Deborah Crombie - In A Dark House

“I can think of several things to call Ian,” said Gemma, with a grimace of irritation. “But Kit hasn’t heard from him lately, no. Pressures of the new term at his university, and pressures of the new wife, apparently.” She turned back to her task. “But he has sent an affidavit for the family court judge, saying that as Kit’s legal guardian, he believes it best for Kit to live with us rather than be uprooted to Canada, and he feels that for Kit to have any contact with his grandmother would be damaging to his emotional well-being.”

“And yet the grandmother still insists on pursuing custody?”

“Yes. Our first court hearing is Monday.”

Erika considered this in silence for a few moments, then said, “Even my tolerance has limits. Someone needs to shake some sense into that woman.”

Dusk was painting shadows in the corners of the garden as Rose got up from the computer, shoving her chair under the desk in a gesture of frustration. The conservatory off the kitchen, with its built-in computer nook, had been one of her father’s last projects. Ordinarily, it was her favorite room in the house and she loved working or reading there, daydreaming as she gazed out into the garden.

That afternoon, however, she’d looked from the clock to the phone to the computer and back again, growing increasingly edgy and unsettled. She’d had a run and a shower, and tried to nap, but her sleep had been disturbed by half-remembered nightmares. Giving up on rest, she’d made coffee and pulled up the fire brigade database once again, hoping to see something she’d overlooked earlier, while she waited for Station Officer Farrell to call.

But the phone had not rung, and as the hours passed she felt more and more foolish for having attempted to contact him. Why had she thought she’d discovered something the investigating team wouldn’t turn up on its own? And what good would it do even if she had? There was nothing anyone could prove, or that would help the investigators predict the location of another fire. Her guv’nor had been right; she should have kept her nose out of it.

The fading daylight told her she should be hungry. Padding barefoot into the kitchen, she peered into the fridge but found nothing appealing. Her mum had gone out for a meal with friends, and Rose couldn’t be bothered cooking just for herself.

There was, however, half a bottle of her mum’s Australian Chardonnay, and after a moment’s deliberation, Rose poured herself a glass. She wasn’t much of a drinker. Although she sometimes went to the pub with the lads after a day tour of duty, she usually nursed a half pint through the evening. Tonight, though, she thought the alcohol might help her relax.

Taking her glass to the open conservatory door, Rose gazed out into the garden. The day had stayed warm, and the faint breeze that had made the humidity bearable seemed to have faded with the sunset. She took a deep breath, trying to dispel the lingering sense of claustrophobia that had plagued her all day. It was absurd – she was used to wearing a mask, and she had never panicked in a fire, even as a raw recruit. Why should she feel now as if she had a weight on her chest?

She thought back to her meeting with the superintendent from Scotland Yard, the only time that day that the heaviness had lifted. Duncan, he’d said to call him. A nice name, and he was bloody good-looking, too. He hadn’t made fun of her theory, but perhaps he’d just meant to be kind. She was wondering about his partner, and about his reluctance to discuss his domestic situation, when her mobile rang.

She scrambled back to the computer desk where she’d left her phone, flipping it open with one hand while she juggled her wine in the other.

“Hey.” The voice was not Station Officer Farrell’s, but one much more familiar.

“Bryan,” she said, making an effort to disguise her disappointment.

“What’s up, Petal?”

“Not a lot.” Away from the station, she didn’t bother complaining about the nickname. “You?”

“I thought you might fancy a drink.”

It was the first time he’d ever rung her off duty and asked her to do something socially, and she heard his slight hesitation.

“Um, I don’t think I’m up for it,” she said awkwardly. “What with the early start tomorrow and all.”

“I just thought you might want some company.” Bryan paused, then added, “Are you all right, Rose?”

They hadn’t really had a chance to talk since she’d been called on the carpet by Wilcox, and for a moment she was tempted to tell Simms what she’d been doing. She knew she could trust him to keep it to himself, but it was clear from the concern in his voice that he thought she needed looking after, and she didn’t want to encourage that. Nor was she in the mood to have her ideas shot down, however kindly.

“I’m okay,” she said. “I’m fine, really. We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah? I’ll see you at roll call in the morning.”

“Right. Cheers, then.”

When they’d rung off, she walked slowly back to the garden door. There she stood for a long time, cradling her still-untouched glass of wine against her chest, searching the darkening sky for a telltale smudge of smoke.

Having quickly familiarized herself with Fanny’s kitchen, Winnie had prepared supper, pasta with a simple marinara sauce, some cheese she’d bought at Borough Market, and a salad. She’d hoped that something both light and comforting would encourage Fanny to eat, but she’d watched in growing frustration as Fanny pushed the food around on her plate, and she’d felt guilty for her own appetite.

“I’m sorry,” Fanny said at last. “You’ve done so much already – I hate for you to think I don’t appreciate it. It’s not your cooking, I promise you. It’s just – I can’t-”

“Don’t worry about it.” Winnie stood and gave her a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll do the washing up, then we can have a cup of tea and a biscuit. And” – she delved into the bag she’d brought with her- “I thought we might watch a video.”

She kept a collection that she thought of as her “ailing parishioner kit.” Through experience, she’d discovered that prayer had its place, but that there was nothing more healing to those who were ill or worried than a good belly laugh. Tonight she’d pulled out two of her personal favorites, A Fish Called Wanda and Waking Ned Devine, plus some old episodes of Fawlty Towers. They were all irreverent, but in her opinion reverence was highly overrated, and she even had a secret fondness for the ecclesiastical absurdities of Father Ted.

“Oh, Winnie.” Fanny seemed to sag in her chair. “I don’t think I could manage it. Could we just have the tea… and chat?”

“Of course. I’ll just help you settle in for the night, shall I?”

Winnie made short work of the dishes, and when she’d put the kettle on she turned to see Fanny fingering the videos she’d left out on the table.

“Elaine would never have watched these,” said Fanny, looking up at her. “Nor my parents. I remember how much my mother hated Fawlty Towers when I was growing up. There’s nothing the Chinese find more offensive than rudeness, and to her Basil Fawlty was the devil incarnate. ‘That awful man,’ she called him.”

Winnie filled their mugs and sat down at the table. “I’ll bet you watched it on the sly, then.”

“I did, whenever I could manage.” Fanny grinned, remembering, and Winnie realized it was the first time she’d ever seen a real, unfettered smile on her friend’s face. The difference it made was astonishing. “And worried about getting caught,” Fanny went on. “It was probably the worst thing I ever did. They had such expectations, my parents, and I never wanted to disappoint them.”