James was washing up after lunch at his father’s house when the police arrived. ‘Is there a Mr Halsall here?’ asked the younger of the two officers at the front door.
James frowned. ‘I assume you mean my dad – Kenny Halsall?’
‘That’s right. He made the call.’
‘Dad called the police?’ he exclaimed. ‘What about?’
‘Can we come in?’ the same officer asked.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He beckoned them in, wondering whether to wake his father from his nap. He had been even more cantankerous than usual today, irritated to hear that Rikke would be going to Copenhagen for Christmas – ‘She needs a holiday, Dad,’ he had pointed out – and hadn’t taken well to James’s suggestion that perhaps they should try to find someone else to drop in daily to help out.
The two officers glanced around the room, and James saw his father’s home through their eyes: superficially tidied but still cluttered, the cats prowling between books and newspapers piled against the walls, the semi-drawn curtains adding to the general feeling of gloom. ‘There’s been a theft reported,’ the older man replied.
James rubbed at his forehead, trying to make sense of this. ‘Dad’s having a nap and I don’t want to disturb him. Can I deal with this?’
‘We really need to speak with your father,’ the younger man said, so James tapped on Kenny’s bedroom door and he emerged a few moments later, slightly dishevelled, in a voluminous checked flannel shirt and jeans, scratching at his beard.
‘Dad – the police are here,’ James started. ‘Can you come through?’
‘The police?’ Kenny looked startled. ‘What do they want?’
‘I think you called them,’ James said, as patiently as he could manage. ‘They want to discuss something about a theft?’
Shaking his head and shrugging, Kenny followed James through to the living room and peered at the officers, clearly having no idea why they might be there. ‘Mr Halsall,’ the older one started, having immediately adopted a gentler tone, ‘you called to say there’s been a theft of power tools?’
‘Oh!’ Kenny nodded self-righteously and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Yeah. You can’t leave anything around these days, can you?’ He looked at James. ‘Have you seen them?’
‘Erm … not exactly. I mean, not recently, no.’ James glanced at the police officers, then turned to Kenny. Maddening though he was, he was still his father and he wished to avoid – or at least minimise – any humiliation for him. ‘Dad …’ He raked his hair at the back of his neck. ‘If you’ve been looking for your power saws and stuff well, um … Rod took them.’
Kenny glared at him, dark eyes blazing now. ‘You can’t blame our Rod!’
‘I’m not blaming him,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m just stating a fact.’ He exhaled loudly, the enormous ginger cat catching his eye as he slunk out from behind an ancient curtain. James turned to the officers. ‘My brother was living here with Dad for a while and he decided, um … he made the decision that it was probably best to look after his tools, so … he locked them in the boot of his car.’
‘They’re in his car?’ Kenny’s face paled.
‘Yes, Dad.’ He nodded.
‘Where’s his car now?’ Kenny thundered.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. He went to Switzerland, remember? I hardly ever hear from him but I assume he’s still there.’ James paused and cleared his throat. ‘So there hasn’t actually been a theft—’
‘So what am I meant to use for cutting down Christmas trees?’ Kenny snapped. ‘A butter knife?’
The younger officer’s mouth quivered, and he covered it with a hand. Being country police officers they were incredibly understanding, brushing off James’s apology for their time being wasted; so no harm done really. In fact, James suspected they had rather enjoyed their visit. After they’d left, and he had managed to convince his father that Rod had merely been ‘looking after’ the tools – ‘in case of burglars’ – the older man sat heavily in the armchair, grabbed the remote huffily and turned on the TV.
Great – a cheery documentary about the dreadful conditions in a garment factory in Cambodia.
‘Can’t I even get a nap around here?’ Kenny complained to the TV.
He had no recollection of calling the police, James realised. Nearly two years ago now, he had hoarded sandwiches and harassed Reena’s holiday guests, thinking her house was his own. Less worryingly – but hardly ideal – he had photobombed a society wedding. It all added up to the fact that, really, all James was doing was patching over the problem – doing his best, which clearly wasn’t enough, with fingers firmly crossed. And at some point, something would have to change.
He didn’t know quite what that meant, and before Connell’s visit to Lucy’s, he might have called her to talk it through. But he sensed a bit of distance between them now, and he knew there was another visit pending, which she seemed pretty excited about, with this art project and everything. The whole thing made him feel out of kilter, which he knew was ridiculous, so it now seemed easier to step back a little and not contact her quite so often. Perhaps, he reasoned, she needed a little space.
Meanwhile, James had one radical suggestion to put to his father. While it might not solve things long-term, it would certainly provide an immediate solution, and ensure no further calls to the police over the festive season.
‘Dad,’ James said levelly. His father swung round and peered at him. ‘Dad, how would you feel about coming – you and the cats, I mean – to my place for Christmas?’
A mile away in Rosemary Cottage, Lucy clutched her phone to her ear, knowing that whatever she said, there would no changing her mother’s mind. It would be as hopeless as trying to halt the tide.
‘So, what your father and I have decided,’ Anna had announced, ‘is we can’t have you and the children spending Christmas alone in that house. We just can’t bear it.’
‘But Mum—’ she’d started.
‘Now, before you say no, it’s too much work and all that – we’ve thought it all through, Lucy, and it’s the best solution all round. We’re coming to yours this year, and there’ll be nothing for you to worry about. We’re bringing Christmas to you.’