‘Margaret Walsh, from Makepeace and Trott.’
‘That’s my dad’s solicitors. What did she want? Damn!’
‘Your dad’s dead.’
Rob kept on staring at the screen for a few moments. Then he sat back and turned around and said, ‘He’s dead?’
‘He was booked into the Marine Hotel in Paignton, that’s what she said, but he didn’t show up. The hotel rang him but he didn’t answer, neither his landline nor his mobile. In the end they called the prison, but the prison couldn’t get in touch with him either, so they sent two officers round to his house. His car was still outside in the driveway and his front door was open. They found him lying at the bottom of the stairs.’
Rob turned back to his computer and switched it off. He would have to go back to the beginning with that animation, but he felt too numb to continue.
He had often wondered how he would react when his father died. Sometimes he thought that he would be relieved, even elated. Herbert Russell had been selfish and short-tempered, and a harsh disciplinarian. To give him his due, he had occasionally been capable of unexpected acts of generosity – giving out hampers to his wardens at Christmas or donating money to local charities. But Rob had always suspected that he had been trying to convince both his family and his prison staff that his bullying was beneficial for them, and that one day they would thank him for it. Either that, or he had been trying to make sure he didn’t compromise his chances of being admitted to heaven.
‘Where is he now, did she tell you?’
‘They took him to Derriford Hospital in Plymouth for a post-mortem – what with his death being unexplained and everything. And the police are looking into it. They think he might have been attacked by somebody breaking into the house.’
‘Really? He had more than his fair share of enemies, too. Well, you would do, wouldn’t you, if you were a prisoner governor. Especially a prison governor like him.’
Vicky came up to him and stroked his wavy brown hair. ‘You’re not upset, are you? Not just a little bit? He was your father.’
Rob reached up and took hold of her hand. ‘The only thing that upsets me is remembering how miserable he used to make my mum. And we’ll have to have a funeral. And that means getting together with Martin and Katharine, God help us, and Grace. Well, I don’t mind Grace, so long as she doesn’t bring along that ghastly Portia.’
He stared at his blank computer screen. He could see his ghost reflected in it, and he looked so much more like his late mother than his father. It had been his thirty-ninth birthday only a week ago, but he could have passed for ten years younger. Vicky had once said she had fallen for him because he resembled Lord Byron, with his dark curls and his slightly hooded eyes. For his part, Rob had fallen for Vicky’s soulful violet irises and her pale dreamy face and her braided blonde hair, and he had loved the way she wafted around in flowing ankle-length dresses like a Pre-Raphaelite artist’s model, although there was nothing soulful or wafty about her personality.
‘Did Margaret Walsh tell you if he wanted to be buried or cremated?’
‘No.’
‘In that case I’ll have to wait, won’t I?’
‘Wait for what?’
‘Wait to find out if I can dance a jig on his grave or if I have to flush his ashes down the toilet.’
‘You’re not that vengeful, Rob, and you know it.’
‘Actually, you’re right. I’m not. If there was one thing I learned from Dad, it was how to be kind. One smile is more effective than a thousand shouts.’
‘Mummy!’ called Timmy.
3
It was foggy when they arrived in Sampford Spiney, that chilly white Dartmoor fog that can take until midday to clear. Even then it can still be seen clinging in the hollows and over the leats, the narrow channels that were dug across the moor to bring water to forges and farms and houses like Allhallows Hall.
‘This place never ceases to give me the creeps,’ said Vicky, as the square tower of St Mary’s church came into view behind the trees. ‘There’s never anybody around, and it’s so grey.’
They had driven for the past five miles along a single-track road with high granite walls on either side, which always made Rob feel claustrophobic. His claustrophobia was only compounded as he turned into the gateway of Allhallows Hall, and there was the manor house in which he had been brought up. After he had left home to go to Worthing College of Art he had never returned, except two years ago to visit his mother when she was dying of cancer. His father had rarely been there when he had visited, and even when he was he had shown little interest in Rob’s life or his career.
‘It gives you the creeps?’ he said. And then, ‘Thanks, Martin, I love you too.’
His brother Martin’s bronze Range Rover was parked diagonally across the narrow drive, so that he had to park his own Honda close to the wall, giving him barely enough space to open his door. He turned around to see if Timmy had woken up yet. Timmy had been sleeping in his car seat all the way from Exeter.
‘Timmy? Timmy, we’re here!’
Timmy opened his eyes, yawned, and then peered out of the window with a frown. ‘Oh… it’s Grandpa’s house! I thought you said he was dead!’
‘He is. But we had to come here to decide what we’re going to do with his house.’
‘We’re not going to live here, are we?’
‘No,’ put in Vicky, before Rob could answer. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Rob.
‘What do you mean, “we’ll see”? If you think I’m going to live way out here in the middle of nowhere at all, surrounded by a whole lot of bleating sheep, then you are sorely mistaken.’
They climbed out of their car. The fog
