Wing’d (Evergreen Council #3)

Chapter 1

TRACE

“This is a joke, right?” I felt myself pale as I stared open-mouthed at Mr Filey’s…nephew, I think he’d said. Some designer-clad Essex wide boy with a flashy watch and a sneer I’d witnessed when he’d made his way none too carefully up my garden path a few minutes previously.

“I can assure you it’s no joke, Mr Dempsey. The cottage should’ve been condemned a decade ago, but Uncle Brian was,” another sneer, “off his rocker and should never have let it in the first place. You’ve got a month. I’ve got contractors lined up to turn this mess into four luvverly starter homes.”

Brian Filey had been an insightful and eccentric old man.

My eyelids stung with fury at the callous way his undeserving relative spoke of him.

I’m not the sort who won’t speak ill of the dead if they were a piece of crap, but Mr Filey had been anything but.

For a start, Terrance, my crow, had warmed to him almost instantly, and he’s a gnarly bugger who gives almost everyone the side-eye when he first meets them.

I cast a worried glance over my garden and held back the profound sigh that wanted to escape. “Can you make it two months, please? I have a lot of plants to move.” I want to hex you so badly right now, I’m impressed I’m being polite.

Yet another sneer, this one hot on the heels of his having followed my gaze and found the contents of my pride and joy lacking. I swallowed my pride.

“Please?”

He sniffed, then as if he was personally granting me a gift from the gods, said, “Six weeks. Not a day more. Anyfink left goes under the ’dozer.

I’m markin’ the date in my phone.” He gave one last brief, scornful look around, then jerked his chin at me.

“Don’t even fink about trashing the place or you won’t get your deposit back. ”

With this confusing parting shot — if he was bulldozing the cottage, why did the condition of it matter?

— he thrust a business card at me, then turned his back on me as if he couldn’t wait to scrape the country mud off his shoes.

He was off back down the path and into his ostentatious sports car, leaving the gate swinging in the breeze as he took off in a cloud of gravel dust and bad humour before I could read the card.

I pocketed it, sighed, then fastened the gate.

I perched on the low brick wall and dropped my head into my hands as a trickle of hot, angry tears of pure frustration slid down my cheeks.

What the fuck was I going to do now?

When I pulled myself together and went back inside, Terrance sidled over and fixed me with his questioning stare.

I ignored him and made myself a pot of tea.

I found a slightly stale crumpet in the cupboard so I toasted it for lunch.

With a scrape of butter and the comforting familiarity of the tea-making, I finally returned his eye contact when I sat down. He tilted his head and croaked, “Well?”

“Always a bird of few words,” I muttered.

He gave me his equivalent of an eyeroll but stood calmly, edging closer until he insinuated his body under my non-dominant arm.

Chuckling, I ran gentle fingers over his soft feathers until he made a clicking sound which I knew meant ‘enough’.

He shook himself and eyed me intently again.

“You’re annoyingly persistent.” I filled him in on the visit from Filey junior and my momentary descent into tearful panic.

“Of course, I know what I have to do, which is,” I ticked them off on my fingers, “a) find somewhere new to live, b) move all my plants and books and everything else to this new place, and c) pretend I‘m not going to flinch every time there’s a knock at the door in case some uptight arse has decided either I’m some kind of ‘weirdo hippy’ who’s selling drugs to neighbourhood kids or that you’re a feral menace who’ll peck out the eyes of their new kitten.

But, you know, overthinkers are us and all that.

” I harrumphed self-consciously while Terrance regarded me with what could only be called alarm.

He knew as well as I did the concerns I’d voiced out loud weren’t the whole truth.

But at least he was smart enough not to allude to my biggest headache. Or not right now anyway.

Instead, he shook his head slowly, then wandered over to the Everest-sized heap of books and files perched precariously on one end of the table.

Rooting about in the pile for several moments, he dragged a paper from the heap and dropped it on top of the crumpet crumbs.

It was an email I’d printed out with the directions to Dalziel Millar’s Lanarkshire home.

“Huh, nice try, my friend, but I don’t think Millar wants me invading his space again any time soon.

” I huffed as the memory came back to me.

“I might have suggested his PA should run away with me. He’d never forgive me if I went back and persuaded her to actually do it.

Good administrative staff are hell to find. ”

Terrance made an exasperated squawk and pecked the paper. “Look.”

I leaned over. “Oh. The Council itself.” I considered this for a moment. “You think I should ask the Council to help me find somewhere new to live?”

“Obviously.”

“I’ll try by myself first. Don’t want to look like I can’t function without checking in every time an obstacle gets thrown in my path.

” Terrance clicked. “All right, I know I don’t do that, but I’m a grown man, for pity’s sake.

I found one remote cottage with a nice parcel of land in the middle of the countryside.

I can find another.” My heart sank at the prospect of trawling through dozens of property pages.

“Might as well make another pot of tea. I could be here some time. And you’re going to help. ”

I plugged in my laptop, eyed it with the distaste it deserved, and opened a browser.