While waiting for the teller to authorise the substantial withdrawal of cash, Hillary Thompson lifted her mobile telephone from her bag, moved her head this way and that, swept her fringe to one side, smiled broadly and took a discreet selfie, which she had promised to send to her grandson, Jack. After all, it was he who had taught her how to use the phone and, more importantly, how to take the all-important selfie and send it by email to whomsoever she chose.

“Don’t forget, Gran,” he had said to her on the telephone, “I want a selfie every day you’re away and when you return from Spain I’m going to set you up on Instagram.”

She was about to send Jack the first of what would surely become a deluge of photos in the coming weeks, when she was distracted by the teller.  “There we are, Mrs. Thompson, five thousand euros in fifties, as requested.”

The notes were placed into a plastic wallet and handed over.

“Have a safe trip to Malaga, Mrs. Thompson, and bring back some sunshine.”

Hillary placed her phone into the inside pocket of her jacket and the wallet into her leather attaché case, before leaving the bank and crossing the road to the coach station.

 

It had been her custom in recent years to drive to the airport but her car had been stolen some days ago from a supermarket car park and so she was faced, at the last minute, with having to find alternative transport from Bromley to Gatwick. Her routine had always been the same. She would park in the long-term car park, catch the courtesy bus to the terminal, check in and after testing some of the more expensive perfumes in the duty free shop, make straight for Café Delight. There, she allowed herself the indulgence of a freshly-baked, deliciously flaky almond croissant and a flat white. She enjoyed the routine; it offered a comforting sense of security. She’d buy a newspaper but seldom read it, choosing instead to stare at the departures board and listen to the endless public address announcements, for fear she might miss important information about her flight.

​

The Airport Express Coach Company had been drawn to her attention by a neighbour who’d seen it advertised in the Bromley Times. Hillary entered the coach station and looked around her. She spotted an official in uniform. “Excuse me, the coach to Gatwick?”

The station inspector smiled and pointed to a smart, green executive coach in the bay next to her. “This one right here, madam; you’ll be boarding in a few minutes when the driver’s finished his break.”

 

When it was Hillary's turn to board the coach, she was greeted by a steward not much older than her grandson, Jack, a university student in Exeter. Smartly dressed in a navy suit bearing the livery of the coach company and a badge that displayed the name Ryan, he offered Hillary his hand.

“Welcome aboard, madam.”

For a moment, Hillary, shrugging off any notion of misplaced vanity, wondered if the steward had considered her younger or older than her years but she was, nevertheless, grateful for his assistance. She took Ryan’s outstretched hand and climbed the three steps onto the coach.

"I don't normally travel by coach, dear," she whispered, “this is all new to me.”

Ryan smiled. “I love your brooch.”

Hillary’s eyes sparkled. “Why, thank you, it was a birthday present from my grandson, Jack. He’s a student down in Exeter; he’s about your age too.”

She paused briefly to catch her breath. The steward smiled. “I hope you enjoy your trip with us, madam, and if there’s anything you need please let me know.”

“Oh, I don’t have a ticket, I never thought to buy one. Can I buy one from you?”

“Sure, everyone buys their ticket on the coach, it’s a first-come-first-served arrangement.”

“You have lovely blue eyes.”

Ryan smiled. “So my gran keeps telling me.”

“Shall I pay you now?”

“I’ll be coming through the coach to collect the fares once we get under way.”

The final passengers boarded the coach, sat down and set about exploring the array of buttons on the arms of the comfortable seats, upholstered in an attractive red tartan.

"May I?"

Hillary looked up to find a gentleman, probably in his late fifties, holding a trilby hat slightly above his head in a flamboyant gesture of respect. He smiled broadly.

"Of course," Hillary replied, sliding into the seat by the window.

“Please, there’s no need to move along,” he said. “If you’d prefer the aisle seat I can…”

“No, really,” interrupted Hillary, “I’m more than happy to sit next to the window. I’d actually prefer it.”

He nodded, smiled and removed his cashmere overcoat, folding it meticulously before placing it on the overhead rack.

“Do you have a bag?” enquired Hillary.

“A suitcase, safely in the hold beneath our feet,” he replied, pointing at the floor.

“First time with this company?” he asked.

“I don’t usually travel by coach but I must say this one is very smart,” said Hillary, “and I love the tartan seats: very classy.”

"A vast improvement on the bone-shakers of our youth," he laughed, "and we never had stewards serving refreshments in those days.”

Hillary looked surprised. “Refreshments?”

“Absolutely. As soon as we get going, that young man at the front of the coach will spend most of the trip taking coach fares and serving drinks.”

“How wonderful,” remarked Hillary, “I think I could get used to this?”

 “And there’s a toilet on board,” He added.

“Well that’s convenient.” She chuckled at her unintended play on words.

"Horace Middleton, delighted to meet you," announced her polite travelling companion, extending his hand to Hillary, who paused, a little surprised at his forthrightness.

"Hillary, Hillary Thomson," she replied. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

“I’m afraid I have that kind of face. I hear these words so often: haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

“So, you’re not on television or anything like that?”

He shook his head and laughed. “I’m afraid not.”

They shook hands and remained silent for a while, until Horace suddenly straightened his leg and grimaced.

"Are you okay?"

"Confounded Leg, I'll be fine in a moment."

"Cramp?"

"Nothing so simple, my dear. Anyway, look, you don't want to be bored with the details of my various infirmities."

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

“I’ll be fine in a moment.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“You sound like my doctor.”

They both laughed.

“I apologise,” said Hillary, “my grandson is always telling me off for not minding my own business.”

“Well, since you ask, it’s a cocktail of joint problems, born of years of public service and devotion to duty. All that pain for a paltry pension from the Army and an equally derisory early-retirement package after twenty years teaching those who resisted being taught.”

Horace caressed his knee in a series of circular motions, shaking his head in an exaggerated gesture of self-pity.

“A teacher? My grandson, at Exeter University, wants to be a science teacher.”

“A noble profession. I was a schoolmaster for fifteen years, following a career in the army, serving in Northern Ireland mostly.”

“Let me guess,” said Hillary, “an officer?”

He nodded. “Captain.”

“And now?” enquired Hillary with mounting interest.

“Now, when time allows, I fundraise for animal charities: the RSPCA, the Blue Cross, that type of thing."

Hillary admired her travelling companion. He seemed a kind man; one who appeared to value the welfare of animals and others, and that was something of which she entirely approved.

Ryan arrived to collect their fares. “Singles or returns?”

“A return for me please,” said Hillary. “Contactless okay?”

“Of course, madam, most use contactless these days.” He handed Hillary her ticket.

“And you, sir?”

“I only want a single,” replied Horace.

“How will you get back to Bromley?” asked Hillary.

“I’m going to Brighton when I get back to Gatwick.”

Ryan handed him his tickets and moved off along the coach.

“I do love Brighton,” mused Hillary, “I remember when, as a much younger woman, I visited a show where dolphins were the main performers; it was somewhere near the pier. Then we walked for what seemed like miles along very narrow lanes with the most incredibly interesting little shops. It put me in mind of the souks in North Africa. And then later on, it was fish and chips on the Pier before a couple of drinks and back to the guest house; happy times.”

“And now?” asked Horace.

“Now?”

“Well clearly you’re too young to be retired so is your trip pleasure or business?”

"Well, it’s a short holiday, I suppose," replied Hillary. "I travel to Spain at least six times a year to see my son and his family; they run a small bar and restaurant in Malaga."

“And how are they doing? I mean it can’t be easy running a business that relies solely on the tourist season.”

Hillary sat upright and passed her leather case and newspaper to Horace. “Can you put these in the overhead rack please, Horace?”

“Gladly.”

"That's better," she sighed, "a weight off my lap.”

“You were going to tell me about your son. It can’t be easy; it’s bad enough trying to run a bar in this country.”

“Oh, I suppose like everything else,” replied Hillary, “the idea seemed a good one at the time. Things have been very tough, but they’re determined to persevere and I help them when I can.”

“In the kitchen?”

“Oh no, they won’t let me anywhere near the kitchen. I help financially when business is quiet. What about you, Horace, holiday, business?"

"A little of both," replied Horace. "I'm attending a law and order convention in Glasgow, in my capacity as the South-East regional coordinator of Neighbourhood Awareness, a fairly new charity. You see, I've always been a great advocate of the whole concept of neighbourhood watches since they were first introduced."

"Neighbourhood Awareness? I’m sure I've heard of it, but why Glasgow?" Asked Hillary.

"The charity wants to expand the concept throughout the whole of the United Kingdom so we’re launching the Scottish roll-out in Glasgow."

"Sounds exciting," said Hillary, “you must be delighted.”

 

Hillary lay back against the head rest and closed her eyes. She recalled the fateful day last spring when she was burgled. It was a chilly April morning. She’d been attending her brother's funeral in Croydon. He was just fifty-six years of age. It happened at Chislehurst station when he stepped off the train, following an evening function in the city. He was attacked and robbed on the station platform by four youths who were never identified. He died on the way to hospital. After the funeral, she returned home to find her house had been burgled. Jewellery, much of it irreplaceable and of immense sentimental value had gone. The greatest loss was the diamond necklace that George, her late husband, purchased from a jeweller on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, during their honeymoon.

​

"Ah, the sleeping beauty awakes."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Horace, I'm a little weary; been up for hours."

He studied her face for a moment before placing his hand innocently on her forearm. "Why don't you close your eyes again and I’ll wake you when we approach the airport?"

Hillary smiled. "I'm fine, I just couldn't help thinking of…" She paused.

"Go on," he urged.

"About a year ago I was burgled. Talking about your trip to Glasgow brought the memories flooding back: the shock, the police. Above all, the sense of intrusion and the feeling my home had been, well, violated, do you understand?"

"Yes, Hillary, I understand very well. I’m so sorry."

"Then there was the irrational fear they would return and finish me off." She took a deep breath. "Many items that meant so much to me were stolen."

Horace raised his hand to attract the attention of the steward. "Let me get you a coffee."

"You're very kind."

"You know, it makes me so angry, Hillary, I just cannot understand why we let them away with it. When and if they're caught, what happens to them, eh? Two hours of community service, a ticking off from the beak and in some cases they’re sent on holiday with a social worker."

"I can see it’s a subject close to your heart," said Hillary, encouraged by his sense of justice.

"Hillary, when I was a schoolmaster, the one thing I couldn't stand was a thief and when I served in the army there was an unwritten rule among the chaps. The thought of interfering with, or removing, another person's belongings just didn't enter our minds at all. Since retiring, I prefer to work and live among animals because they can at least be trusted. Does that sound odd to you?"

Hillary took the coffee from the tray offered to her by the young steward with the piercing blue eyes, and began to tear the paper from the sugar lumps.

"Do you have family, Horace?"

"My wife, Marjorie, was…" He paused briefly. "My wife was killed.”

Hillary stopped stirring her coffee. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Horace. Look, if you don’t want to talk about it…”

“A year ago on the M25. She was a passenger in a minibus which went out of control in a blizzard on their way home from a church outing. Seven injured and three killed, one of whom was Marjorie. She was beautiful; my best friend. I miss her terribly."

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to…"

“No problem. Anyway, enough about me, is there a Mister Thompson?”

“There was but he was lured away by a younger woman, after twenty years of seemingly happy marriage.”

“Oh, my dear, that’s dreadful, what a fool he must have been.”

She turned to face her travelling companion and smiled. “One learns to adapt, Horace.”

Horace looked at his watch. “Listen, we’re making very good time so would you do me the honour of allowing me to buy you a drink at the airport?"

"Oh, I don't think I…"

"Please, Hillary," he persisted.

"Well, why not? I'd be delighted, but only one; I know what you men are like."

He laughed, placed his hand on hers and squeezed it gently. Hillary couldn't believe what was happening. She began to feel attracted to a man she barely knew.

The coach pulled up outside the North Terminal and passengers began to gather their hand luggage and move towards the exit.

Hillary tapped Horace’s arm. "I must spend a penny before we leave the coach; the queues in the terminal, particularly at this time of year, can be horrendous. I won’t be long."

“Of course, my dear, there’s no rush; take your time.”

 

When Hillary returned, all the passengers had disembarked. She stared at the empty seats she and Horace Middleton had occupied during their journey. The young steward, whistling loudly, pushed his broom along the aisle, bending occasionally to collect litter from the floor before dropping it into a plastic bin liner. Horace had gone and for a brief moment she experienced a crippling sense of nausea, the same feeling that had overwhelmed her last April when she entered her house after the funeral. She glanced up at the luggage rack above the seat; her case had gone. It was possible, of course, that having retrieved his suitcase, Horace could be waiting for her by the side of the coach. She leant across the seats and looked down at the pavement but there was no sign of him. Perhaps he’d entered the terminal building to find a trolley. However much she wanted to believe he hadn’t absconded with her case containing her cash, credit cards and passport, she sensed, once again, she’d become a victim.

"Are you all right, Madam?" enquired Ryan.

Hillary stared at him for a moment and then she spoke gently. "The man who sat next to me during the journey, do you know where he went?"

"The one with the trilby hat and expensive coat?"

Hillary nodded.

"He collected his bag from the luggage rack and crossed the road in the direction of the taxi rank next to the Premier Inn.”

“The taxi rank?”

“Yes, I thought it was odd he didn’t follow the others into the terminal building. I mean, to get off here and then head for a taxi does seem strange. Are you sure you’re okay?"

“Did he collect his suitcase from the luggage compartment?”

“He didn’t have a suitcase, madam.”

Hillary thanked Ryan and stepped off the coach. She looked around, tears slipping from her eyes. Then she spotted him, some way along the pavement, seeking desperately to cross the busy road between the terminal building and the Premier Inn. He had his eyes set on the taxi rank.

“Oh no, you don’t,” she said softly. “I won’t let you. I refuse to be a victim again.”

She watched as he waited for a break in the heavy traffic flowing rapidly along Northway.

 

An empty cab pulled into the taxi rank. There was no queue. If Horace was fast enough he could catch it and be off, but Hillary was determined to stop him and quickened her pace. Horace waved wildly to catch the cab driver’s attention. Preoccupied with getting to the one available taxi and exiting the airport quickly, he stepped from the front of a parked courtesy coach into the busy road. The Emirates flight crew minibus was unable to brake in time. The sickening thud that followed, gave way to a rush of people to the scene of the accident. In the gutter by the stationary coach lay two items: Hillary’s attaché case and Horace’s trilby hat. With all the surrounding attention focussed on Horace, no one had noticed them, except Hillary. She picked up the case, before stamping and spitting on the hat.

 

Before Horace Middleton’s body was completely obscured from view by those trying to assist, Hillary had just enough time to catch sight of his lifeless body. The head, eyes wide open, was positioned in such a way that he appeared to be staring directly at her. Blood flowed from his lips and ran in rivulets down his chin. She smiled, hoping he could still see and recognise his victim and then she looked away. Hillary opened her bag to check the contents, including the bank notes in the wallet given to her earlier by the bank teller. The cash was there, together with her passport and credit cards. She turned and shook them wildly in a gesture of defiance at the lifeless eyes that neither moved nor blinked but remained focused on her. She turned and walked confidently into the terminal building, determined not to look back and without another thought for the man who had deceived her so cruelly.

 

The almond croissant in Café Delight tasted more delicious than any she had previously eaten. The coffee was exceptional too. She lifted the mobile phone from her jacket pocket and located the selfie she’d taken in the bank earlier.

“Jack will be waiting for this,” she whispered, “so all I have to do is press share by email, select Jack’s number and press send.”

The message that appeared on her screen informed her that the photo had been sent successfully. Jack’s acknowledgement, by way of a text message, arrived within seconds. “Hi Gran, ten out of ten; well done. Another photo when you arrive in Malaga please! By the way, who’s the creep in the photo, staring at you?”

Hillary looked again at the photo. The creep was ‘Captain’ Horace Middleton, who stood a little way back but appeared to be taking a keen interest in her transaction. No doubt he’d seen the cash handed to her by the teller. It suddenly all made sense.

“May I share your table?”

Hillary looked up to find a gentleman, probably in his early sixties, holding a trilby hat slightly above his head in a flamboyant gesture of respect. He smiled broadly.

“You can have the whole table,” replied Hillary, “I’m leaving.”

Humming one of her favourite sixties numbers, ‘These Boots Are Made For Walking,’ she checked her case and walked in the direction of the newsagent to buy a newspaper she’d probably never read. She felt certain Nancy Sinatra would have approved!