Wings over the Watcher Read Online Free Page A

over the back. His trousers were creaseless and baggy-kneed and he wore brown brogues on his feet. Joanna made a swift assessment: old-fashioned, conventional, unimaginative, no criminal record.
    She didn’t recognise him.
    But held out her hand anyway. “Mr…?”
    “Pennington. Arthur Pennington. You know my wife,Beatrice.” He had a flat, expressionless voice with a local accent.
    Old-fashioned names too. Arthur and Beatrice. She searched her memory for a Beatrice Pennington and failed to find her.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, smiling to take the sting out of her words. “I don’t recall…”
    “She’s been coming to the cycling club for a couple of weeks. On a Sunday.”
    Then she
did
remember. Quite clearly. Because the woman had seemed so very ordinary. Another overweight, middle-aged woman with straight, brown hair, who had turned up to the cycling club on a brand new bike saying she needed to “get fit” and “lose some of the…” She’d slapped an ample midriff bulge with a giggle then introduced herself as Beatrice Pennington. Her self-deprecating humour had amused them all and they always welcomed newcomers. Besides – they’d instantly admired her both for her good humour and for her effort. So after a brief discussion they’d made a quick adjustment to their proposed route, turning it into a figure of eight in order to drop her after ten miles and then continue with the rest.
    It was quickly obvious she wasn’t going to cope with the usual thirty mile ride.
     
    It is hard to look ungainly on a bike. Cycling is a sport in which you can look good on a flat or downhill even when it’s your first time out. Provided you don’t wobble too much. And you can always either go-slow or push up a hill. But Beatrice somehow managed to do the impossible, look clumsy on her machine. She wobbled constantly, braked too hard, losing her balance and panicking then putting her foot down. She sweated her way up the first incline and slowed them right down. Yet Joanna and all the others continued to admire her indomitable spirit and good-humour. It didn’t seem to faze her that she was lagging far behind so they encouraged her every few minutes, dropping back to chat to her. It was obvious Beatrice had found the hills hard work and her legs were clearly not used to the exercise but shehad gritted her teeth and persevered and to her credit had managed the ten miles, waving them off happily as they’d finished their ride.
     
    She’d joined them for a few more weeks, her form gradually improving, then as suddenly as she had started, she had stopped coming. Last Sunday they’d waited for ten extra, precious minutes, finally setting off without her in a downpour. Joanna had assumed that, like many others before her, Beatrice had found the attempt at fitness simply too tough.
    Now, four days later, Joanna was looking at her husband.
    Unexciting was the word that came into mind as she recalled fragments of conversation and conjecture.
    Pagan, one of her two cycling buddies, watching the bike and rump wobbling ahead. “Wonder what’s started this off.”
    Pat, married teacher, whose husband spent all of Sundays fishing, “New man.” Said with a twinkle.
    “Doctor’s orders,” had been Joanna’s explanation and the three had giggled like chummy schoolgirls and freewheeled down the hill, overtaking Beatrice’s squeaking brakes.
    “Need some oil,” they’d thrown back as they rushed past.
     
    Arthur Pennington adjusted his glasses.
    “Sit down, Mr Pennington,” she invited, feeling unaccountably sorry for the man. “I do remember your wife. Of course I do. Quite well, in fact. She’s getting quite good on her bike, isn’t she?”
    Pennington practically tossed his head as though this was of no interest to him so she didn’t pursue the subject. “What can I do for you?”
    His pale, shining forehead was corrugated from brow to receding hairline with anxiety. “It’s about her,” he said, “my