CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Malcolm parked outside a classic early Victorian terrace of three cottages as Audrey’s phone beeped in her handbag. She took it out and looked at the screen.
‘It’s Tina, the estate agent who sold me my house. She wants me to text her when I’m home safely.’
‘Well, well, well,’ Malcolm said. ‘To think at the age of seventy-five, I cannot be trusted to preserve the honour of a young woman.’
Audrey laughed and they both got out of the car. She closed the door and looked at Malcolm’s pretty garden with its wooden pergola spanning a path of Yorkshire paving stones leading to the front door. To the left was a small rose garden with neatly tended beds, all ready for the harsh winter to come.
‘It’s exquisite, Malcolm,’ she said, genuinely moved by the beauty of the cottage and
