into his player and let you listen to something new. A beat pounded out and his stall was deep in punters.
    I elbowed my way through the crowd and ran my hands along the racks, searching out artists I liked. I felt the close proximity of a sharp warm aura behind me just as my hand lighted on a Pet Shop Boys album. People do that at boot sales—breathe all over you as they try to snatch the bargain you spotted first.
    â€œBit before your time, aren’t they?”
    I jumped, despite my early warning device. The CD flew up in the air. With a certain panache, Rey caught it like a discus.
    I had no intention of ever clapping my eyes on Detective Sergeant Buckley again, but I’d forgotten how often the hand of fate takes a leading role in my productions.
    â€œHave you been following me?”
    He laughed. “We don’t have the manpower for that. I like coming here.”
    I didn’t believe him for a moment. I had a feeling that our exchange yesterday had rankled with him. He’d gone out on a limb, despite what he’d told me about hunches, and it hadn’t paid off because I wasn’t prepared to play his sort of games.
    â€œWant this?” He brought a fiver from his pocket and waved it at Barty.
    â€œWill you stop?”
    â€œGo on, let me treat you.”
    I snatched back the CD, stuffed it onto the stand, and stormed off through the crowd. I knew he was following; he caught me up, sneaked in front, and held up his hands in defeat. “You really take this self-sufficiency thing seriously, don’t you?”
    I couldn’t help smile at that, or help taking it as a compliment, either.
    â€œFancy a drink?” said Rey. “There’s a couple of tables by the burger van.”
    It was a sure bet Rey would spend all his time trying to needle information out of me, but I did like his new-mown hair and the eyes that, in daylight, veered on the greenish side of hazel, so I gave a half nod. “Just a tea, please.”
    â€œCome on then.” Rey hugged himself. “It’s cold work, car booting.”
    He strode ahead. Today he was wearing a worn leather jacket that skimmed the belt of bleached, deliciously tight, unironed jeans. He scrubbed down well, did Rey Buckley. By the time I’d plonked onto one of the cheap plastic seats, he was on his way back