“Will—er—will the morning do?” asked Danizon.
“Why not this afternoon?” asked Roger, and glanced at his watch. “Good Lord—it’s six-fifteen! Yes, the morning will do. I’ll keep these meanwhile. You get off.” He fore- bore to ask where the sergeant was so anxious to go, put the reports in his brief-case to read at home, and then sat back and reflected over the day. He still could not think of Coppell without a rising sense of indignation, and that in itself was enough to make him disgruntled. He pushed his chair back and was about to get up when his telephone bell rang.
“Superintendent West,” he almost barked.
There was a slight pause before a familiar voice sounded.
“Hi, Dad!”
“Scoop!” Roger exclaimed, and could picture the big face of his elder son, Martin-called-Scoop; and also could imagine the faint smile on it.
“Don’t sound so horrified,” Scoop said, in a rather troubled voice.
“Just surprised!” said Roger. “It must be a year since you called me at the office. I—is everything all right?” he diverged suddenly. For on the last occasion Martin had telephoned him at the Yard it was to tell him that Janet, his wife, had fallen down some stairs and was at the hospital awaiting a doctor’s report.
“Er—no one’s fallen down and broken their neck,” Scoop said in his slightly rueful, half-jesting way. “But— I— er—I’d like a talk with you, Pop. Er—Dad. Er—I mean, not with the family. It—er—well, Mummy’s been a bit—er —well, impatient lately and I—er—”
“We can have a drink, or a meal, or you can come here,” Roger said quietly. “I can telephone your mother and say I’ll be late.”
“Well, no need for that, anyhow,” said Scoop. “She’s gone to the pictures with Richard and Lindy, and won’t be back until elevenish. So home would do fine tonight.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” promised Roger.
He was outside and in his car within five minutes, and within twenty was at one end of Bell Street, Chelsea, the street where he and Janet had lived since their marriage, nearly thirty years ago. At one end was the wide thoroughfare of King’s Road, at the other another street which led to the Chelsea Embankment. There was a drizzle over the Thames and everywhere; the flowers and grass in the front gardens looked as if they were covered with dew; roofs and windows, fences and railings were all smeared with moisture; it was a most depressing day for May.
Roger parked out of sight of his house; he did not want to be early. If he knew Martin, the boy would be preparing a simple meal, and would like to have everything ready. He was not yet anxious, for Martin sometimes made mountains out of molehills, but he was eager to know what this S.O.S. was about. If it were something that could not be discussed about in the family, it might indeed be a cause for anxiety, for Janet got on remarkably well with her two sons.
One thing had been obvious from the moment he had heard that Janet was out with Richard and his girl- friend. Richard had deliberately taken his mother off to allow Scoop to have this “personal talk”.
Roger moved away, and pulled into the garage at the side and slightly to the front of the house in Bell Street. It was a stucco-fronted building, almost square, with bow windows. Creepers and ramblers grew on the walls, the privet hedge was neatly trimmed, and so was the small front lawn. Late wallflowers and tulips looked bedraggled and forlorn in the borders.
Roger went in by the back door, to find Martin at the kitchen sink. He turned round and gave Roger a slow smile. His face was broad, like his forehead, and but for a broken nose—from an injury caused by boxing at school —he would have been remarkably handsome, although more like his mother than Roger. But he had Roger’s full, generous-looking lips.
“Hi. Dad!”
“Hi, Scoop. What are you cooking?”
“Steak and sausages and chips. Okay?”
“Sounds wonderful. I had no lunch.” Roger went and contemplated the steaks and sausages under the grill, and saw the pan of oil already simmering, and the pile of chipped potatoes ready to be cooked. “Ten minutes?”
Fine.”
Roger went upstairs, washed, actually had time to sit back in the bedroom armchair for a few minutes before rejoining his son. The steaks and sausages were served and keeping warm under the grill; Scoop lifted a basket- scoop of golden-brown chips and put them in a deep, white, porcelain dish.
“Ever seen better French fries?” he boasted.
“Never. But what’s the matter with plain English?”
“It’s very out, to call chips chips,” Martin declared. “Sit down. Pop.”
Roger sat at the big kitchen table, covered with a deceptively linen-like plastic tablecloth, and Martin placed a huge plate of food in front of him, then sat down opposite with as heaped a plate for himself.
Suddenly, he pushed plate and knife and fork away.
“Dad, I want to emigrate. Leave England, that is. For keeps. That is for keeps as far as I know. I’ve felt like it for a long time. Hate to seem ungrateful for all you and Mum have done for me, but—” He broke off, and gulped. “Sorry, Dad.”
Roger was cutting through steak is Martin spoke, and he speared a piece on to his fork and raised it to his lips.
“You won’t emigrate anywhere if you starve to death,” he remarked.
“Eh? Oh.” Martin gave an almost sheepish grin. “I—er —I suppose you’re right.” He pulled his plate back again. “Aren’t you shocked?”
