‘Why are we pursuing this if Phyllida’s wanted for murder?’ he’d asked Mary, a little breathily into his phone, because if you were ever going to say the words ‘wanted for murder’ out loud you would never expect it to be in relation to Phyllida Banks. Or maybe the breathiness was because he’d been walking uphill to the bookshop at the time. He really needed to buy a gym membership. ‘Why would we go digging around, trying to find the very person who might want to put her in prison?’
‘Lottie thinks Francis was being protected by Dorothea, so he might be, like, totally happy for what she did,’ Sienna had said. Clearly Mary’s phone was on speaker at the bookshop, which she was now minding for Lottie. ‘Just don’t tell anyone she’s alive, or her name, until you work it out,’ Sienna added.
‘Exactly,’ Mary agreed.
‘Righto.’ He would have liked to add something sweary and emphatic about how ridiculous it all was, but Sienna liked to point out his every failing and he was trying to limit her opportunities.
When Roddy had arrived, puffing, at the bookshop ten minutes later they had excitedly laid out plans for his UK trip.
‘It’s possible Francis is dead, you know,’ he ventured.
‘He’s only sixty,’ said Sienna. ‘You’re nearly sixty and you’re not dead.’
‘I just turned fifty!’ snapped Roddy, annoyed that her skewed teenage observations had the capacity to sting. Sure, he didn’t take care of himself, but his chubby cheeks gave him a youthful look. Forty-seven tops.
Sienna had handed Roddy a list of flight times on cheap dodgy airlines, already researched for Lottie before the truck calamity. He congratulated her on finding such amazing deals then discreetly binned the list and booked Qantas business class.
He had then gone home to tell Donna about his trip to London and, more importantly, about having dragged Sienna into this mystery. It had occurred to Roddy that this was quite a substantial secret and not something Sienna should be keeping from her mother.
‘What do you mean Phyllida might be an international fugitive?’ barked Donna, squinting in disbelief while holding her carrot-chopping knife aloft. ‘Never heard anything so ridiculous in my life!’
‘It’s possible, and we can’t have word getting out,’ Roddy said. ‘Plus, I told Sienna she can’t keep secrets from you, so I asked her to discuss it with you tonight. Just giving you a heads-up.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Donna, resuming her chopping.
‘Do you think she can keep it secret from everyone else?’ ventured Roddy.
Donna shrugged. ‘I’ll tell her if she breathes a word, I’ll take her phone away.’
‘Good luck with that.’
She grinned. ‘Or maybe I’ll threaten to do a TikTok of me naked dancing. I could tag her and all her friends in it.’ She shimmied her shoulders. ‘That’ll shut her up.’
‘Yep, that should do it,’ said Roddy, reminding himself never to get on the wrong side of his old school friend.
As he packed, a buzz of excitement had begun that he had tried to quash. The whole thing was kind of fascinating, even though it shouldn’t be. The death of Edward Fitzhenry felt so distant, so long ago, and he had always wanted to go back to London. The West End theatre productions, the antique shops; anticipation began rising inside him.
But that was back then, forty hours ago, when this intercontinental trip was a future exercise. Now Roddy is floating through a murky haze, barely alive and his feet wet and numb.
A text comes from Mary.Are you rugged up? Wear two pairs of socks. Lottie’s getting her marbles back and Phyllida too. Keep us posted.
Roddy unlocks the door to his Airbnb, selected by Sienna after she had begged to be allowed to choose it (she’d spent hours comparing photographs of interiors and reading reviews, and ensuring she found the best value for money). He’d considered cancelling it in favour of a boutique hotel in Mayfair he’d read about inThe Financial Review, but she’d asked for a full report and photos when he arrived.
Exhaustion overwhelms him as he feels for the light switch. It is quite possible Lottie, Mary and Sienna are all barking mad. What the hellwashe doing here?
He pushes his case past the radiator through a dark narrow hallway into the cramped apartment. There is a pink neon sign on the wall that says in cursive writing,‘We are all Completely Bonkers!’Beneath it is a line of old cameras displayed as art.How very meta, he thinks, as he fights the urge to lie down on the couch and sleep. He plugs in the kettle and removes his wet shoes and socks. He thinks he may need to pour hot water over his feet if he is ever going to regain circulation.
He needs a reason to go back out, to find something to do, to fight the jetlag before he goes in search of Francis tomorrow. Even in winter, London is buzzing. He looks at the app on his phone that sells last-minute theatre tickets.The Devil Wears Pradahas opened in the West End. Score by Elton John. ‘Gird Your Loins!’ screams the advertisement.Well, don’t mind if I do, thinks Roddy.
He may be on a wild goose chase, but given that he’s here now, a little bit of London sparkle sounds like just the ticket.
51
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
There is a knock at my bedroom door and Miriam enters. The sight of her carrying a tray with tea and a sandwich is so unexpected that I am momentarily lost for words. I think I may be gaping.
