“You killed GG? I knew it.”
“I really want to go back and have a proper look for that missing box.”
Dylan puts down his book (Ngaio Marsh’sA Man LayDead—a man’s legs are on the cover and, call me the world’s greatest teen detective, I don’t think he’s sleeping). “Why?”
“You’ve got to admit it’s weird. She asks me to get this box down. Hours later she’s murdered. Then the box disappears. What if the murderer stole the box?”
“What if she just put it under her bed, like a normal person?”
“Then I’ll find it and we’ll know.”
Any answer Dylan might give disappears as Dad sits down on my other side, scraping his chair up to the table.
“What are you two whispering about?” Okay, so it’s possible Dad is not quite as preoccupied as I thought. He forks a twirl of pasta into his mouth, then chews for a long time. When he speaks, it’s around half a mouthful of tagliatelle. “What is this?”
“Just deconstructed Bolognese,” Shippy says quickly. “It’s a cinch to make, honestly. You just take some ground beef and brown it in a pan—”
Dad shifts in his chair, possibly preparing to leap at Shippy if Shippy’s Recipe Corner goes for much longer. As he does, his T-shirt rides up and I see half a centimeter of paper protruding from the pocket of his jeans.
Before I can pause to ask myself some tough questions—like (a)What are you doing? and (b)Is this a good idea? and (c)Seriously, though, have you thought this through?—I snatch the paper and slide it clear of Dad’s pocket.
“Whatha—” he says around a mouthful of (allegedly) deconstructed Bolognese. I’m exhilarated. This must be howHercule Poirot feels when he unmasks the murderer because of a chance remark made by a gardener about the tulip bulbs or something.
“Ruth, what are you doing?”
What I’m doing is trying to make sense of the paper in my hands. I see Gertie’s name. A corporate firm I’ve never heard of. A dollar sign with a lot of…
“What is this?” I ask, holding the paper tight in one hand and crossing my arms so it’s pressed against my body.
“Nothing important.”
“You took this from GG’s room.”
It’s not really a question but Dad nods anyway.
“Seeing Dylan ransacking the wardrobe made me think of the secret drawer and wonder if Gertie had kept anything there.” He gives Dylan a jock nod he’s not nearly blokey enough to pull off. “You almost had the right idea, mate.” No mention of the fact that it wasmynosiness andmydisregard for parental authority that got us to GG’s room in the first place. This must be how Hercule Poirot feels when he has to let the police take credit for the crimes he solves.
“It’s some kind of life-insurance policy.” I only just manage to make it not sound like a question.
“Can you give it back now?”
I do, but only because I think I get it.
“Life insurance?” Shippy repeats in a way that makes it clear this is news to him. “How much?”
Rob, who hasn’t touched his own pasta, shifts uncomfortably in his seat but doesn’t offer to leave the family to it. Nojudgment: I look out the window when we drive past car accidentstoo.
“Doesn’t concern you, mate,” Dad says. “It must have been taken out a long time ago, because the beneficiary is Gertie’s son, who died years back. What was his name?”
“Henry?” Aunty Vinka asks, sounding vaguer than usual.
“I went to school with a Henry,” Shippy offers, as helpful as ever. “He ended up in jail.”
“He wasn’t called Henry,” Dad says, grumpy at the interruption. “His name was Martin McCulloch.”
“Life insurance?” I prompt.
“Right,” Dad says. “So if Gertie’s son is the beneficiary and he’s dead, she probably stopped paying the premiums a long time ago and it’s a moot point. But if not, maybe there’s a possibility the money goes into her estate?” He starts to fork up some more pasta, then changes his mind. “I’ll have to take this to her lawyer. I’ve made an appointment for tomorrow anyway.”
