“I work there on Thursdays, learning the trade. Mr. Battersby calls you the best mechanic in Wakefield.”

Philip perked up. “A lot of people say that.”

“He’s going to live in Morecambe but I wish he wasn’t.”

“Why?”

“I still have things to learn.” Alec looked at me, and then at Philip. “Do you know each other then?”

I got in first. “Mr. Goodchild takes care of my car.”

Well, wasn’t this cosy? So much for my being undercover. But credit to Philip. He turned away, saying. “I’m just out testing a van. I have to go now.”

Chapter 26

Chapter Twenty-Six

Most of the time, these roads are empty of cars. I did not think much of it at the time, but on the road to Rothwell another car followed mine at a consistent distance. When I slowed down, so did that car. When I speeded up, it also increased its speed.

After that odd sensation of having been followed, it was a relief that the black car continued on its way when I turned onto the lane that led to Whitwells Farm. I left the car in the lane and walked along the muddy track.

Ahead of me were the low rhubarb sheds, each with its own chimney, and with tracks leading from shed to gate.

I first met Josh Whitwell, the family’s younger son, when Rothwell Camera Club put on an exhibition. He is a good photographer. One particular image stayed in my mind. It was the interior of a forced rhubarb shed, lit by candles. He modestly said that it was trickery. Much of the rhubarb had been picked, and there was a certain amount of light from the open door. He had taken the photograph from an angle, to make the shed appear full of a regiment of rhubarb soldiers.

As I neared the first big shed, a stocky farm labourer, work trousers tucked into his boots, came over, to see what I wanted.

“Is Josh Whitwell about?”

“He’s packing. We’re expecting the van soon.”

“I’m a friend, and I just want a quick word.”

The man directed me to a large shed whose doors were wide open. The rhubarb had all been picked from the forcing sheds and brought here. It lay in heaps on a long table. At one end a woman was lining small crates with blue tissue paper, and passing them along. Another woman and three youngsters were filling the boxes with rhubarb. Josh was at the end of the table, placing them onto a cart. He waved when he saw me, and called to the man who had shown me in to come and take over.

Josh grinned. “I heard you were here, Kate.”

“Who told you?”

“Half a dozen people who know I’m in the camera club. A lady photographer, they said, writing an article about the area. I’m jealous.”