too irritated with him to care a great deal. 'You've really got to stop doing that.'
'Doing what?'
'Talking about her in those ridiculous hushed tones, like she's the mad woman in the attic or something.'
'I didn't realise I was.'
'She hasn't lost her marbles… yet. She's just a stupid, stubborn old cow.'
'Don't get all worked up-'
'A stubborn, pissed old cow.'
'Please stop shouting.'
'I don't care if she hears me. She's probably listening anyway, if she's still conscious, that is.'
Her father turned back to his cleaning, but gave up after half a minute or so. He tossed the cloth into the sink and sat down opposite Anna.
'Sorry,' she said.
'It's fine.' He was wearing a smart shirt tucked into jeans, as though, Anna thought, he could not quite allow himself to relax. Or afford to.
'How's she doing?'
'A little better, I think. We had a couple of days up in the Lakes last week. A nice hotel. She really seemed to enjoy it.'
'Did she stay sober?'
A half-smile. 'More or less.'
'Is she taking all her tablets?'
'I think so, but I can't watch her all the time, you know?'
'I know.' Anna leaned across and patted her father's arm. 'And you can't blame yourself if she pours half a bottle of vodka down her neck while you're busy trying to make a living. To have a life.'
He watched her eat for a while. She had almost finished. 'You mustn't blame yourself, either… for any of this. It's not your fault.'
Anna tried to answer too quickly, dribbled milk down her chin. They both laughed and she had another go. 'It feels like it sometimes.'
'You were an excuse, that's all,' he said. 'The excuse she was waiting for. It's what addicts do.'
Anna looked at him.
'I got a couple of books on it. It's always better if they can make out that somebody's driven them to the drink or whatever it is. It's easier to hate somebody else rather than yourself.'
'You think she hates me?'
'No, course not, that came out wrong…'
Anna nodded and took the last couple of mouthfuls. 'She's not going to come down, is she?'
'I can go and ask again,' her father said. 'Try and persuade her.'
'She shouldn't need persuading, for God's sake, I'm her daughter.' She leaned back, the chair tipping on to two legs. 'And I'm happy, do you know that?'
'I know,' he said. 'And whatever's going on inside your mum's head, however bad all this gets, I'm pleased it's working out for you.'
'Well, I wouldn't go that far. I can barely pay my rent.'
'Do you need some-?'
'God, no, I just meant… I'm still learning the ropes, that's all. But this case I'm working on now is brilliant. The people are interesting, and fun. Back at the bank… Well, you know.'
She stopped, and they both pretended that they weren't listening to the heavy footsteps from the floor above, the door closing louder than it should have.
'Tell me about the case,' he said.
Anna nodded. 'You sure? I mean, it might only be interesting to me.'
'That's good enough,' he said. Then he leaned across the table to pour another helping of cereal into his daughter's bowl.
Andy Boyle was one of those drinkers who said less the more he had to drink. He still talked happily enough, but he tended to repeat himself, and the silences grew longer between his increasingly slurred and rambling pronouncements.
'You need to appreciate what you've got, is all I'm saying, because one minute everything in the garden's rosy, and the next you're buggered. You're bowling along, happy as Larry, you go to a doctor because you find a lump or whatever, and everything goes to hell. So, be bloody careful.'
'I will be.'
'All I'm saying…'
Thorne listened, made the appropriate noises, and glanced at his watch whenever Boyle looked away or closed his eyes for a few seconds. Finally, at around quarter-past nine, he asked where the train timetable was, and for the number of a local taxi company. Boyle directed him to a drawer in the hall table, then to a bowl in the kitchen. As Thorne squinted at the stupidly small font on the timetable, Boyle reached down to the side of his chair for another can, one of several he had brought back from his last trip to the fridge.
'You're kidding me.'
'What?'
'Do you know how long this last bloody train takes to get to London?' Thorne had looked twice, just to confirm that the 22.10 from Wakefield took nearly nine hours to reach St Pancras, with one change at Sheffield, then a four-and-a-half-hour wait for a connection at Derby.
'I know, it's ridiculous,' Boyle said.
'I could walk home in that time.'
'But have a look, mate… you can get one back at quarter to six in the morning, or even earlier if you can be arsed getting up. You'll be back at your desk by half eight. Problem solved.'
Thorne swore at the East Coast Mainline, Richard Branson and anyone else who seemed deserving of it for a minute or two. Then he picked up one of Boyle's cans and went into the hall to phone Louise.
'Sounds like he wanted you to stay the night all along,' Louise said, when Thorne had told her about the trains. 'Maybe he's going to murder you in your bed.'
'He might have even stranger plans…'
'Could have been Rohypnol in that stew.'
'How was your day?'
'Well, since you ask, it started with me stepping in cat sick and went downhill from there.'
'Oh, God.' Thorne had fed Elvis just before he'd left that morning, a good half-hour before Louise was due to get up. 'Sorry.'
'It's not your fault.'
'So, what happened at work?'
'Just dealing with this bitch of a DS who's been drafted in.' Now, the frustrations of her day were there in her voice. 'Spreading poison around, usual stuff.'
'What kind of poison?'
'It doesn't matter. Don't worry, I'll sort her out.'
Thorne grunted. He knew that she would. 'So…'
'Sounds like you've had a useful day, though.'
'I suppose so.' Thorne took another step away from the living-room door. 'Even if the last few hours have been closer to care in the community. '
'Your good deed for the year,' Louise said.
'I suppose I'll see you tomorrow night, then.'
'Actually, I was thinking I might go back to my place tomorrow. I've got a few things to do.'
'Oh, OK. I just thought it would be nice to…'
'You can come over to mine, you know.'
Suddenly the conversation felt stilted and odd; especially as they had made such simple arrangements a hundred times before.
