But when Ash walks slowly back into the living room, the stunned look on his face tells me he has a different take on how things panned out.
‘Iris, are you driving home?’ I ask, nudging her gently. I drove over here. I thought it would be better for both Iris’s and my nerves.
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘In that case, say goodbye to your dad and go and get set up. Do your checks, get your app ready, L plates on.’
‘I know the drill, Mum.’
Iris is taking her test next week. She’s a good driver – cautious and alert, like her dad. But I’m a bad passenger – nervous and mistrustful. The number of times I’ve bitten back a comment or pushed down hard on an imaginary brake pedal. And there have been more times when even a short drive has ended in a row. I went through the same thing with Olly. It was a huge relief when he passed his test. I’ll be glad when Iris can drive on her own, too.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask Ash, as soon as Iris has left the room.
‘Roly made a strange comment about a footprint at the scene of the crime. It was like he was speaking hypothetically, but he was looking at Iris’s shoes in the hallway when he made it.’
‘What did he say exactly?’ I ask.
‘He sort of apologized for not, you know, um … using the roach I gave him.’ Ash clears his throat. ‘Not in so many words, but that was the gist of—’
‘Ash, what did he sayexactly?’ I repeat.
‘He said he couldn’t tell me if they found anything at the crime scene, even if he wanted to. Like a footprint, for example.’
I let this percolate for a few seconds. ‘Maybe he just spotted Iris’s shoes on his way out and that’s why he mentioned a footprint,’ I suggest. ‘Maybe he really was speaking hypothetically.’
‘Hmm.’ Ash isn’t convinced.
‘I’ll talk to Iris about it, shall I?’
‘Good idea.’
I say goodbye to Ash and head out to the car. Iris hasn’t adjusted the mirrors or the seat and seems to have been waiting for me to get into the car to do all that. I’m about to make a comment, but think better of it. It will only start a fight and it’s not as if we’re in a hurry.
During the drive home, I try to work out what to say, but it’s not easy combing through my thoughts with Taylor Swift blaring out of the speakers. I can’t very well say that Ian let on there may have been a footprint at the scene of the crime and ask Iris if there’s any chance it’s hers. I can already see how this is going to play out, no matter how I broach the subject. Iris will round on me for not trusting her. She’ll ask me the question I’ve been asking myself: what sort of mother thinks her daughter might be a murderer?
I still haven’t come up with the right words when Iris parks in the driveway of Crooked Oak Cottage. I’m going to have to wing it, play it by ear. Iris takes off her seatbelt and is about to leap out of the car, but I put my hand on her arm to restrain her.
‘Iris, I need to ask you about something,’ I say.
‘OK.’ She sounds uncertain.
But just then Margo races out to the car to greet me, Cheddar in tow. I’m relieved, although I know it’s only a temporary reprieve. I’m going to have to talk to Iris about this.
Once inside, I kick off my shoes in the hallway next to Iris’s Chelsea boots. For all her bravado, acting as if she didn’t care, she dressed up smartly today for her interview with Ian – linen trousers, a blouse and her leather boots.
I head for the kitchen, from where I can hear Daniel humming. He sings – and hums – so tunelessly that it’s almost impossible to recognize the song, but I love hearing his off-key melodies. Daniel’s wearing an apron and the novelty Yeti slippers that Margo insisted on getting him for Father’s Day. My lips twitch in amusement in spite of the circumstances. ‘I don’t know what you’re cooking,’ I say, ‘but it smells amazing.’
He beams at the compliment. My stomach rumbles loudly, making us both laugh.
‘Veggie chilli,’ Daniel says. ‘Olivia’s here. She’s staying for lunch.’
I raise my eyebrows, but he has turned away from me, back to the stove. I walk over to him, wrap my arms around him and kiss him on the back of his neck. ‘Are they back together?’
‘Don’t know,’ Daniel says. ‘I didn’t ask.’ He wriggles out of my embrace and turns to me with a wooden spoon. ‘Have a taste.’ He holds out the wooden spoon in one hand, cupping the other hand underneath in case some of the sauce spills.
I’m happy to do as I’m told. ‘That’s delicious,’ I say sincerely.
‘Does it need more salt?’
