‘How’s it going?’ Helena Grant asked.
‘All under control, or at least I think it is. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’
‘Sure there’s nothing I can do? Peel sprouts or something?’
‘The whole point is to spoil you rotten. And I enjoy cooking.’
‘I’m not going to argue strongly.’
Bill Emsworth did look as if he was in his element. He was even wearing a professional-looking white apron, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine him donning a chef’s hat. Grant’s late husband had been a decent cook, but always left the kitchen in a state of utter chaos. By contrast, Bill cleared up as we went. He worked tidily, carefully chopping and preparing each ingredient before cooking.
‘You could pour me another beer, if you really wanted to make a contribution.’
‘I can just about manage that.’ She opened the fridge and took out a bottle of one of the local ales. She was on red wine, trying to pace herself. She wasn’t accustomed to drinking so early in the day, even at Christmas.
While she poured the beer, he said, ‘Once I’ve done this, I can leave it to itself for a while and come to sit with you.’
‘That would be nice,’ she said sincerely. She’d had a quiet but enjoyable day so far. They’d had a leisurely breakfast, then braved the snow for another walk on the beach. There were a handful of other people around – dog walkers, families with kids enjoying the snow, one or two other couples like themselves.
She’d liked that. Thinking of the two of them as a couple, as an item. It was a long while since she’d been in that position. She was still being cautious, but it was feeling right. Even the gloomy weather hadn’t dampened her spirits, though the icy wind eventually forced them to abandon their walk and return to the house.
Bill had originally intended to cook the Christmas dinner in mid-afternoon, but they’d been distracted by their chatting and he’d started later than planned. She didn’t mind. She wasn’t particularly hungry yet, and the only danger was that she might get mildly drunk before they ate.
She enjoyed talking to him very much. She’d worried they wouldn’t have much in common, and that that would make conversation awkward. She’d been partly right in the first assumption, but the second hadn’t followed. Their backgrounds were very different. Bill’s was steeped in books and literature, though he’d done a huge diversity of jobs in his younger days, including establishing and running various businesses.
Grant herself was a graduate, but her degree had been in psychology and she’d followed that with a masters in criminology. Bill asked, ‘That was what led you into the police?’
‘Not directly. I’d had a very vague idea of wanting to do something in criminal justice, but hadn’t seriously considered the police. I was looking more at things like prison psychologist or something in probation. But it was all a bit half-baked. Then I saw an advert for graduate recruitment into the police and I thought why not.’
‘Any regrets?’
‘Who knows? Sometimes I wonder about other routes I might have chosen. But not really. I’ve mostly enjoyed it so far. It’s not always easy. No, I’ll put it another way. Sometimes it’s bloody difficult. Not so much the investigatory stuff, though that can be challenging, but everything that goes with it. All the sensitivities, the public exposure, the internal politicking. The endless admin. We spend more time on that than we do on catching criminals or preventing crime.’
‘It goes with the territory in any high-profile job these days,’ Bill pointed out.
‘Doesn’t make it any less of a pain in the backside, though.’
For her part, she’d quizzed Bill on his writing process and all the minutiae of producing a book. She’d never been a great reader, but she usually read a chapter or two of a crime novel or thriller before going to sleep. She’d never really thought about the books as anything other than a finished artefact, a product delivered as if by magic into her hands. She’d never considered how much work had actually gone into producing that artefact – the writing and re-writing, the editing and proofreading, the design of the cover, the printing of the finished article. It had never occurred to her to wonder how the author had come up with that plot, or how they’d managed to make it work.
‘It must be a hell of a job,’ she said.
‘I’ve done harder ones,’ he responded. ‘I can’t pretend that it’s like working at the coal-face or hammering in rivets in a shipyard. I sit on my backside and churn out words. But there are times when it feels almost impossible.’
‘Writer’s block?’
‘I’ve never really suffered from that. Touch wood.’ He enacted the words by reaching out to press his fingers on the surface of the coffee table. ‘But there are days when it’s just not coming. When you sit staring at a blank screen wondering why you thought it was a good idea to take up this writing lark.’
‘How do you deal with that?’
‘There’s no point in trying to force it. I get up, go for a walk, try to do something different. Eventually something pops into my head – usually when I’m least expecting it – and I get on with it. The whole process is a mystery to me.’
They’d spent the majority of the day blethering like this. He’d placed the goose in the oven of the Aga earlier, so that was well underway. ‘I’ve been very organised,’ he said. ‘Prepared a lot of it in advance so won’t need much effort today.’
‘I’m impressed.’
She left him completing his various tasks in the kitchen and returned to the living room. The curtains were still open though it was already dark outside and the snow was falling thickly. She contemplated calling McKay to check how everything was going, but managed to stop herself. McKay would be coping just fine, and she didn’t want to do anything that might disrupt how she was currently feeling.
She closed the curtains and turned back to survey the room. Bill had lit the wood stove earlier, giving the room a welcoming and cosy feel. She lowered herself onto the sofa and took a sip of her wine, enjoying the rich warmth in her mouth. She knew almost nothing about wine, other than what affordable wines she liked best in the local supermarket, but she guessed this was something pricy.
She’d been meaning to ask him to give her a proper tour of the house. It was hardly a mansion but it was a sizeable place and so far she’d really only seen this room, the kitchen and the bedroom. She was particularly intrigued to see the room where Bill worked, which was upstairs with a view out over the bay. He’d told her not to expect much, that it was not much more than an office, but she still had an urge to see the environment in which he worked his particular form of magic. Still, that could wait until tomorrow.
She sat back, her head already slightly woozy from the wine. She needed to be careful not to drink too much. It wouldn’t do to be semi-comatose by the time Bill served the food.
The living room door was half open and she heard Bill’s voice from the hallway. She sat up, assuming he was calling for her. Then she realised he was talking to someone else, presumably on the phone. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, though he sounded slightly agitated at least by his own usual tranquil standards. None of her business, anyway.
After a few minutes, his voice fell silent and he entered the room, brandishing his glass of beer. ‘There,’ he said, ‘I can leave it to look after itself for a while.’
‘All okay?’ she said. ‘I thought I heard you talking to someone.’
‘An old mate who phoned supposedly to wish me a happy Christmas. Think he’d already knocked back a few too many sweet sherries.’
‘Haven’t we all?’ Grant took another sip of her wine as if to demonstrate.
‘Heard any more from your colleague about this body?’
She’d felt she had to break the news to him about McKay’s call in case it had ended with her having to head into work after all. ‘I’m assuming that no news is good news, at least as far as my involvement’s concerned. Alec’s more than capable of looking after everything.’
‘Do you think this is likely to be connected to the previous killing?’
‘It’s too early to say. I don’t really know the circumstances of this latest case. I don’t know if it’s even an unlawful killing.’ It sounded as if she was fobbing him off, which she supposed she was, but she was also telling the truth. McKay had been able to give her no more than the bare bones of an account, although he’d seemed in little doubt that they were dealing with another murder.
‘Yes, of course. And I appreciate you can’t really talk about it to me. It’s just my writerly curiosity. Always on the lookout for plot ideas.’
‘I hope that’s not all you see in me,’ Grant laughed. ‘A source of plot ideas.’
‘I can’t deny you give me ideas. Not much to do with writing, though.’
She leaned her head against his shoulder and allowed him to put his arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s going well, isn’t it?’
‘The dinner?’
‘No, idiot. This. Us. It’s going much better than I’d feared.’ It was perhaps partly the wine talking, or at least disinhibiting her, but she wanted to say it.
‘Did you think it was going to be a disaster?’
‘Of course not.’ She paused, picking her words carefully. ‘But I was wary. It’s been a long time since I was seriously involved with anyone. I didn’t want to allow myself to believe this could work.’
‘It is, though, isn’t it? Working, I mean.’
‘It is for me. I hope it is for you.’
‘Of course it is.’ He laughed. ‘All we need now is a successful Christmas dinner to make it perfect.’
‘I think that’s in safe hands. And so am I.’
‘I hope so.’ He took a mouthful of beer. ‘Speaking of which, I probably just better check that nothing’s burning. That would never do.’