I could have told her that I’d gone back and made my peace with the dog, but I was too angry. ‘I doubt it. You need help.’
‘Help me then.’
You know what I mean.’
‘Who was that man? What was in the envelope?’
I tossed the toy to her. She caught it deftly, still favouring one leg. ‘Go away, Mrs Wilberforce.’
‘I followed you. I parked just a little way down the street. Shouldn’t you have noticed me? Are you getting too old for what you do?’
I shoved the key in the lock. ‘Go away!’
Her voice changed, taking on the severe, serious tone she’d finally adopted in the interview. ‘Mr Hardy. One more thing.’
I had the door open. ‘What?’
‘I can’t help wondering what was in that parcel you posted. You seemed terribly concerned about it.’
4
The cat with no name greeted me as I came through the door. It followed me down the hall into the kitchen and stood over me until I opened a tin of food for it. The way I felt I’d have opened two tins if it had insisted. I searched my memory for some recollection of Paula Wilberforce at the Post Office, on the road and at Granville-some sub-conscious mental image that I hadn’t bothered to process. Nothing. Her question hit the nail on the head. Here I was, congratulating myself on handling a tricky situation with aplomb, and I hadn’t noticed a crazy woman keeping tabs on me in broad daylight.
The implications of that failure troubled me more than the fact of her attentions. I’d dealt with unstable women before-telephone callers, letter writers, window breakers. They tend to have low stamina and to be pretty easily deflected onto some other grievance. Are you getting too old for this? Maybe you should take Dan Sanderson up on his offer. I shook the thought off as I made myself a sandwich and poured a big glass of white wine. It wasn’t even an option. I was of value as an instructor because I was a practitioner. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, a reminder not to get slack just because most of the things I do I’ve done a thousand times before.