There were two picture-postcard cottages in the grounds, both set on a slight rise overlooking a bustling stream.
The Magpie Inn was a low, white-painted building with a thatched roof and lots of tiny, diamond-paned windows that caught the sun and threw multi-coloured patterns back at them. She stretched her arms above her head in an unselfconscious movement while studying the pub and the outlying cottages. Harry’s passenger uncoiled herself from the seat and clambered out, crunching greasy gravel under her biker boots. Instead, she went straight to the passenger side of the car. Giving Harry a look that spoke volumes about their history and her views on the local police force, she did not deign to speak to him. Tall, broad shouldered and heavy-set with wildly curling hair, she had hands like shovels and feet thrust into a pair of men’s slippers. The woman waiting on the doorstep was big in every sense of the word.
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