‘Let’s have a drink,’ said Digby at last. ‘We’ve got the port they gave you at the hotel. I could fancy a glass of port. And are there any mince pies? We’ve hardly had any food all day.’
Ant didn’t move or reply. He had no appetite for food, and was wary of drinking in case he had to suddenly drive somewhere. ‘I can’t eat,’ he groaned. ‘I’m too agitated. Do you think Carla might have done it? Isn’t it usually the spouse when there’s a murder? Or he might have got entangled with that bloody fence and it electrocuted him. That would be a joke. Serve him right. Then it wouldn’t be murder at all. Just a stupid accident.’
‘We don’t know the facts of it. Nobody does. It might yet turn out to be a perfectly ordinary heart attack. I tell you, son, we just have to hang on a day or so, and wait for a chance to do something for ourselves. The police are taking two days off, more than likely. We can put the jump on them. Don’t panic, that’s the main thing.’
‘“Put the jump on them”? What the hell does that mean?’
‘Forget it. Go and get the port, there’s a good lad. I don’t want to disturb the dog. He’s missing your mum, poor old boy.’
‘Maybe he could find her for us.’ Ant was only half joking. Percy was an intelligent dog, who deserved a much less restricted life than he was allowed by the Blackwoods. Carla would go berserk if he ventured into their terrain and scared her precious Peke, so the Frowses had to take him along the road and onto the Monarch’s Way every time he needed a run. There wasn’t always time for more than a short excursion, which left the dog restless and bored.
Digby only snorted at this idea. He waited for his drink with obvious impatience. Ant finally got up and went to look for the bottle. It seemed wrong to open it without Beverley. The hotel manager had carelessly handed it over, as just one more gratuity for a long list of townspeople who gave sporadic paid help at busy times. The kitchen, gardens, bedrooms, car park and bar might all find themselves short of essential staff at unpredictable moments. Ant had only ever done gardening, apart from selling them their Christmas trees. He had been replacing one that had got damaged when Beverley had made the mysterious phone call. ‘And say thanks to your mother,’ the manager had added. ‘She’s been quite a help this year.’ The implication had been that the port was meant for them both.
Ant told his father about this remark now. ‘Don’t drink all of it,’ he said.
‘What’s she done for the hotel, then? I don’t remember anything.’
‘She made all those table decorations for the Rotary Club’s Christmas bash, three weeks ago or more. The florist let them down, so Mum had to do it in a rush. She did a lovely job. You can’t have forgotten.’ The house had been fragrant with the holly and cloves and glue that had gone into the centrepieces. Beverley had added glittery little origami birds as a special touch, and the feedback had been glowing.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Digby absently. ‘That seems a long time ago now.’
‘Dad – do you really think you know where she is? Somewhere beginning with “Win”? That’s got to be Winchcombe, hasn’t it? Why would she be there?’
Digby shrank into his chair, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know for sure. Could be Winchcombe – most likely is. I wish you’d just stop going over it. Must be a hundred times by now. She was wrong to call you like she did, and say that about someone being dead. Can’t imagine what she was thinking, saying that.’
‘Why do I get the feeling you and she had some sort of plan, that hasn’t gone the way you expected?’
‘Stop moithering me, will you! You’re twisting my words and making me say things I don’t mean. Leave it, for God’s sake. I’m telling you, I’ll get to the bottom of it on Tuesday, when it’s had a bit of time to settle. How many times do I have to tell you?’
Digby only said words like moithering when high emotion sent him back to his Lancashire roots. His first fifteen years had been spent in Manchester, where they said snicket and used a short a for daft. Ant understood that something had been going on behind his back; something that his parents had hatched and which involved the ultimate horror of sudden death. And yet, the idea was surely ludicrous, when he regarded it more closely. There had to be some simpler explanation − something to do with Christmas, perhaps – even a surprise present for himself. Straining his imagination, he arrived at a scenario whereby his mother had gone off to acquire an animal of some kind – Ant had always said he fancied keeping geese or pot-bellied pigs – and it had died. Perhaps she was in trouble because it was a valuable creature and her own carelessness had caused its death. Perhaps she’d let it onto the road and caused an accident. A fatal accident. It was starting to sound plausible inside his own head. Except for about twenty inexplicable details. Why keep up the secrecy? Why would she make that phone call? Why not get hold of another phone or find a charger for her own? How would she transport livestock in the family’s small, unreliable car? And hadn’t there been a strong implication that the words He’s dead and I can’t come home referred to a human being? And all that before factoring in the bizarre conversation between his father and Bronya. He went through the chronology of events one more time, hoping to prove that there really couldn’t be any connection between his mother and the death
