‘Hello, stranger,’ she says gaily. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages! Come on in – Chris is out the back.’
Ev follows her down the hall to the kitchen and Janet gestures at the kettle. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
‘God, yes,’ says Ev with a grin. ‘I’m gasping.’
Janet smiles again. ‘I’ll bring it through.’
Janet must be watering her patio pots every day because the marguerites and geraniums are lush, but the rest of the garden looks tired and the borders are shrivelling. In the middle, on the brown grass, Gis is playing football with Billy, who’s wearing a miniature Chelsea strip with ‘Gis’ and the number one on his back. He’s nearly two now and even though he’s small for his age he’s sturdy, and more than capable of giving his dad the runaround – literally. Gis rolls the ball towards him and the little boy swings out a foot and bangs it against the fence.
‘GOAL!!!’
Gis bends over, leaning on his knees, breathing heavily, then spots Ev and straightens up.
‘Boy, am I glad to see you,’ he says, coming slowly towards her. ‘It’s too bloody hot to be cavorting about like this.’
‘Da – ad,’ says Billy, in the beginning of a whine, but Gis gives him a firm look. ‘Now, we don’t do that, do we? No one likes a whinger.’
Billy’s mouth puckers a little, but Gis tousles his hair and the smile eventually comes. ‘Now, why don’t you go and see if Mummy’s got any more of that juice, while I have a quick chat with Auntie Ev?’
‘Not sure about “Auntie Ev”,’ she says, giving him a firm look of her own.
‘Godmother’s privilege,’ he says, grinning. ‘Now, what dragged you all the way from Summertown on a Sunday morning?’
* * *
‘I mean, you’ve got to have fish at The Perch, haven’t you?’ says Caroline Asante gaily. ‘Stands to reason.’
They came early because they know how busy this place gets at the weekend, and in this weather, shady spots in the garden are at a premium. But once in possession of a prize position, they’re taking their time. On the next table, there’s another middle-aged couple with their daughter and what’s clearly her fairly new boyfriend: he’s smiling a lot and trying a little too hard. Further over, a gaggle of kids is trying to climb the huge old willow tree. There’s jazz coming from the marquee and people are sitting about on the grass because for once it’s dry enough to do that in an English summer. The whole thing is almost too perfect.
‘I’m considering the mussels,’ begins Asante’s father carefully, ‘or perhaps the Cumberland ring.’
His mother laughs, reaching for her glass of Pinot Grigio. ‘Honestly, Kwame, you manage to sound like a diplomat even when you’re ordering sausages and mash.’
He smiles at her; it’s an old joke. He was a Ghanaian trade attaché for more than twenty years.
‘I’ll go in and order,’ says Asante, making to get up, but his mother stops him.
‘No need to rush. Let’s have a chat.’
Parent code for ‘you never tell us anything’. He stifles a sigh.
‘How’s the job going?’ His father now. They always ask, as a point of honour, even though they’ve never really reconciled themselves to their only son going into the police. It simply baffled them, even when he was accepted on the fast-track graduate scheme. But they were, as always, too well bred, too ‘diplomatic’ to say so. Your children must be allowed to make their own choices, even if you’d much rather they opted for medicine or the law, even – if all else fails – the City.
‘It’s good,’ says Asante. ‘Better than Brixton.’
‘In what way?’ His mother, ‘showing an interest’.
‘The job’s more varied. And the town. More interesting people.’
‘Oh yes?’ says Caroline in that alert-for-a-girlfriend tone all mothers seem to develop. But then again, as Asante reminds himself, he isn’t just an only son but an only child.
‘Don’t get too excited, Mum,’ he says. ‘I don’t get out much. Those people I mentioned – they’re the ones I’m arresting.’
* * *
‘Bloody hell,’ says Gis, sitting back.
‘I know,’ replies Ev, finishing the last of her coffee. ‘And for once in this bloody case, we don’t have to just take her word for it. There’s the NDA.’
‘Yeah,’ he says, frowning and pulling the sheet of paper back towards him, ‘but it’s not that explicit, is it? It just stops them talking about her. It doesn’t say why. There’s absolutely nothing about the grooming or the kid or anything.’
‘True – but we know Fisher slept with Young. I saw the picture – and believe me, there is absolutely no mistaking what they’re doing.’
‘But all that proves is that they had sex. Not that Fisher forced him to do it. Don’t get me wrong,’ he says quickly, ‘I’m with you. I’m just anticipating what the CPS will say. No one knows the full story but them.’
Ev points at the logo at the head of the paper. ‘Niamh Kennedy must, surely? If she drafted this thing?’
Gis shrugs. ‘Possibly, though perhaps not all the details. But I bet you any money you like she’ll hide behind client confidentiality even if she
