Cross’s train of thought was interrupted on Wednesday morning, which irritated him. It came in the form of a text from his father. Raymond was averse to texting and only did so in cases of emergency. He also knew that his son didn’t like being disturbed at work as it was an unwelcome distraction. This meant the arrival of a text worried Cross initially and then when he’d read it, thoroughly discombobulated him. Cross was due to go round for their usual weekly Chinese meal together that night. Raymond’s text, however, informed him that they would have a guest. Christine. Cross’s mother. He then listed her choice of dinner from the takeaway menu. This sent Cross into a tailspin. Not because he thought she’d over-ordered for one person – which by the way he did – but because Wednesday was their night when he and his father ate together. Alone. He hated change. It unsettled him in a way that people just didn’t understand. Except for his father. He understood. So why had he done this? Or had it been at his mother’s instigation? Probably not, as how would she actually know that they always ate together on a Wednesday?
Ottey could tell immediately that something was wrong with her partner. But when she asked, he refused to talk about it. His refusal came over as completely childish. In truth it wasn’t just that he thought it was none of her business, but he thought talking about personal matters on police time was unprofessional. She knew him well enough to know that if his current mood had been brought about by something at work, he would have been more brusquely businesslike and rude. She then remembered what day it was and thought it might have something to do with Raymond.
‘Are you seeing your dad tonight?’ she began by asking.
‘It’s Wednesday,’ he replied, as if this made the answer obvious.
‘Has something happened?’
Cross was silent and went about gathering up his bicycle accessories to leave.
‘It might help to talk about it,’ she insisted. But he was halfway across the office. Then she had an inspired thought. Cross didn’t have many people in his life so narrowing down the possibilities wasn’t too difficult.
‘He’s invited your mother round for dinner, hasn’t he?’
This stopped Cross in his tracks. He turned to face her with an expression of pained indignation. Mackenzie looked up from her computer.
‘I wish you would stop talking to my father behind my back,’ he said.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Then how could you possibly know?’ he asked.
‘Because some suspects are easier to read than others, George,’ she said smiling.
He turned on his heel and left.
‘So, what do you make of that?’ Ottey asked Mackenzie.
‘I’m not sure. But it made me think I might take tomorrow off,’ she replied.
*
Even Xiao Bao, the owner of the takeaway, knew something was up when after many years the order for that night was suddenly different.
‘Having company tonight, George?’ he asked. ‘Or are you guys just really hungry?’
George scowled and paid without saying anything. Xiao Bao smiled as his favourite and most regular, literally, customer left with his order.
When he arrived at his father’s flat, George deposited his bike in the hall as usual, on the newspaper Marina had left for him, knowing he’d be round that evening. He knew his mother was already there as he’d seen her car parked in the road outside. This wasn’t particularly difficult as he’d made a note of the make, model, colour and registration number when he’d first seen it some months before. If anyone had asked him why he’d done this he probably wouldn’t have been able to provide a cogent answer, beyond the fact that he felt he should.
He took the food into the kitchen. His parents – the plural of this struck him as an alien concept as soon as he thought it – were not in the living room. He heard their voices coming from the spare room at the back of the flat which housed Raymond’s latest project. His ever-expanding and improving model railway. Mounted on vast swathes of plaster of Paris mountains and lakes, with stations, signal boxes and small people, there was a gap in the middle where his mother and father were standing. They were laughing like children who then suddenly stopped when an adult walked into the room.
‘Hello, son,’ said Raymond.
‘Hello, George,’ said his mother.
He really wanted to ask them both what they thought they were up to, but it seemed pointless. His mother was there. There was nothing he could do about it. They were drinking bright red cocktails from tumblers, with ice and a large slice of lemon. They were aided in this endeavour by garish red and white striped straws. The kind that had folds in them enabling them to bend. The entire effect was topped off by a cocktail umbrella each.
‘Negronis,’ announced Raymond. One of his latest hobbies was to look up cocktail recipes and make them. The fact that George was teetotal by no means put him off. It just meant that his search extended to exotic alcohol-free concoctions, most of which tasted distinctly medicinal. Mocktails, he reliably informed George.
‘Christine’s never had one before,’ Raymond continued.
‘Well, she probably shouldn’t be having one at all as she’s driving,’ George found himself saying.
‘I’m just having one and Raymond made it weak, so there’s no need to be concerned,’ his mother assured him.
‘I’m not in the least bit concerned. Merely making a point. The food will be getting cold,’ he replied, leaving the room.
They sat at the dining table to eat. George reflected how satisfying, well a relief really, that the table was actually visible, let alone available for use these days. In the past it had always been covered in magazines, books and pieces of electronics that Raymond was fixing. He did repairs mainly for the neighbours, which made him very popular in the community, it had to be said. The tidiness and general cleanliness were thanks to his new cleaner, Marina, who amazingly had got the measure of Raymond and managed to keep him in check.
Their dinner was accompanied by the unusual sound of conversation. George and his father normally ate in complete silence, but thanks to Christine’s presence there seemed to be plenty to talk about. Well, for her and Raymond. George just sat there eating, not speaking, and found himself longing for the peace and quiet of the refectory at St Eustace’s Abbey. The conversation centred around him, which he found pleasing at times and infuriating at others. Raymond told her about George’s growing up after she’d left. His problems at school, fitting in. Then his problems when he first joined the police force, with the amount of bullying and abuse he suffered on account of his condition.
‘They weren’t to know,’ said Raymond. ‘But even so it was pretty inexcusable. I was amazed he stuck it out, to be honest with you.’
‘I stuck it out, as you put it, because it was clear to me that it would be no different wherever I was, whatever work environment I was in,’ retorted George.
Had George looked up more often from his egg fried rice he might have (there was no guarantee as he didn’t know his mother well enough yet to be able to read her expressions), noticed her concern as Raymond unflinchingly relayed to her some of the indignities George was subjected to at the beginning of his career – outright name-calling, officers talking to him in a slow loud manner, implying he was stupid, hiding his uniform and at its worst, urinating in his helmet. He would also have seen the obvious pride in her as she learned of his success as a detective with the highest conviction rate in the Avon and Somerset police. There was a surprising warmth between Raymond and Christine – surprising bearing in mind his father’s behaviour to her in the past – and a familiarity they seemed to slip into with ease, as if the few years they had spent together and produced George had left an indelible mark on their emotional inner selves.
‘How is Stephen’s brother’s case progressing?’ she asked.
‘Oh, he doesn’t like talking about his work,’ Raymond said with protective authority.
‘But this is different. Father Stephen is his friend,’ Christine pointed out.
‘We are making some progress. I hope things will pick up pace this week, as more facts emerge,’ George replied.
‘He will be pleased,’ Christine continued. ‘He says he hasn’t seen much of you recently.’
‘I’ve been busy,’ replied George, unsuccessfully trying not to sound defensive.
‘He thinks you’re avoiding him,’ she went on.
‘That’s because he is,’ replied Raymond. ‘I imagine he finds it awkward when slow progress is being made and the case involves a friend’s relative. Isn’t that so, son?’
‘It is difficult for the relatives when it feels as though nothing is happening. They don’t see how hard everyone is working behind the scenes. It’s awkward, all the more so when a victim’s relative is known to you. Stephen has forgone the opportunity to have a family liaison officer working with him, who would normally field all his worries or concerns,’ replied George.
‘Why did he do that then? Maybe he thought it wasn’t necessary because he knew you,’ suggested Raymond.
‘He didn’t want to use up scarce police resources when they could be used elsewhere by people who really needed them,’ George explained.
‘Typical of him,’ Raymond commented.
‘I think you should call in on him and see how he’s doing,’ said Christine.
George was taken aback at receiving what was tantamount to a parental instruction, from such an unfamiliar source, and was about to say something, but managed to stop himself. After dinner he washed the plates and takeaway containers while explaining his system to Christine.
He walked his mother to her car, wheeling his bike alongside them. She didn’t offer him a kiss this time, as he opened the door for her to get in.
‘Good night, George,’ she said.
‘Good night, Christine,’ he replied. He watched as she drove off, then cycled home. As he pedalled the familiar route back to his flat a strange realisation suddenly dawned on him. Despite his reticence, he’d actually enjoyed the evening. He also had to admit how much he’d liked being the centre of attention for these two people. It was something he hadn’t experienced in his life before and it wasn’t completely intolerable.