Page 48 of The Clifftop Cottage

BEST SMALL TOWN – FIVE YEARS RUNNING

And yet the gutters overflowed with leaves, and a cracked paving slab near the park had been patched with tarmac that didn’t quite match.

She found the council offices tucked behind the high street, a long beige building with narrow windows and a flag that drooped limply in the damp air. Inside, everything smelled faintly of old carpet and furniture polish – the scent of things being preserved rather than cared for.

The reception desk was empty.

“Hello?” Erica called, peering down a corridor lined with framed certificates and photographs of smiling people shaking hands.

After a moment, a man appeared. He was in his late forties, perhaps, with thinning hair and a carefully ironed suit that had seen better days. His tie was too bright for the room. His smile came a fraction too quickly.

“Ms …” He glanced at a clipboard. “Ms Erica Hayes?”

“That’s me.”

His face lit up. “Of course. Of course it is. I’m Councillor Peters. Or Andrew, if you prefer. I know of your work.”

Erica blinked. “You do?”

“Oh yes.” He chuckled. “My daughter adores you. Watches all your old videos. And my wife” – he lowered his voice as though sharing something intimate – “has one of your T-shirts. Wears it every time she’s at the gym.”

“That’s … nice,” Erica said faintly. “I don’t really do the channel anymore.”

“No, no,” he said, waving a hand. “Apparently you’re into witches now. Very fashionable. My daughter too – all black nail polish and crystals.”

“It’s … more than that,” Erica said.

“Of course it is.” He gestured down the corridor. “Come in, come in.”

His office was exactly what Erica had expected and somehow worse. Beige walls. Beige filing cabinets. Beige carpet. A large desk sat in the middle, stacked with papers that looked as though they had been there since the early nineties. A small plant drooped sadly in the corner, its leaves yellowed at the tips, quietly dying.

On the wall behind him hung a glossy poster of what she had seen earlier in the town:

WINNER: BEST SMALL TOWN – FIVE YEARS RUNNING

Beside it were several framed photographs of Councillor Peters himself – cutting ribbons, shaking hands with people in suits, standing beside smiling officials Erica didn’t recognise. In one, he was posed beside a woman in a tailored coat who looked faintly familiar, the sort of face that appeared on the news. In another, he was mid-laugh at a formal dinner, a name card just visible in front of him.

Whatever this job paid, it had bought him a seat at tables that mattered.

He sat down with a contented sigh. “Now. What can we do for you?”

Erica perched on the edge of a chair. “I wanted to talk about the witch-trial site. The plaque. I think it deserves … more. Something dignified. A sculpture. A proper memorial.”

He nodded slowly, steepling his fingers. “Yes, yes. Tragic business. Terrible time in history.”

“And yet,” Erica said quietly, “the only thing that really stands out is that statue in the park.”

“Oh, he’s very important,” Peters said. “Judicial reform. Big deal.”

“More important than them?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, you see, that was an investment in the future. Tourists love a good statue. It brings footfall. Cafés, gift shops, that sort of thing.”

“You’ve found money for that,” Erica said, before she could stop herself. “But you can’t even clear the leaves off the pavement. I nearly saw a woman go over in the park this morning.”

He blinked, as if the thought had never crossed his mind. “Well, that would be … a different department.”

Erica tried a different tack. “A memorial could bring people in too.”