The rain over Harrowby was the grey, persistent drizzle that had defined Lancashire since the Industrial Revolution. Not a sudden cloudburst, but a fine, cold mist that settled into the weave of bright coats. Then it turned the grit on the tarmac into a greasy slurry.
Ada Morland parked her white Peugeot Boxer van on the double yellow lines outside Drew & Sons Fine Antiques on St. Jude’s Lane, threw her COMMERCIAL SERVICE IN PROGRESS clipboard onto the dashboard. Then she stepped out into the damp afternoon air. Her knees gave their familiar, grumbling crack as she took the curb. Her left forearm. There, the puckered second-degree scald scar from that unvented steam collar three weeks ago still pulled tight across the tendon, was wrapped snugly in a beige black rubber squeezing sleeve. It didn’t throb today. That meant the air pressure was rising. But it had a persistent, dry itch that smelled faintly of the zinc-and-wool-grease ointment she applied every morning before loading her tool caddy.
Imran Bell was already waiting beneath the green canvas awning of the antique shop. It shook his umbrella with sharp, downward snaps. He had changed out of his navy overalls into a sensible dark fleece and charcoal cargo trousers. Even so, he still carried his canvas field satchel over his shoulder.
