Chapter Twenty-Five
Amazingly the café had hardly changed, although the staff had.
Thankfully there was no chance of someone from the dim and distant past looking at me and then asking if I was the mother to a pair of twins who’d once infuriated a man impersonating Father Christmas.
Taking my extra-hot cappuccino and a humungous slice of Victoria sponge, I settled down with a contented sigh at a nearby table. After an unsettling morning scattering Peter’s ashes, a frothy coffee and sweet delight was a well-deserved treat.
Trying not to salivate like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I took a huge bite of cake. Strawberry jam and butter icing flooded my tongue’s tiny sensory organs, and I had to stop myself from groaning out loud. The next few minutes were spent concentrating on demolishing six-hundred calories.
Sugar fix sorted, I took a sip of coffee, then grabbed my phone and got to work. Opening Safari, I typed in building companies in Danderbury. Up came a sponsored directory of General Contractors in the area. My eyes scanned the list.
Bob the Builder. Ha! Not him.
Lofty Ladders. Nope.
There then followed a number of bathroom fitters, scaffolders, a kitchen fitter and a fabricating company. All amounted to a big fat no.
Bernie’s Body Repair. Oh!
Suddenly I was transported back to my childhood.
I’d been a mischievous kid who’d loved to make prank phone calls.
This had happened whenever Mum had nipped off to the corner shop leaving me and Sally alone for ten minutes.
It was the work of a moment for my sister and me to giggle-snort down the phone together.
On one occasion we’d telephoned the local garage. Our father had reversed the family car into a concrete bollard. He’d left a panel beater’s business card by the phone. Sally and I had been unable to resist.
‘Hello, hello?’ I’d trilled, adopting a highfalutin old lady’s voice. ‘Body repair, you say? Excellent. Now then, young man. Can you fix my floppy tits?’
I took another sip of cappuccino, licking the froth off my lip. My eyes continued scanning.
Land surveyors…
Precision glassworks…
A company dealing in asbestos removal…
For goodness’ sake. How hard could it be to trace a frigging builder? Or should I have instead typed local property developers into the search bar?
I stared into space and pondered, trying to think of other ways to find Liam Lancaster. Oh, wait. What about Liam Lancaster address?
Up came the website to Companies House. Oooh, this was more promising. Omigod. And there he was. Liam Leonard Lancaster. But… wait… Lovely Locks by Liam Ltd. Oh. Same name. Wrong guy.
I scrolled on. Liam Lancaster Ltd. My index finger hovered over the screen.
Company status: Active.
Company type: Private limited company.
Correspondence address: Francis House, Greenfield Road, Danderbury DA7 6HS.
Well! I blew out my cheeks. This surely must be him.
I took another slurp of coffee and – now well and truly in my stride – clicked on Filing history and then Accounts. Dear Lord, this was taking nosy-parkering to the next level.
I stopped scrolling at Turnover and let out a low whistle. Blimey. This guy was no flash in the pan. He’d been around for years. This was a solid business.
I wondered if Cilla had dared to financially investigate Liam.
Very likely. She was a businesswoman herself and ran the Starlight Arms with a savvy astuteness.
Cilla’s cash till rang even more loudly whenever an event took place at Starlight Hall.
After all, the community building was adjacent to her pub, and she wasn’t backward in coming forward when offering its services.
She nearly always provided the booze and catering for parties, celebrations, and events – just as she had for Peter’s wake.
I clicked off the website and instead went to Facebook. Good old social media. Once again, I typed in Liam Lancaster. It was the work of a moment to find his profile. I stared at his handsome digital image. His gaze met mine and almost seemed to challenge me.
I know what you’re doing. You are a STALKER!
I flushed guiltily and clicked off his profile – just as a warm hand came down on my shoulder.
Starting violently, I nearly dropped the phone. And when I turned and looked up at who the warm hand belonged to, I did drop the phone. It fell from my grasp and skittered across the table.
‘Liam!’ I squeaked.
Hell’s bells. Had he spotted me checking him out on Facebook?
‘Hello, again,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this, otherwise you’ll think I’m stalking you.’
I laughed weakly. There was only one of us doing that.