Pat nodded. ‘First our Andrew and now Justin …’
‘And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Liam doesn’t land back on us at some point,’ agreed Rod.
At this point the back door opened and Justin swept out, marching towards his car.
‘Son.’ Justin paused at his father’s voice. ‘Son, where are you off to?’
‘Out.’ The voice was terse and uncommunicative as he turned away.
‘Justin,’ said Pat. He stopped once again and faced them. Writ clear on his face was the upbeat motivator battling their scared, hurt little boy. ‘Justin, what on earth is it?’
The upbeat motivator won. ‘Er – nothing?’ he said brightly. ‘I’m just going to check in with Taj.’
Pat looked at him. She had no idea who Taj might be and what form checking in with him might take. ‘Is everything all right?’ she said.
‘Yes?’ The tone was classic Justin, upbeat with an element of surprise that anyone could think there could conceivably be anything wrong in his sunny world. It was a response he’d grown adept at when faced by unfinished course work, sobbing girlfriends and on one famous occasion a used condom suspended from the tree by his bedroom window. On the whole Pat thought she preferred his anger.
As the car drove off, Pat said, ‘I’m going upstairs and don’t tell me not to.’
Rod shrugged: anything building-related he was happy to sort, the messier aspects of Taylor family life he was equally happy to leave to Pat.
Tiffany opened the bedroom door on the second of Pat’s oh-so-tentative knocks. Her face was a flawless impenetrable wall. ‘Pat,’ she said in tones of warm surprise.
‘I just wanted to see if you were all right,’ said Pat.
‘You heard?’ Tiffany smiled ruefully. ‘Oh, I amsosorry!’
‘There’s no need to apologise,’ said Pat, ‘I just wanted to see if you were okay—’
‘We were just venting,’ said Tiffany in tones that might havebeen describing a game of table tennis. ‘And I’msosorry about the way Justy spoke to you earlier. He should never ever have spoken to you like that and he’s very sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Pat. ‘Having sons vent at me is part of the job description.’
Tiffany’s smile widened. Was it about to crack? Pat had a sudden impulse to take the girl in her arms but didn’t dare.
‘Listen,’ said Pat. ‘It’s so lovely outside. Why don’t you come out and join me and Rod. Have a glass of wine. Or juice. Or water. I can even make a herbal tea – I promise venting will beoffthe topic of conversation—’
Again, that flicker was there, just briefly.
‘I’d love to!’ But there was regret in her voice. ‘Only I promised to treat myself to an early night! I’m pretty much done in!’
And the bedroom door shut.
Painting Billy’s bench that warm July evening was something Liz found immeasurably soothing, after the confrontation with Ffion. The wet slaps of the brush calmed her sharp and agitated thoughts. For once the pollen levels were low, almost negligible. She felt only the slightest discomfort in her eyes and sinuses as she worked.
Of course, the easy, instinctive thing to have done would have been to retreat straight back home, back to the safety of the curtain-dimmed interior with fans whirring over bowls of iced water. But she knew that if she did that, everything that had just happened would, like the fans, whirr round and through her thoughts. Plus, Derek would be there in the background, back from his evening run, with his uncanny knack of divining when she was bothered. She needed the time and space to process the confrontation, and here at the allotments with Ruth and Norinna watering beans and courgettes, with the sky a burnished peach, with the soft chink of Norrina’s windchimes – here was the perfect space.
The surprising thing she found was that although she was disturbed by the angry scene, she didn’t feel in any way guilty, in spite of the fact that Ffion undeniably had a point. And she realised that she didn’t feel guilty because, at a very deep level, she knew it was important to find out what had happened to Neville Hilton. Not so much for his sake, as for that of those around him, the women who had in different ways been a part of his life.
There was Chelsey, her dark, crippling fears effectively putting a headlock on her life. And Jax, upset and troubled by her ex-husband’s sudden death. And then there was Ffion. Having to face down online rumours was undoubtedly distressing, but after their conversation, Liz knew that the woman was also scared. But of what? And why did she seem to think Liz had been repeatedly in her house? What had been going onthere? Each of these very different women were connected not just by Neville Hilton – but by a shared sense of unresolved disquiet.
Yes, for all sorts of reasons, Liz felt without any shadow of a doubt that the truth about what happened and why needed to be uncovered. And she was quite certain that figuring out the truth would begin with discovering justwhoit was that had been shouting so angrily to Neville Hilton before he died.
She gave one of the legs of the bench a firmer stroke than she intended and felt a spray of droplets on her gardening wellies. So – what did she know? What did she have to share with Pat and Thelma when she saw them tomorrow? She re-dipped the brush in the oily green wood preservative and began tackling the back of the bench.
Someone had parked up by the edge of the playing field, then approached the Old Barn and the Snuggery from the gate at the back. Who? The person who had been going into Ffion’s house? Or Ffion herself, having somehow faked her trip to Carlisle? If it was Ffion, it didn’t explain that yellow paper flower she’d found, which seemed to link the whole thing to Pity Me school andDavey Fletcher’s memorial. But what about those paint spattered wellies – where did they fit in? They did seem to link everything back to Ffion somehow …
As her neat brushstrokes covered the back slats of the bench, Liz sighed in frustration. Like the fans at home, her thoughts were going in circles.
