Tomorrow's ghost

She was even beginning to convince herself, even though she hated cooking. The phone in Nannie's hand chuntered impotently. Nannie raised it to her mouth without taking her eyes off Frances. 'Hold on a moment, Muriel.'

'It would be an adventure for them, too. Getting used to me, it would take their minds off the robbery, Nannie.' Frances nodded. 'What time do they get back from school?'

'A quarter past six,' replied Nannie automatically.

If they didn't like anything too elaborate that would still leave her enough time, thought Frances. And, for a guess, they probably preferred a quick fry-up anyway -

bangers and beans, or bacon and eggs - and she could manage that. 'What do they like?'

The corner of Nannie's mouth lifted. And pancakes to follow. The entire human race liked pancakes; and they were not only a treat, they were easy to produce - even Robbie had never faulted her pancakes.

Nannie was still observing her closely, and suddenly Frances knew that Nannie was almost listening in to the menus which were running through her brain.

'What do they like, Nannie?' The phone came up again. 'Muriel - '

* * *

Detective-Inspector Turnbull left at five to three.

(Detective-Inspector Turnbull had decided that it was a routine job, a quick in-andout semi-professionally executed by a borstal graduate with more technical skill than intelligence, whom they would pick up sooner or later asking for thirty-seven other offences to be taken into consideration, and who would be patted on the head by the judge, given five pounds out of the poor box and told not to be a naughty boy again, and who would promptly do it again since it was more fun than working and a useful addition to the unemployment benefit; but Detective- Inspector Turnbull was also relieved that Mrs Fitzgibbon agreed with him instantly, with no awkward questions and an equally quick signature on the release, and he was happy to leave Detective-Sergeant Geddes to deal with that and to do anything else Mrs Fitzgibbon required, no matter what.)

* * *

And Nannie left at ten past three in her uniform, half excited for the gold future of the Charlotte Tyson Nursing Home, but still half worried about leaving her charges to Widow Fitzgibbon, and consequently also leaving very precise instructions to the Widow -

('Jane can watch the Nine O'clock News on BBC-1, if she wishes to, in her dressing gown - the Colonel likes them both to keep up with world affairs. And Sally can watch the first half - the first half only - of the ITV news at ten o'clock ... And don't take any argument from either of them, dear. Tell them that you know the rules, they are good girls really, so you won't have any trouble with them, but they will argue - ')

- and a letter conferring her power-of-attorney on the Widow, pending her return or the return of their father, whichever might be the earlier.

('I'll mention the Colonel, dear, that will give them something to think about, so they won't play you up - they are good girls, but they are half-way between being girls and being young women, and that can be awkward, believe me.')

* * *

And Detective-Sergeant Geddes left at quarter past three, with his release signed and sealed in its envelope

(For the attention of the Chief Constable

ready-typed on the latter).

('Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs Fitzgibbon?') ('Yes, Mr Geddes. There's a Chinese take-away restaurant on the edge of town, a new one opened about two months ago.' The Widow Fitzgibbon consulted the price-card Nannie had given her. 'The Wango-Ho, in Botley Street...) ('Here's seven pounds, Mr Geddes. I'd like two sweet-and-sour pork, one chicken-and-almonds, and one beef-and-green-peppers. Plus three portions of rice - two fried and one boiled - and three spring rolls. And I would like it delivered here at 6.30 sharp this evening - if there's any change, put it in the police charities' box.')

* * *

Twenty past three.

The sound of Detective-Sergeant Geddes' car had faded away. Rodgers, the house-horse-and-garden handyman, who so fortunately hadn't seen anything this morning, had faded away too.

('Three o'clock is his time on a Thursday, dear. But if you'd rather not be alone I can ask him to stay on, and I'm sure he will - I can stop by Mrs Rodgers' cottage and leave a message to say that he'll be late home ... Thursday is her day at the Vicarage, but I can give the message to the woman next door.')

('No, Nannie, it's quite all right. I don't mind being alone, it doesn't worry me.')

* * *

It was still not absolutely quiet in Brookside House: she could hear the distant rumble of the central heating boiler.

That at least had been the truth: she didn't mind being alone - even if it hadn't been necessary she wouldn't have minded it, it wouldn't have worried her. Aloneness was now her natural habitat, whether she was by herself or in a crowd. Originally she had set herself to get used to it. Then she had become accustomed to it. And now she preferred it.

The boiler stopped, and its echoes quickly died away.