The Suspect

“Another blasted myth.” He looks over my shoulder. “Where’s your car?”

“I parked around the corner,” I lie. I had left Elisa’s Beetle at the local railway station and walked the last half mile.

He turns and I follow him along the hallway toward the kitchen. His battered carpet slippers make slapping noises against his chalk-white heels.

“Where’s Mum?”

“She was up and out early. Some protest rally. She’s turning into a bloody leftie— always protesting about something.”

“Good for her.”

He scoffs, clearly not in agreement.

“The garden looks good.”

“You should see out back. Cost a bloody fortune. Your mother will no doubt give you the grand tour. Those bloody lifestyle programs on TV should be banned. Garden ‘makeovers’ and backyard ‘blitzes’— I’d drop a bomb on all of them.”

He isn’t the slightest bit surprised to see me, even though I’ve turned up unannounced. He probably thinks that Mum mentioned it to him when he wasn’t listening. He fills the kettle and empties the old tea leaves from the pot.

The tablecloth is dotted with flotsam gathered on various holidays, like a St. Mark’s Cross tea caddy and a jam pot from Cornwall. The Silver Jubilee spoon had been a present from Buckingham Palace when they were invited to one of the Queen’s garden parties.

“Would you like an egg? There isn’t any bacon.”

“Eggs will be fine.”

“There might be some ham in the fridge if you want an omelette.”

He follows me around the kitchen, trying to second-guess what I need. His dressing gown is tied at the waist with a tasseled cord and his glasses are clipped to the pocket with a gold chain so that he doesn’t lose them.

He knows about my arrest. Why hasn’t he said anything? This is his chance to say, “I told you so.” He can blame it on my choice of career and tell me that none of this would have happened if I’d become a doctor.

He sits at the table, watching me eat, occasionally sipping his tea and folding and unfolding The Times. I ask him if he’s playing any golf. Not for three years.

“Is that a new Mercedes out front?”

“No.”

The silence seems to stretch out, but I’m the only one who finds it uncomfortable. He sits and reads the headlines, occasionally glancing at me over the top of the paper.

The farmhouse has been in the family since before I was born. For most of that time, until my father semiretired, it was our holiday house. He had other places in London and Cardiff. Elsewhere, teaching hospitals and universities would provide him with accommodation if he accepted visiting fellowships.

When he bought the farmhouse it had ninety acres, but he leased most of the land to the dairy farmer next door. The main house, built out of local stone, has low ceilings and strange angles where the foundations have settled over more than a century.

I want to clean up before Mum gets home. I ask Dad if I can borrow a shirt and maybe a pair of trousers. He shows me his wardrobe. On the end of the bed is a man’s tracksuit, neatly folded.

He notices me looking. “Your mother and I go walking.”

“I didn’t know.”

“It’s only been the last few years. We get up early if the weather is OK. There are some nice walks in Snowdonia.”

“So I hear.”

“Keeps me fit.”

“Good for you.”

He clears his throat and goes looking for a fresh towel. “I suppose you want a shower instead of a bath.” He makes it sound newfangled and disloyal. A true Welshman would use a tin tub in front of the coal fire.

I push my face into the jets of water, hearing it rush past my ears. I’m trying to wash away the grime of the past few days and drown out the voices in my head. This all began with a disease, a chemical imbalance, a baffling neurological disorder. It feels more like a cancer— a blush of wild cells that have infected every corner of my life, multiplying by the second and fastening on to new hosts.

I lie down in the guest bedroom and close my eyes. I just want a few minutes’ rest. Wind beats against the windows. I can smell sodden earth and coal fires. I vaguely remember my father putting a blanket over me. Maybe it’s a dream. My dirty clothes are hanging over his arm. He reaches down and strokes my forehead.

A while later I hear the ring of spoons in mugs and the sound of my mother’s voice in the kitchen. The other sound— almost as familiar— is my father breaking ice for the ice bucket.

Opening the curtains, I see snow on the distant hills and the last of the frost retreating across the lawn. Maybe we’ll have a white Christmas— just like the year Charlie was born.

I can’t stay here any longer. Once the police find Elisa’s body they will put the pieces together and come looking instead of waiting for me to turn up somewhere. This is one of the first places they’ll search.

Urine splatters into the bowl. My father’s trousers are too big for me, but I cinch in the belt making the material gather above the pockets. They don’t hear me padding along the hallway. I stand in the doorway watching them.

My mother, as always, is dressed to perfection, wearing a peach-colored cashmere sweater and a gray skirt. She thickened around her middle after she turned fifty and has never managed to lose the weight.

She puts a cup of tea in front of my father and kisses him on the top of his head with a wet smacking sound. “Look at this,” she says. “My stockings have a run. That’s the second pair this week.” He slips his hand around her waist and gives her a squeeze. I feel embarrassed. I don’t remember ever seeing them share such an intimate moment.

My mother jumps in surprise and admonishes me for having “crept up on her.” She begins fussing about what I’m wearing. She could easily take the trousers in, she says. She doesn’t ask about my own clothes.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” she asks. “We’ve been worried sick, especially after all those ghastly stories in the newspapers.” She makes the tabloids sound as attractive as a soggy fur ball deposited on a carpet.

“Well at least that’s all over with now,” she says sternly, as if determined to draw a line under the whole episode. “Of course, I’ll have to avoid the bridge club for a while but I daresay it will all be forgotten soon enough. Gwyneth Evans will be insufferably smug. She will think she’s off the hook now. Her eldest boy, Owen, ran off with the nanny and left his poor wife with two boys to look after. Now the ladies will have something else to talk about.”

My father seems oblivious to the conversation. He is reading a book with his nose so close to the pages that it looks as though he’s trying to inhale them.

“Come on, I want to show you the garden. It looks wonderful. But you must promise to come back in the spring when the blooms are out. We have our own greenhouse and there are new shingles on the stable roof. All that damp is gone. Remember the smell? There were rats nesting behind the walls. Awful!”

She fetches two pairs of Wellingtons. “I can’t remember your size.”

“These are fine.”

She makes me borrow Dad’s Barbour and then leads the way, down the back steps onto the path. The pond is frozen the color of watery soup and the landscape is pearl gray. She points out the dry stone wall which had crumbled during my childhood, but now stands squat and solid, pieced together like a three-dimensional jigsaw. A new greenhouse with glass panels and a framework of freshly milled pine backs onto the wall. Trays of seedlings cover trestle tables and spring baskets, lined with moss, hang from the ceiling. She flicks a switch and a fine spray fogs the air.

“Come and see the old stables. We’ve had all the junk cleared out. We could make it into a granny flat. I’ll show you inside.”

We follow the path between the vegetable patch and the orchard. Mum is still talking, but I’m only half