Page 82 of Play Our Song

“Anything you say,” Tilly said.

“Right then.”

“Soph?” called her dad.

“Is everything alright?” asked Tilly, face frowning in concern, she looked over to where Lydia was disappearing around the corner of the street.

“It’s fine,” Sophie said firmly. “I’ve got to go.”

Tilly stepped back again. “Right, yes, course. Um, until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Sophie said, taking one last long look at Tilly before she turned around and went back inside.

“Soph?” her dad called from the living room. “That you? Want to bring me a bacon sandwich?”

She closed the front door and sighed. “No dad, no bacon, we’ve talked about this. I’ll get you a nice salad instead and some eggs.”

There was the sound of grumbling from the living room, but she ignored it as she went into the kitchen. Most of her mind was worried about her dad. A tiny part was wondering just what Tilly wanted to say to her. Her heart beat a little harder. Tilly had looked nice, worried, relieved a little. Would Tilly always make her feel this way?

Chapter Thirty Three

Sophie had agreed to talk. That was step number one. What Tilly was worried about now was step number two, the actual talking part. What was she going to say? Her heart told her to keep it simple, her head told her to go into vast amounts of detail. She was torn between the two as she walked along the high street.

At the corner before the police station, a fancy black car slid into half a parking space by the curb. Tilly stopped. The car’s rear end was sticking out over the line. She waited to see if the driver was going to move, and when he didn’t, she changed direction and walked over.

As she approached, Dougie McKeefe got out of the driver’s seat. Tilly took a deep breath. People policing, she told herself. “Not the best parking job there, Dougie,” she said, proud of herself for keeping her cool and not being too formal.

Dougie looked down, swore, and got back in the car. He straightened up as Tilly waited, then got out again. “Better, constable?”

“Much,” she said with a grin. “Nice car, new is it?” She walked around the front. The tax sticker was there and valid.

“Well, that’s one of the advantages of having your old vehicle stolen, isn’t it?” Dougie said. “At least the insurance pays out and you can treat yourself to something new.”

Tilly raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think your insurance paid for all of this, did it?”

Dougie looked a little hang-dog. “Happen I had to put in a bit myself,” he agreed. “Is the parking alright now?”

Tilly looked up and down the street and then nodded. “Perfectly fine,” she said.

Dougie sighed in relief, bid her goodbye, and starting walking down the street toward the pub. Tilly watched him go, her brain ticking. Her eyes kept flicking back and forth between the car and Dougie as she thought.

The idea was brewing, getting bigger, stronger, but it was a full minute before she marched back to the police station and threw herself into the chair opposite Max’s desk.

“The thing that’s been bothering me is the shotgun,” she said.

Max looked up from his paperwork. “Morning, Tilly,” he said. “How are you?”

“Fine, fine,” she said. “But the shotgun.”

“What shotgun?”

“Dougie McKeefe’s,” she said.

Max pushed his chair back from the desk a little and crossed his arms. “You’ve lost me. You’re going to have to start from the beginning.”

“When Sophie, Jules, and Amelia got caught up at McKeefe’s farm, he pulled a shotgun on them.”

“He’s a farmer,” shrugged Max. “He’s probably always got one around, for foxes and the like.”

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