Letting out the Worms: Guilty or not? If not then the alternative is terrifying (Kitty Thomas Book 1

and leant on the table. A shot of Millie smiled out at her, posing outside her restaurant. The name on the sign - Feast - showed up clear and bold. Millie was so young - about the age Kitty was now - and she looked happy and proud. It was a blessing she could not see into her future. With a stab of sadness, Kitty gazed at the black-and-white image. So much hope and potential, wasted. She made a note of the publication date.
In a later edition, another piece about Feast reported on the restaurant’s successful first night. A picture showed the restaurant full of customers, and in another, Kitty and the others were arrayed inside, raising their glasses at the pre-opening celebration.
A twinge in her back sent her to the armchair. She propped her socked feet on the coffee table and leaned back into the cushions with the machine on her knees. Despite the picture’s news-print fuzziness, it was easy to see who they all were. Luc looked about four years old - no wonder he couldn’t remember much. The others were not much bigger. Millie stood proud and excited behind a gleaming black bar, raising a toast to the success of her venture. All that hope; children being chastised for touching things; Kitty’s own small, sticky hand, held safe and firm in her mother’s cool, dry one. In that moment, it all poured back.
She took in a breath and puffed it between her lips, then noted down Liz and Daisy’s surnames. Further scrolling revealed one unexpected result. Liz later opened her own restaurant in the nearby town of Kingsthorpe.
Not one to hang around, Kitty shoved her phone and notebook into her leathers and climbed astride the Matchless. In the cloudless afternoon, the mellow tones of the old bike throbbed between hedges as it carried her round gentle bends between furrowed, earthy fields and under skeletal branches.
Kingsthorpe was similar in size to Chelterton, but was more upright than meandering, more Business than Tourist. She parked on a small, tarmacked triangle near the centre, close to Liz’s restaurant, and appraised the single-fronted enterprise with its outside tables under a striped canopy. The sign-painted window identified it as One the Square. A middle-aged couple huddled in coats at a table beneath the awning, determined to enjoy the rare winter sunshine. They were laughing, gazing into one another’s eyes, their food untouched. What might their story be? Illicit affair, second marriage, long and romantic first marriage?
Kitty pulled off her gloves and tucked them inside her jacket. The pair did not look up as she passed. Inside, a low buzz of conversation rose from twenty or so haphazard tables that stretched into the deep space. On her right, a chill counter held an enticing array of salads and desserts. The smell of bacon reminded her how hungry she was, and her eyes searched the room to catch the eye of the forty-something man, scuttling about, grinning and chatting to customers.
He noticed her waiting and wove, smiling, between tables towards her. ‘Good morning,’ he greeted in an accent that suggested a public-school education.
‘Hi.’ Kitty looked past him at the busy restaurant. Can you fit me in? I’m starving. No breakfast.’
‘I’m sure we can.’
She followed him to a table and accepted a laminated A5 menu. The fellow left to take payment from the man from outside. Through the window, his partner was gathering her belongings.
Kitty’s stomach rumbled, and after requesting a full English from an open-faced lass named Emma, her mind returned to her purpose. She wondered about Liz’s age. In the old newspaper image, Liz appeared about fifty. Blimey, she must be in her seventies by now. It seemed unlikely she would still work in this restaurant.
After gobbling down her breakfast, Kitty joined the well-spoken man at the till. He stuck her debit card into the machine with a professional smile. ‘Are you here for business or pleasure?’
‘Actually, I’m looking for someone I used to know.’ Kitty met his brown eyes. ‘She worked in my stepmother’s restaurant in Chelterton when I was a child.’
When she gave him Liz’s name, his eyebrows shot up. ‘That’s my aunt. This place belongs to her, but I’ve managed it since she retired, ooh, it must be ten, twelve years ago, now.’
Kitty handed over her business card, and seeing her occupation, his smile dropped. ‘You’re not really a friend, then.’ He handed back the small rectangle, but Kitty stopped him.
‘Yes, I am. Millie, who owned Feast, was one of my stepmothers. She died in an explosion. Later my own mother was murdered.’
‘I heard about that.’ His frown relaxed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ Kitty shook off his sympathy. ‘I’m hoping your aunt can clarify what happened back then.’ She leant on the counter. ‘The man who killed my mother is now free and claiming his innocence.’
The fellow flapped Kitty’s business card like a fan, saying, ‘Leave this with me and I’ll talk to Aunt Liz. Come back at six when I’ve closed. If she wants to meet you, I should know by then.’
At two minutes past six, the streetlamps were lit, and a low light glowed inside the premises. Kitty tapped on the window, and Liz’s nephew looked up from counting cash at the till. His smile was more welcoming this time. Inside, the empty tables and the floor had been cleaned but the air still smelled of cooking.
Kitty remembered her manners. ‘Thanks for your help with this. I’m sorry, I didn’t ask your name.’
‘It’s Tom. Tom Bishop. When I told Aunt Liz about you, she was delighted.’ He snapped an elastic band round a wad of notes, and said, ‘She’s often wondered about you all; hoped you’d recovered from your terrible ordeals.’
‘Will she see me?’
‘She can’t wait.’ Tom slid a scrap of paper across the counter towards Kitty. ‘This is her