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Marianne. “Dr Brandon’s the best there is. She’ll be fine.”

      ***

      Just a few kilometres outside of Endwhistle, with a cough and a shudder and a cloud of steam, the check engine light came on and the estate car coughed and sputtered to a stop.

      Marianne turned the key in the ignition; she checked the gas gauge (nearly full); she got out and lifted the bonnet to allow the billow of steam to escape; then she peered down at the engine in hopes that looking at it would help her figure out what was wrong.

      It didn’t. The car was officially and irrevocably dead.

       What to do now?

      “I’ll call someone to come and get me, of course,” she said out loud. Surely one of the local petrol stations would have a mechanic and a towing truck on hand.

      Marianne reached in her pocket for her mobile. And although she called every petrol station in the area – all two of them – no one answered.

      “Right, I’ll call Mrs Fenwick,” she decided, and tried to tamp down her panic. “She can send Bertie or Jack to fetch me.” She took her phone out and stared at it, her fingers poised over the screen.

      Marianne groaned. She didn’t know the bloody number. She’d never bothered to programme it into her phone.

      “Oh, that’s just great, that is.” She slumped against the side of the car. “I don’t know a soul, the petrol stations won’t answer, there’s another arsing storm on the way –” she glared up at the lowering skies “and I haven’t even got an AA card.”

      Just then, over the distant rumble of thunder, she heard the sound – the wonderful, welcome sound – of a car approaching. Marianne whirled around to see a yellow Hyundai Accent motoring towards her.

      Immediately she ran into the road and began to jump and wave her arms back and forth like a demented boy-band fan.

      As the car got closer it slowed and stopped, and two men got out. “What seems to be the trouble, miss?” the driver, a youngish bloke in jeans and trainers asked.

      “Do you know anything about cars?” Marianne asked hopefully. “Mine’s just died.”

      “A bit,” he said, and frowned. “Is the engine petrol or diesel?”

      “Erm…petrol.”

      “Right. I’m Brian,” he said by way of introduction, and smiled. “I tinker a bit with cars. Let’s have a look at the dashboard works.” He slid in behind the wheel and turned the key until the gauges and dashboard info came to life. “Ah, there’s your problem. The temperature gauge is pegged high.”

      “That’s not good, is it?” Marianne ventured.

      He didn’t answer, but called out to the other man in the Hyundai. “Danny, fetch me that water jug from the boot.”

      “Aye.”

      Brian walked around to the engine and peered under the bonnet. “Just as I thought, your coolant’s low. You’ve probably got a crack in the water pump. I can fill it with water, and it should get you wherever you’re going, but you’ll need a new pump soon as you can manage it.” He took the jug from Danny and poured water into the coolant tank.

      “A new water pump,” she echoed. “Right.”

      He lowered the bonnet. “Now let’s see if she’ll start back up. If she does, you can be on your way.”

      “Thank you,” Marianne breathed, “thank you so much. I’ve an interview in Endwhistle tomorrow – in fact, I just came from there – and I was afraid I wouldn’t make it back home.”

      Danny, she noticed, had returned to the Accent, opened the driver’s side door, and got in behind the wheel. She frowned. Strange. Hadn’t Brian been the one driving?

      “Let’s start ‘’er up,” Brian said. “I’ll just have a look at your temperature gauge and make sure the engine’s cooled properly afore you take off again.”

      “That’s so kind,” Marianne exclaimed. “Thanks.”

      With a nod, he slid once again behind the wheel as she stood on the side of the road and waited.

      As Brian reached down to start the engine, Danny did the same, loudly revving the Accent’s engine; then he shifted into gear, peeled away from the layby, and sped off with a spray of gravel.

      Marianne stared after him. She scarcely had time to wonder where he was off to in such a hurry when Brian turned the estate car’s ignition and started the engine.

      “It’s started,” she called out, excited. “Thank you!”

      But her joy was short-lived.

      Without warning, the driver’s door slammed, nearly catching the hem of her skirt as it shut; and the car lurched forward with a spray of gravel and a squeal of tyres. Marianne, her mouth rounded in shock, stood at the edge of the road and gawped stupidly at the estate car’s rapidly retreating rear end.

      She let out a shriek of delayed outrage and ran forward, shouting, “Wait – come back here! That’s my car, you sneaky bastard!”

      Although she gave chase, it was no use. The lumbering old estate car picked up speed, and with a cheery wave of his arm out of the window, Brian floored it, and he and Lady Violet’s car were soon lost to view.

Chapter 7

      Marianne couldn’t believe it. She simply couldn’t believe it. Brian and Danny had stolen Lady Violet’s bloody car right out from under her.

      The cheeky bastards!

      “Have to…to call…the police,” she huffed, winded after running down the road in fruitless pursuit.

      She grabbed her mobile and notified the local police, who took down the information and said they’d file a report straight away.

      “Can you send a car to pick me up?” she asked.

      “It’ll be a while, miss. The only squad car’s gone off to Carywick to check on a reported robbery.”

      “It’s probably mine,” Marianne snapped, and rang off. “Idiots.”

      Another growl of thunder rumbled overhead.

      She’d barely finished the call when rain began to fall, slowly at first, then more rapidly. Within seconds – déjà vu all over again – she was wet through and shivering, her hair plastered to her head.

      At least the slime-sucking, lying bastards who’d stolen Lady Violet’s car hadn’t got her handbag…or her mobile.

      But how, she thought with a sinking feeling, was she to get back to Barton Park now?

      Marianne was about to turn around – to do what, exactly, she had no idea – when a pickup truck, battered and faded, approached and slowed down. Three dogs – border collies, one black, one reddish-brown, and one white and tan – occupied the truck’s bed.

      She froze and eyed the vehicle warily as the driver let his window down. He had rumpled brown hair and wore a quizzical expression on his face.

      “Having a bad day, are you?” he inquired in a broad Northumberland accent.

      “I’ve had better,” Marianne retorted, and kept walking.

      The truck kept pace and drew alongside her once again. “It’s not the right sort of weather for a walk today.”

      “Do tell,” Marianne snapped.

      “What’s happened? Did your car break down? And if it did,” he added, frowning as he surveyed the road behind and ahead of him, “where is it?”

      “Yes,

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