BouffantJackson had dropped her at the end of her road, but it still took Kit ten minutes to walk to her house in the last of the rain shower. The detour across Mr Pattinson’s front garden involved mud up to her ankles and a tussle with a rosebush. She cursed her misguided pride and wished she’d stayed in the police car and forced Jackson to drive the long way home and drop her at the door.
A truck blocked her driveway, dwarfing her tiny Volkswagen Beetle. Kit saw it from a distance and pushed herself to hurry. Sweat ran down her face and turned her curls into a fuzzy haze as the humidity returned. Her ruined plimsolls rubbed up a blister on the back of her heel from the sodden, heavy fabric.
“Can I help you?” she called as she reached her house. She strode towards the driver, a man in a
