“Because your father,” Miss Honey said, “is in with a bunch of crooks. Everyone in the village knows that.”
“My guess is that he is a receiver of stolen cars from all over the country. He's in it deep.”
Matilda stared at her open-mouthed. Miss Honey went on, “People brought stolen cars to your father's workshop,”
“where he changed the number-plates and resprayed the bodies a different colour and all the rest of it.”
“And now somebody's probably tipped him off that the police are on to him
and he's doing what they all do, running off to Spain where they can't get him.”
“He'll have been sending his money out there for years, all ready and waiting for him to arrive.”
They were standing on the lawn in front of the lovely red-brick house with its weathered old red tiles and its tall chimneys,
and Miss Honey still had the pair of garden clippers in one hand.
It was a warm golden evening and a blackbird was singing somewhere near by.
“I don't want to go with them!” Matilda shouted suddenly. “I won't go with them.”
“I'm afraid you must,” Miss Honey said. “I want to live here with you,” Matilda cried out. “Please let me live here with you!”
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