“The landlady of our local pub is Black, so you can’t pull that card.”
“I can pull multiple cards. I’m a casino card dealer.”
“A croupier?”
“There’s an actual word for that?”
“I feel we’re getting off track. Anyway, I’m going to some … vigil-type thing tonight for him,” I said.
“Sounds awful. If you ever need a break from all this rural intrigue, I can offer you a place to work, you know.”
“Canary Wharf? No thanks.”
“The house in Surrey is nearly done,” she said. “Just waiting on the final touches. Should be in by autumn. If ever you need a place to escape in the country from the country.”
“This was my escape in the country.”
“The offer is there. Right, now I’ll leave you to your murder-fest village. Do some fucking work.”
Chapter 6
I arrived at Nigella’s front door just before 7pm wearing a light black jumper matched with a pair of black jeans. I worried my outfit was too gothy, but how was one supposed to dress appropriately for a vigil when it was thirty degrees C outside? It was only when I knocked on the door that the realisation hit me I was wearing all black to an event designed to provide hope that someone would pull through from their injuries. Fuck.
This faux pas became even more apparent when Nigella opened the door wearing an off-white-coloured sundress with a cornflower blue cardigan over it. On her feet were light brown flats in some velvety soft leather, which were sure to have been horrendously expensive.
“How … um, artistically you’ve dressed, Arden,” she said as she made her way out. “Boys!” she yelled.
I glared at her. “I realise my mistake,” I said.
Archie and Luca came bounding up to us and then straight past to where Kennedy was waiting beside me. “Puppy!” they squealed.
“Doggy, doggy, doggy!” chanted … er, Luca, I think.
I looked down. Clearly, in a moment of inspiration, Nigella had dressed them in matching T-shirts, which had been monogrammed with their initials. It was “A.P.” who was chanting doggy, while “L.P.” was trying to hug Kenny.
“Boys, be gentle with Kenny. He’s a living creature, not a toy,” said Nigella.
“We won’t hurt him, Mummy! We love him!” Archie said. “Can we take his lead, Mr Forrest, pleeeeeeease?”
“Of course, you can, but hold it firmly. He gets excited, and we don’t want him anywhere near the road.”
They grabbed the lead in both hands. I was expecting a tantrum to start about just one of them holding it, but theyquickly figured out a way they could both grasp at the same time. They made their way down the path and turned left towards the church when they hit the street.
We hung back a few metres to give them their air of independence as well as have the chance of a private conversation.
“Any word on his condition?”
Nigella shook her head. “But his parents are over from France now – they retired to the Dordogne,sucha lovely region – anyway, they made it over this afternoon. So at least if the worst happens …”
“And the police have no leads,” I said, summing up for us before she had to dig deep to admit it. She nodded tightly.
“Christ,” I muttered. And then, as we turned the corner, I said it again much louder. “Christ!”
In front of us was a media scrum beside an impromptu political rally with some sort of vigil wedged in between it.
“Good God, there must be two hundred people. I was expecting a couple dozen,” Nigella said. “Boys! Come here, stay with us.”
We approached as a foursome (plus dog) and soon found ourselves beside several villagers. A familiar blonde woman turned and glared at me. Nigellamwah mwah-ed her friend. The woman, Margo Cadbury-Smythe, gave me a filthy look. Somehow, I’m sure, this was my fault in her eyes.
