‘You think you’ve been burgled?’
‘No,’ said Ffion. ‘It’s more subtle than that – nothing’s been taken, at least not that I can see. I’d come home and things would have been moved – only slightly. Drawers a bit mussed up.’
‘Mussed up?’ Liz remembered the crammed drawers in the study.
‘Like I say, really subtle, but once I started looking for it, it became more and more obvious.’
‘How many times has this happened?’ asked Liz.
Ffion shrugged. ‘I can’t be sure. Three or four. Defo once on a Saturday when I was out with Weetabix—’
‘And you’ve no CCTV or anything like that?’ Liz thought of the jerky figures on Sidrah’s laptop. Could she have captured the intruder?
Ffion gestured wearily to a large unopened Amazon Prime box. ‘After it happened with Nev, I knew being on my own, like, I needed something. But I can’t get my head round setting it up. I’m no good with that sort of thing. I keep catching myself thinking I need to get Nev to sort it—’ Abruptly she stopped.
‘If you want,’ said Liz gently, ‘I could get Derek – he’s my husband – to have a look at it. He’s very good with that sort of thing.’
Ffion nodded, with acknowledgement or agreement Liz couldn’t be sure. ‘So was Nev,’ she said.
‘You must miss him very much,’ said Liz, still in the same quiet voice.
‘That’s just it –I don’t!’ The passion of the words startled Liz. ‘I’m such a horrible person,’ wailed Ffion.
‘No,’ protested Liz.
‘I am! I don’t misshim. When he was here, we were like – what’s that phrase? Ships that pass in the night. Him off with work, me off with Weetabix. But that night, he must have been lying there in pain, afraid. And there was I, off necking Merlot with my horse-riding mates!’ She brushed brimming tears from her eyes with a wadge of toilet roll.
Liz said nothing. What was there to say? Nothing she could think of. She looked at the younger woman. Was now the time to make her departure?
‘And there’s something else,’ said Ffion abruptly. She jumped to her feet. ‘D’you mind? Can I show you something? I don’t understand it – but I think it’s got something to do with what happened to Nev.’ She jumped up, tore off another length of toilet roll and headed out of the room.
Liz followed her, noting that once again that frightened tone was present in the woman’s voice.
Chapter Twenty-six
Friday 25th July
From the Twitter feed of Rainton Farm Shop:
Friday night is barbecue night! Here at Rainton Farm Shop we’ve a two-for-one offer on ALL burgers and sausages in our Summer Sizzle range. (NB due to the extreme heat customers are urged NOT to barbecue outdoors.)
In the event, confronting Tiffany-Jane proved easy. Not wanting to face the girl, Pat had deliberately lingered on the way back from Thelma’s, calling in first at the leisure centre for a swim, then the farm shop for a totally unnecessary shop. By the time she pulled up at home, it had gone seven, a time when she could be reasonably sure that both Justin and Rod would be at home.
However, they were not.
Walking into the kitchen she had found Tiffany, squinting through her phone at Pat’s Tuscan platter, which was bearing two poached eggs artistically arranged on a bed of watercress, zig-zagged across with dribbles of brown. Next to the platter were posed two ornate glass bottles of balsamic vinegar.
‘Hello, love,’ she said, more cheerily than she felt.
‘Hiya. Rod and Justy have gone down the Wheatsheaf to watch the cricket,’ said Tiffany, photographing the eggs. Pat sighed to herself as she deposited her keys in the Moroccan bowl – the repository for all the household keys. Of course, in an ideal world Justin would have fessed up to Rod over a few pints and by the time they got home everything would be out in the open and sorted out. However, this wasn’t an ideal world, this was two Yorkshiremen watching cricket; personal conversation of any description would be way down the agenda. She’d maybe go upstairs and have another shower, then by the time she came down Tiffany might well have removed herself and her bottles of vinegar.
A sudden clatter caught her attention. Tiffany had dropped her phone on the floor. She was looking away from the eggs, frowning worriedly at the wall – before bolting off in the direction of the downstairs toilet from where rather graphic and unmistakable noises could be heard. Larson gave Pat a resigned shrug and padded off to the lounge.
When Tiffany returned, Pat had tactfully moved the eggs out of sight.
‘Pat! I’m so sorry!’ she said chirpily. ‘Like I said – I think I’ve got a spot of gastric trouble.’ She was heading towards the stairs but Pat’s matter-of-fact voice stopped her.
‘With our Justin,’ said Pat, ‘I was sick as a dog twenty-four seven. With Andrew it was heartburn. But our Liam – I wouldn’t have even known I was carrying him.’
