TWENTY-FIVE
At first, Emma thought she was seeing double. In the few minutes it had taken her to cross the road and the strip of sand, a second mobility scooter had taken up a position at the end of the jetty. She considered retreat, the idea swiftly discarded when she recognised Mad Mick from the orange shirt and matching cap she’d observed earlier. Two informers resident in a small village seemed unlikely, so she stepped on to the pier, trying to guess which one would step forward to greet her.
As she drew nearer, it became apparent that the two men were arguing, their gestures far from friendly and the tone of their voices – if not the precise language – carried towards her by the freshening breeze. Clutching the basket to her chest, Emma strode towards them, hoping her arrival would
