sixty-two

Rattled and hungry, I drove away. Nothing I said appeared to shift Niven from her entrenched position. I should have known it was a doomed endeavour because the police had an almost superstitious reluctance to link separate cases.

I returned home. Too knackered to cook a proper meal, I prepared and ate cheese on toast, washed it down with a bottle of sparkling water, and changed into my pyjamas. I called Gavin at home and gave him an edited précis of how I’d come by the information and detailed my subsequent conversation with Niven.

“Niven is looking into it although she’s as fixated on my mother as she was on me,” I complained.

“Unless that woman has a smoking gun, she won’t be happy.” I almost squeaked aloud at the firearm reference. “Keep me posted,” he said, before wishing me goodnight.

About to turn in, my mobile rang.

“Hi.”

I bristled, immediately on my guard. “Hello, Otto.”

“I guess I should congratulate you on evading me. Clever ruse of yours, took me the devil of a job to explain that I wasn’t guilty of shoplifting.”

“I don’t like being stalked.” Despite my best efforts, my voice came out thin and nervous.

“It was only a game, a little role-play. I thought you were up for it.”

“You thought wrong.”

“So it would seem.” He sounded mortally disappointed.

“What do you want, Otto?”

“How did you get on with my tip-off ?”

“If you mean the Masons, it was illuminating.”

“Why do I get the feeling it counts as a black mark against me?”

“You tell me.”

“Whatever has been said, don’t I get the right of reply?”

“It’s irrelevant. You’re not answerable.”

“But I’d like you to understand.”

“Understand what exactly? That you were a rotten father, a failure as a husband, that you treat your employees like dirt, or have you got something else to confess?” I was bloody tired and tetchy and sick of horrible people wanting me to understand. Contact with the Vellenders was like dealing with the Borgias.

“Wow, someone’s done a number on you.”

“Otto, I believe you when you say you didn’t murder your son,” I said flatly.

“Progress,” he said, “so can I take you out to dinner to celebrate? Your choice of restaurant. Or you could come round to mine, if you prefer. A night in could be fun.”

“No thanks, I’ve got a lot on.” I cut the call, switched off my phone, checked the locks, and stomped off to bed, where I slept the sleep of the pissed off. I would have snoozed all the next day too had it not been for my early-morning visit from Monica. I’d forgotten she still had a set of keys.

I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hands as she strode into the hallway. “What are you doing here?” I said.

“I wanted to catch you before you go to work.”

“I’m not going to work.”

“Really? Why? Are you ill again?”

“I’ve taken time off.” I didn’t add because I’m losing the plot or until this all blows over because I had no clue what would happen the next hour, never mind the next day or week.

“In that case, I’ll put on the kettle.”

Too weary to argue, I padded back upstairs, grabbed a dressing gown, and joined her in the kitchen. I briefly considered telling her about Stacey Walton and decided against it. Until Niven had checked out my theory, it would be unfair to raise Monica’s hopes and expectations. Besides, Niven’s lacklustre response didn’t augur well.

“Has something happened?” I said, unable to stifle a yawn.

“Are you all right? You look peaky.”

“Monica, stop fussing. What’s up?”

She looked coy. “I was thinking, wondering really, have the police been in touch?”

What she really meant was had I been in touch with the police. “Why?”

“After our chat the other day …” She ground to a halt.

“If you mean have I told them anything that might incriminate you, no.”

She let out a hefty sigh of relief.

“But I did explain to Gavin.”

Her lips curled back. “I spoke to you in confidence. What on earth will he think?” Irritation flushed her cheeks meaty pink.

“He’ll think that you falsified your references for a reason.” I could hardly say that it was a good one, because it wasn’t.

“What about the other thing?” She spoke low, in the way some elderly women do when talking about sex. By other thing she meant the gun.

“I didn’t mention it.”

Annoyed at my apparent power over her, she huffed and poured tea splashily into my cup, eyed me warily, and took a sip. “I’ve spoken to Luke. You haven’t forgotten he arrives on Thursday?”

“Of course not.”

“He’s booked into a hotel for a week.” She beamed a dreamy smile. “It will be so wonderful to see him.”

Reminded of Paris and Nick Vellender, I passed no comment. What was it with mothers and sons?

“What are you doing for the rest of the day?”

The rest? It had barely got going. “Sleep looks inviting.”

“Utter waste of time. When you get to my age every second—”

I scowled, tuned out, then brightened. “I’ve got a friend to see.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” I said, more chipper. Thank God.