22
Even Caroline had to admit that a four-minute walk down Church Street didn’t warrant her starting up the car, parking a hundred yards down the road, paying for a ticket and then walking the rest of the way to Otters.
The cafe was bustling, as it was most mornings, but there was no mistaking Howard Smallwood. He looked just as Caroline might have expected the president of a local history society to look. He gave the impression of a cross between a supply teacher and a man eternally stuck in the past.
Caroline had heard colleagues and locals talk about Otters, but she’d never crossed the threshold. She realised now why the rest of town seemed so quiet each morning: because everyone was in here. She introduced Dexter and herself to Howard, adding two black coffees to the table’s order.
