‘I haven’t got time for this. Rob is—’
Henley stopped as Pellacia tutted loudly with disapproval.
‘You shouldn’t have called,’ Henley said.
‘I just want you to talk to me,’ Pellacia’s tone softened. ‘Let me know where your head is at with this Rhimes thing. You shouldn’t – no, you don’t have to do this on your own.’
‘Was there anything else?’ Henley asked stubbornly. She closed the window and made her way downstairs.
‘Bloody hell. Don’t treat me like the—’
‘Is there anything else?’ she repeated.
‘It’s funny,’ Pellacia said sadly. ‘I never thought that Rhimes would be the one who would actually break us.’
Henley opened her mouth to respond but Pellacia had already ended the call.
Ramouter leaned back and rubbed at his eyes. The match between West Bromwich and Derby was on TV but he wasn’t paying attention. He’d spent the last two hours balancing his MacBook on his lap whilst he stared at CCTV footage of the night the Ashcrofts had been assaulted. ‘I hate this case,’ he said to himself as the Facetime notification appeared in the corner of his screen and he gratefully minimised the video player.
‘You finally picked up,’ said Michelle, her face only half filling the screen. ‘The last time I heard from you was on Sunday night.’
‘I am so sorry, babe,’ said Ramouter, repositioning his laptop so that his wife didn’t see the chaos. Empty takeaway containers he hadn’t cleared from the table and clothes that had been removed from the dryer but dumped on the sofa. ‘There’s a lot going on.’
Michelle straightened her screen. ‘So, you can’t call your wife?’
Ramouter caught sight of the outside heater and Moroccan lanterns in the background and saw that Michelle was enveloped in a cream throw. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘In the garden. The kids are running around as though they’re possessed and they’re doing my head in. At this point I wouldn’t mind forgetting them.’
‘Oh my god, Michelle,’ Ramouter groaned as his wife laughed. It was one of the things he’d always loved about her – her wry sense of humour and an ability not to take life too seriously as opposed to him. He’d been built to search for the cracks in the foundation and the holes in the roof. Early onset dementia had taken away her smile and humour for a year, but with the help of therapy and medication, Michelle’s light – although slightly dimmer – had returned.
‘How’s Ethan doing?’
‘He’s champion,’ said Michelle, drinking her tea. ‘He’s like a returning war hero. I would get him for you but—’
‘Leave him be. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. So, how are you doing?’
‘I’m good. I’ll be glad to come home to you though. It’s nice being up here but my mother is suffocating. I’m surprised she’s not here keeping watch.’
‘That’s because she loves you.’
‘I know. So, tell me why didn’t you pick up when I called yesterday? Were you out drinking with your crew on a school night?’ Michelle asked with a smirk.
Ramouter looked away, not wanting to admit to his wife that he had been out drinking but with only one member of his team: DC Copeland. ‘You know what it’s like. You go for one and that turns into a few.’
‘And the next thing you know you’re forgetting to call your wife.’
‘Aye, aye. I’ll do better.’
‘Make sure you do,’ said Michelle. ‘I need to go. That son of yours should be in bed.’
‘I promise I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘I’ll hold you to that. And, Salim?’
‘What is it, babe?’
‘Make sure you put the washing away.’
