‘Good afternoon to you too,’ said Pat pointedly.
‘Stockton,’ said Tiffany reasonably. ‘Ididtell you, Justy.’
‘There’s roadworks on the A1 at Leeming Bar,’ said Pat. ‘That’s why we’re a bit later back.’
‘You need to be indoors,’ Justin said to Tiffany, eyes still wide. Looking at his face, wet and blotchy in the heat, Pat rather thought he was the one who needed to be out of the sun.
Tiff nodded. ‘I need to grab a shower,’ she said.
As they retreated into the house, Pat could hear her son talking – not the words, but the tone, stressed, almost panicky, quite unlike his customary easy voice. He was obviously worried about something – but what? Surely, he couldn’t be concerned about her in the heat – after all it was she, Pat, who had had the funny turn. Tiffany was a lot healthier and younger than she was.And surely if he was worried about infidelity, shouldn’t Justin have been reassured that his girlfriend was out with his mother? She looked after them, puzzled.
What on earth was going on?
About twenty minutes later Pat was distractedly preparing another non-meal for her and Rod (salad and farm shop burgers) when Justin came downstairs.
‘Tiff tells me you’ve been out doing your sleuthing.’ His voice was quiet and firm.
‘We were talking to a man—’ began Pat.
‘A man you think might have killed someone,’ interrupted her son.
‘Hardly.’ Long practice of dealing with emotional sons had taught Pat to keep her voice pleasant and neutral in such situations. Inside, however, the butterflies were stirring. She wasn’t sure she could remember Justin ever talking to her in this cold, steely tone. She faced him, mind groping for the words and thoughts, refusing to have her child speak to her in this way. But Justin was powering on in that awful, quiet voice.
‘I don’t care what you and your mates get up to,’ he said. ‘But don’t you ever involve Tiff in anything like this, ever again—’
‘I wasn’t—’ she began to say.
‘Everagain,’ interrupted Justin, anger warming the steel.
Rod had walked in in time to catch the tail end of the exchange. ‘Hey – don’t you speak to your mother like that,’ he rapped out in a tone that was a carbon copy of his eldest son’s. Which was of course as it should be, but not particularly helpful as Justin simply ignored the pair of them and stormed back upstairs.
Tea was a largely silent meal but as she began loading the dishwasher Rod held her from behind.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Leave that. Let’s sit out for a bit.’
Outside in the love seat, as the first tang of red produced thestirrings of an uneasy peace, Rod said, ‘You were taking a bit of a chance though. Justin had a point.’
‘We were talking to a life coach in a public library,’ said Pat. ‘Not shadowing him down some dark alley.’
‘And you think he had something to do with Nev Hilton’s heart attack?’
Pat shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ she said. Now, in the warm peace of the evening the concept of Son Masters dressing as a woman and shouting in Nev’s face seemed as remote and far-fetched as a winter frost.
‘He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,’ said Rod. ‘But then you weren’t that clever yourself – dashing off doing your sleuthing when you weren’t well.’
Pat opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again.
Rod took her hand. ‘Hey,’ he said seriously, ‘I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.’ She smiled but said nothing; what was there to say? She let her gaze rest on his profile a moment. When had he got so grey? Time really did speed past at an alarming rate.
It was then that the shouting had started, three bursts from Justin, two from Tiffany. Rod and Pat had sat tense, looking up, instinctively holding hands as they had been when Liam was in the incubator that first time.
When the shouting had died down Rod said, entirely predictably, ‘Let them sort it out themselves,’ as if Pat had been on the point of running up the stairs and bursting in the bedroom.
There was a pause, with both of them holding their breath expecting the shouting to resume. But it didn’t.
‘I thought,’ said Pat eventually, ‘when they all grew up – all left home – I mean I knew it wouldn’t be plain sailing, but it would all be …’ She paused.
‘… not under our roof,’ finished Rod.
