After Ivor Donaldson left The Granary, Simon glanced at Martha awkwardly. ‘Don’t suppose you need babysitting now?’
She shook her head. They had a quick drink together and parted, Simon still, apparently, in happy-happy mood. Outside he kissed her lightly on the cheek; she climbed into her car and he into his, waving through the open window as he navigated the narrow archway back out on to the road.
Back at the White House, Sam’s car wasn’t in the drive; Sukey’s red Mini was parked in exactly the same place as it had been three hours before when Martha had left.
There was no sound from their rooms.
Martha returned downstairs and sat with a goodnight glass of wine, thinking to herself. It was at moments like this, the house quiet, Sam and Sukey safe, that she allowed herself to dream. The log-burning stove was still alight and she put another log on it, watched the sparks drift upwards, kicked her shoes off and tucked her feet underneath her on the generously sized sofa.
There was plenty to occupy her mind but sometimes in the day events jumbled themselves together – the two suicides, Erica Randall’s death. She still didn’t know what the post-mortem and subsequent results would prove. Probably inconclusive, she thought glumly. Then there was Sukey’s awkward relationship, Sam and his emerging rather belatedly into adulthood. In the quiet of her home and an empty room she could put things into perspective, fit the puzzles together, analyse each event separately. See a way through.
These were her treasured times, the times when she felt truly at peace.
She heard the front door open and close very gently. Sam walked into the room. ‘Hi,’ he said. He had a mark of very pink lipstick on his left cheek and a suspicion of more around his mouth. Martha smiled up at him and he came and sat in the chair beside her as she’d hoped he would. She felt a wave of affection for this lovely young man – her son who always reminded her of Martin. He was so like his father.
‘Did you have a good night?’
‘Yeah.’ He scratched his head, rubbed his cheek, smeared the lipstick. ‘Yeah. I enjoyed it.’
‘Go anywhere nice?’
‘Yeah,’ he said again. ‘A film and then on to Nando’s. You know – nowhere special. And you?’
‘Even less special,’ she admitted. ‘Dinner, which didn’t quite materialize, with a financial advisor.’
Sam looked appalled. ‘God, that sounds awful. Really boring.’
She laughed. ‘It was rather, except Simon Pendlebury turned up thinking he was my knight in shining armour.’
Sam made a face.
‘You don’t like him?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Do you?’
She gave a smothered yawn. ‘Put it like this,’ she said, setting the now-empty wine glass down on the table. ‘He’s beginning to grow on me.’
Sam gave a wise nod as though he was some ancient guru who understood these things.
‘And now,’ she said, rising, ‘it’s time for me to go to bed. I’m interviewing a young lad in the morning who’s lost his mother. And I have an inquest on another boy.’
‘Ouch,’ Sam responded. ‘I’d hate to do your job. Always dealing with death.’
‘I don’t see it like that. And you?’
‘Training,’ he said, ‘and more training. The new manager’s keen on us upping our fitness levels so we’re expected to turn up for every single training session. He’s very ambitious.’
She laughed. ‘It’s paying off, though.’
Sam nodded, serious now. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Stoke City are back where they belong, in the Premier League. But you know what they say – the higher you climb …’
‘Mm. And don’t forget the other cheery mantra. Those whom the Gods wish to destroy . . .’
Sam nodded then looked away. ‘People think it must be wonderful – life in the fast lane – but …’ He suddenly looked affronted. ‘Do you know?’
She put her head to one side.
‘Someone on Twitter said how they hated my freckles.’
She gave a sigh and smothered a giggle.
‘I can’t help having freckles.’
‘No.’
‘You know what pisses me off, Mum?’
She nodded. She already knew.
Why was one twin so perfect while the other shouldered the flaws for both of them? To which there was no answer. She merely gave him a hug. ‘Goodnight, darling.’
‘Night, Mum.’