‘I’m not injured. I’m overweight,’ frowned Midge, before clarifying, ‘Morbidly.’
The DCI bit down into her carrot stick and asked, ‘Yourfriendnot with you?’
The emphasis was deliberate. Another thing this generation had to be grateful for. Twenty-five years of introducing Bridie as her companion. Of course, Midge was more than aware that the world had moved on, but these things were just not assimpleas that.
‘I was looking forward to finally getting to meet her. I’ve heard she’s quite the life of the party.’
Her beautiful, bright Bridie bird.
But the brightest lights shine only against the darkest of backgrounds...
Bridie had made it upstairs and was walking towards her, cheeks flushed from a passing conversation with Inspector Rowan. Involuntarily, Midge checked the rest of her face. The echo of her laugh had a high pitch to it that undoubtedly had more to do with excitement than the power of the inspector’s joke-telling. But there were no tell-tale dark rings under her eyes and, for this evening at least, the shadow of illness was absent.
She squeezed Midge’s shoulder as she reached them. Years of habit while in company made Midge stiffen slightly and pull back. If Bridie noticed, she didn’t show it and, instead, turned smoothly towards DCI Goodall, extending the touch that had just been spurned.
‘Hello, Ma’am,’ she said, waiting for DCI Goodall to balance her paper plate before shaking hands. ‘Lovely to meet you. What a fantastic spread you’ve put on.’
Midge didn’t think she meant it.A beige buffet, she’d whispered to her when they’d arrived.
The DCI smiled while checking her watch. Bridie rolled her eyes at Midge.
‘Sorry, McGowan,’ said Goodall. ‘I’m going to have to go. Like I said, big meeting. Anyway,’ she pulled an envelope out of her pocket, ‘the station had a whip-round for you. Hope you enjoy it.’
Midge accepted the envelope marked with the property office stamp with all the enthusiasm of someone who had been handed their next dental appointment. She went to put it straight into her handbag (also rainbow coloured), when a gentle nudge from Bridie alerted her to the fact that more was expected. ‘Open it then, silly!’ she laughed.
Obediently, Midge tore open the envelope. Inside was a voucher of some sort.
It read:
A HAUNTED CHRISTMAS WEEKEND
20–22DECEMBER
AT
THE FAMOUS ATHERTON HALL
Courtesy ofHAUNTING HOLIDAY EXCURSIONS
Cost: £175 (inclusive of police discount)
Coach transfers included
She frowned. ‘The price is still on it.’
‘Oh, yes,’ the DCI waved her hand, ‘sorry about that. Should have markered that off.’
‘A hundred and seventy-five pounds?’ said Midge. ‘But I have thirty direct colleagues. The normal donation amount is ten pounds per person. Which would make an expected total of approximately three hundred pounds.’
The DCI’s mouth was opening and closing slightly.
‘Oh, Midge!’ squealed Bridie, clapping her hands together like a schoolgirl. ‘It’s a haunted house trip, how marvellous! Just like they do on the television!’
‘But ghosts aren’t real.’ Midge, who couldn’t think of anything more ludicrous, did not understand Bridie’s excitement. ‘You know all that stuff is nonsense.’ They’d once accidentally watched a paranormal investigation show together, full of flashing lights and shaky night-vision camera footage that had given Midge a migraine even before the posturing of the overly made-up presenter had started.
Midge considered the voucher again. ‘Unless it is a birthday, of course, then the average contribution drops to five pounds per person.’
‘Really?’ said the DCI. ‘I believe some people may have been off sick.’
