23
Celia was sitting on a rock, facing south across the moor toward Jamaica Inn, nestled in a cleft in the hill, it’s peace disturbed by the roar of traffic on the A38 to Bodmin. As Slim came up behind her, she lifted a flask to her lips and took a long swallow of a liquid which steamed around her face.
‘Do you think we’ll be overheard?’ Slim said, throwing down his pack as he sat beside her, rubbing a spot on his thigh where he had failed to see an outcropping rock. ‘I saw a couple of suspicious-looking sheep during the hike up. I’m pretty sure one was wearing a wire.’
Celia smiled. Dressed in hiking gear that was either new or rarely used, she looked far different to the bitter-faced woman Slim had met on the Tavistock street. She had tied up her hair, and the attractiveness that had
