RACHEL MCCANN WIPED her hands and took the pan off the stove. Switching off the radio, she picked up the phone and answered with a cheery hello. No one spoke but she could hear background noise, doors banging in the distance.
The prison.
Crossing one foot over the other, she leaned against the kitchen bench and looked out through the open window. The sun was shining. The snow on the lawn had almost disappeared, but on the driveway it had compacted under the weight of her father’s four-by-four. It was like an ice rink out there.
Rachel sighed.
The line was still open but her mother was obviously not yet free to speak. It was hopeless trying to have a sensible conversation while she was at work. Invariably they would be interrupted by a prisoner, an officer, a more important call. Even her poor dad had taken a backseat where her mother’s job was concerned, though she’d probably never admit it – certainly not now.
‘Mum? Is that you?’ Placing the phone in the crick of her neck, Rachel turned away from the window to stir the contents of the pan. A man’s voice reached her ear. Muffled. Urgent. Whispering? Pound to a penny it was Martin Stamp. ‘Come on, Mum! I haven’t got all day!’
She was about to hang up when her mum spoke. ‘I’m here, Rachel. Sorry, love—’
‘Why should you be sorry? You weren’t the one who flew off on one last night.’
‘Forget it, darling. I have.’
Rachel felt guilty then. She had her mother’s looks but her father’s fiery temperament – and boy had she let rip. All because Emily had pointed out the dangers of binge drinking when she’d come home late, having consumed her body-weight in alcohol: double vodkas to drown her sorrows, ginger ale to take the taste away.
Vic was buying. What did she care?
‘You OK, Mum? You sound a bit down.’
Rachel knew whose fault that was. Not only had she lied to her mother about where she’d been last night, more especially who with, she’d woken with a stinking hangover and hadn’t managed to rouse herself in time to see her off to work. Consequently, they hadn’t made up. Rachel resolved to put that right the minute she got home.
‘You’re pissed off with me, aren’t you?’ Rachel said.
‘What? No! Makes you say that?’
Rachel smiled. Her mother always asked a question when faced with one she couldn’t or didn’t wish to answer. ‘You are still angry, I can tell.’
‘I’m not, I just thought I’d check in while I’m free.’
‘Hardly free, locked up in there all day.’
Emily laughed. ‘It’s my job!’
Her attempt at humour was forced . . .
Something was up.
Rachel didn’t pry.
‘Just how much alcohol did you drink last night?’ Emily’s tone was jokey.
‘Not that much,’ Rachel lied. When her mother asked how she was feeling today, she said she was fine. That was a lie too. She was definitely not fine. Her head felt like someone was banging a drum in there. And that wasn’t all. Someone – she didn’t know who – was creeping around outside. She’d just seen their shadow cross the interior wall. As her mother made out that all was well, Rachel did the same, glancing along the hallway and laughing under her breath at her own paranoia.
Burglars didn’t usually knock.
Rachel hadn’t heard, nor could she see his familiar red van. But, in all probability, it was the postie. In this remote part of Northumberland it wasn’t unusual for him to deliver mail this late in the day after a period of bad weather.
Besides, he knew the doorbell was iffy.
Her mother’s voice again. ‘Have you been out today?’
‘No, I didn’t feel like it. Not today. I’m making a cake for Dad’s birthday.’
‘That’s nice . . .’
‘You don’t mind . . . if we still celebrate, I mean?’
‘Course not, silly!’
Another tap on the door . . .
‘Gotta go, Mum.’
‘Rachel . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I won’t be late tonight, love. I need to pick up some stuff in the village on my way through and then we can do the river walk before it gets dark, if you feel up to it. Do us both good. Sound like a plan?’
‘You mean it?’
A lump formed in Rachel’s throat. They hadn’t done that since her father died. Emily had spent so much time down there with him, sitting with him, watching him fish, she hadn’t been able to face it.
The doorbell drowned out her mother’s response.
‘Ta, Mum. See ya later!’
‘WHO’S AT THE DOOR?’
Too late: the phone went down.
Emily was left hanging, a monotonous dialling tone summing up just how she was feeling. She sighed. Whoever it was, Rachel obviously hadn’t been concerned. She’d have heard it in her voice if that had been the case. Returning the mobile to Stamp, she thanked him.
‘For what?’ he asked.
‘For listening.’ Emily looked away.
She was deeply embarrassed for having panicked over Fearon. Grateful that Stamp hadn’t said or done anything to make her feel worse. There were no told-you-so lectures. No digs. No attempt to persuade her to take more time off. Emily suspected that was down to Jo Soulsby’s intervention. She didn’t need either of them to tell her she’d returned to work too early. That much had been obvious since day one.
There . . . she’d finally admitted she was struggling.
When she turned to face him, Stamp was fastening the top button of his shirt. He winked at her, straightened his tie and stood up. Slipping his jacket off the back of his chair, he put it on in readiness to leave. Bending over the table, he scooped up his papers, stuffed the lot into a worn leather briefcase and picked up his car keys.
‘Sorry, Em. I’ve got to run. I’m late as it is.’
Emily glanced at her watch. Two twenty-five. ‘Shit! I’m late too!’
‘Aren’t you leaving early?’
‘Yes, but I’ve got a training course to run first!’ Emily caught his arm as he made for the door. ‘You will drive carefully, Martin?’
Stamp dropped his head and kissed her on the nose.