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that’s what he tells me he does.’
    Kate stood. ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Hawkins. I think I have everything I need. I’ll be in touch.’
     

Six
    It was seven-eighteen the following evening when Kate rolled her little Nissan to a halt on the gravel in the car park at the rear of the Signet Inn and slotted in between a silver Porsche 911 and a Range Rover Vogue. The Nissan’s exhaust was rattling worse than ever and sounded as if it might drop off at any second. When the embarrassing noise died away, she could hear the burble of the river, and the buzz of conversation from the beer garden. It had been a hot day and the parasols were still shading the tables at which mostly young couples were enjoying the warmth of the evening. Across the car park was a shiny black Mercedes Benz the size of a canal barge. Kate recalled what Julie Hawkins had said about not liking to drive her husband’s Mercedes because it was too big and long.
    The pub was old whitewashed stone with all the usual creeping plants and leaded windows and rustic accoutrements, like the cartwheel against one wall. Kate walked round to the entrance, getting into her mindset. She’d put some thought into how to dress for this. Not too overtly sexy, but alluring enough to catch the eye of a middle-aged guy who was bored with his wife. She’d raided a couple of charity shops that morning and found a navy skirt that stopped a little above the knee, and a red sleeveless top that she left unbuttoned far down enough to be interesting. She was wearing Hayley’s necklace and the same red heels that had blistered her feet for the Wheatley job. Her last purchase of the morning had been a swanky new digital sound recorder that was in the lightweight cloth bag over her shoulder. Ready for action.
    Inside, the pub was decked out in the same kind of olde-worlde decor. Heavy oak beams, cracked with age. Lots of brass. Wood panelling around the walls, framed prints of pike, salmon and trout. About a million different kinds of real ale on offer at the bar, and above it a stuffed badger with glassy eyes that followed her as she walked in.
    Geoffrey Hawkins was sitting alone at a corner table in the restaurant area. He was wearing a suit and tie, and had a leather briefcase at his feet. The table was set for dinner for one: neatly arranged cutlery, folded red napkin, pepper mill and salt cellar, matching flowery coasters for his plate and his glass. The glass contained sparkling water, recently poured, the bubbles still rising, a lemon slice floating delicately on the surface. He’d made space on the table for the large hardback book he was leafing through. Its cover was angled upwards enough to make out the title: Miller’s Antiques Handbook and Price Guide 2014-2015 . It didn’t seem particularly exciting to him. As he laconically flipped the pages he took a sip of water. Like Kev before him, he looked a little chubbier than in the photo his wife had given Kate. Too many dinners out at the Signet Inn, maybe.
    The dining area was only thinly occupied that evening, and the table next to his was empty. Kate checked for a reserved sign, didn’t see one, took a seat with an easy eyes-front view of her target and casually picked up the little menu from its plastic holder. Soon afterwards, a very pretty dark-haired waitress of about eighteen, wearing tight jeans and a low-cut top, arrived with a pleasant smile to take Kate’s order. Kate asked for a prawn salad, and would have opted for a glass of white wine if she hadn’t been on duty and driving. She followed Geoffrey Hawkins’ example and ordered sparkling water, and the waitress wrote it down and asked if she wanted ice and lemon with that, and then disappeared towards the kitchen with another smile.
    Nice girl, Kate thought. A minute later, she reappeared from the swinging kitchen doors carrying a steaming plate of what looked like homemade steak pie and a heaped bowl of chips. She took them over to Geoffrey