45

THE DAYS CAME shorter, colder and brighter as the gloom of November passed, and the end of the year was almost upon us. Sadly, there was no word from Henry, and though I tried to put him from my thoughts I would find myself checking my emails each day with a sense of anticipation. This would soon be quashed, however, when, again, there was nothing from him.

Petra had mostly thawed and we were back to being sisters. I can’t say if Scott Elias’s arrest and ultimate fall from grace had any bearing on how she felt about things, but she certainly was a lot friendlier to me than she’d been of late. I heard that after Nadine was questioned by HMRC officers she left the Lake District. Went south, though I didn’t know where. The official version was that she found it unbearable to stay in the area after her husband was detained on remand in Cheshire, awaiting trial. But the word in the village was that she couldn’t afford to stay. With no money of her own, and with all their assets seized, she’d had to flee. We didn’t yet know if she was to be charged for her involvement or not.

Wayne’s death still wouldn’t leave me alone but, thanks to the tenacity and thoroughness of DS Aspinall, I did feel we got something close to justice for him in the end. Since Scott had confessed to me I’d felt terribly guilty and struggled with the feelings of responsibility for Wayne’s death. I aired these feelings to DS Aspinall, who looked at me with a puzzled expression, before replying, ‘Wayne was a big boy, Roz. And he was blackmailing you. There are often unexpected repercussions when you dabble in a world you’re unfamiliar with.’

Which didn’t really make me feel a whole lot better.

So each morning I would say a small prayer to Wayne Geddes. Well, maybe more of a general chit-chat about things, rather than a prayer, which was an odd way to start the day, granted. And I made a few visits to his mother.

Glenda was in sheltered accommodation in Ulverston, and she seemed to enjoy the time I spent with her. Largely, I suppose, because I had nothing but kind words to say about Wayne – he was an excellent boss, generous with his staff, always willing to listen if I had a problem. Lies, I know, but I didn’t see the harm in them. Last week I turned up with a Christmas card, a feeble-looking poinsettia and a box of mince pies, and I thought she might burst into tears.

Which brings me to George and the Christmas problem – as we’d been referring to it. Santa, being unusually strapped for cash this year, was unable to fulfil George’s request for a games ­console. Even though, yes, George had been a good boy. And yes, Santa had taken into account how hard he’d been trying when learning to walk without his crutches. Sometimes, though, ­regrettably, even Santa must be careful not to overextend himself and spend money his business just can’t afford.

George was stoic, though disappointed, revising his list to a mere three items, which I assured him Santa would most ­certainly be able to provide.

And then something happened.

I opened the door one evening to find a very worried-looking Dennis on my step. My immediate thought was: Celia.

‘Dennis,’ I said. ‘Has something happened? Is Celia okay?’

‘Not really,’ he said.

‘Is she injured?’

At this he laughed softly and shook his head.

‘Is George here?’ he asked, and I told him he was. ‘I got him something,’ he said. ‘An early present, so to speak.’

On hearing his name, George rose from the floor, where he’d been writing his Christmas cards, and came to the door. Dennis didn’t say anything, just gestured to his left, and George stuck his head out to take a look.

There, trembling, was a tiny, sorry-looking animal, tied to the drainpipe. ‘She’s called Tess,’ Dennis said, ‘and she’s yours if you want her.’

I was about to speak when Celia’s voice rang out. ‘He’s lost his mind, Roz! I told him, “Dennis, you have lost your mind,”’ and she strutted down her path, out of her gate and up towards us.

By this time George was outside, trying to crouch (unable to on account of the limited flexion in his knee), and Tess, the puppy, was urinating with excitement. She was up on her hind legs, trying to scrabble into George’s arms.

‘I thought he’d done so well with his walking and all,’ Dennis whispered. ‘Thought this might push him that extra bit.’

‘Oh, Dennis,’ I said, overcome. ‘That’s so lovely of you, but I don’t think we can take her. My landlord—’

‘This is his idiotic plan, Roz,’ snapped Celia, silencing me. ‘You take the dog. It’s George’s dog on paper. But we look after it when you’re at work. And if your landlord says anything, then you tell him she’s ours.’

Dennis squinted, saying, ‘Foxy’s getting on a bit now, so it’d be nice to have a pup about the place.’

‘Foxy won’t thank you for it,’ I told him.

‘Aw, she’ll come around.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ I said.

George now had the pup in his arms. She was the size of a guinea pig, with café-au-lait-coloured fur, and a pair of black dots for eyebrows. She wore a tentative look as though she, too, was waiting for me to decide her fate.

‘Thank you, Dennis,’ I said firmly, and he nodded just once.

‘You all right to take her now?’ he asked, and I told him, glancing at George’s rapturous expression, that I doubted I would have any choice in the matter.

‘Right you are,’ he said, smiling, not meeting my eye. ‘I’ll go and fetch her bowl and blankets.’

George stood rooted to the spot. He held on to the tiny pup as if his life depended on it. ‘You coming in?’ I asked, and he nodded. I reached out and cupped the puppy’s chin gently in my hand. ‘Welcome,’ I said to her. ‘Welcome, Tess.’

And we all went inside to get ourselves acquainted.