In the town depot yard behind the Harrowby District Pumping Station, the November drizzle was falling in gray, upright needles that turned the asphalt into a black mirror.
Ada Morland sat in the driver’s seat of her 2004 white Ford Transit van with the engine idling to keep the windscreen defroster blowing warm air across the glass. The dashboard was cluttered with the debris of twenty-five years of honest trade. A crumpled greaseproof paper bag from the bakery on Station Road, three half-used rolls of PTFE thread-seal tape, a yellow plastic box of assorted brass olives. A battered stainless steel Stanley thermos flask that smelled intensely of stewed Yorkshire Tea and evaporated milk.
On the passenger seat, balanced between a heavy pipe-threading die and a high-pressure crimping tool, the tiny brass portal of the Courtesy Bridge was glowing with a faint, steady amber light.
Through the six-inch oval opening, Pella Rook’s voice sounded as clear and sharp as if the girl were sitting on the passenger door armrest.
“Ada? Can you hear me through the link?”
Ada unscrewed the plastic cup from the top of the thermos, poured two inches of steaming brown tea. Then she dropped two sugar cubes into the liquid with a practiced flick of her thumb.
