Cat did not quite hang up on him but only paused a second before switching off. She was not on duty, she wanted a quiet evening by the fire with her husband and the last volume of Hilary Mantel’s trilogy, not a series of calls and texts from her brother. Richard Serrailler was without a female companion for the first time in Cat’s memory, possibly the first time ever, he was nearly eighty and had recovered surprisingly well, but a stroke was a stroke, he had sensed mortality and did not care for it, and he needed them all, without ever being able to tell them so. She dropped by his flat whenever she could, took shopping, stayed to talk for half an hour, frequently brought him to the farmhouse for Sunday lunch. He was as acerbic and critical as ever but there was a new vulnerability about him now, which he would never admit to and concealed beneath his usual brusqueness. She felt sorry for him, but since the end of his marriage to Judith and the fact that his violence towards her was the reason and then his being accused of sexual assault on another woman, she found it hard to feel any warmth or affection for her father, but she knew what she must do, Kieron backed her, and she was annoyed when Simon whinged about going for a single supper.

‘He’s just spoilt,’ she said, taking two mugs of tea into the sitting room. Kieron was on the sofa with his leg up.

‘Not by me.’

‘Of course not. Have I spoilt him?’

She saw his look and shrugged.

‘You’ll never be able to do anything else,’ he said. ‘And he knows it.’

‘He needs a bloody wife.’

‘So did I but then I got lucky.’

‘Thank you. Simon has struck lucky several times but either he didn’t know it or turned his back. Oh God, let’s not go there.’

‘That sounds quite difficult,’ Kieron said, listening as Benjamin Britten for oboe floated down from Felix’s room.

‘It is. He’s made one of those sudden leaps people do when they’re learning an instrument . . . they chug along for a time on one level and then do a leap . . .’

‘Grade what?’

‘Five. Meanwhile, his voice won’t hold out much longer.’

‘He told me he didn’t want to go on anyway, he’s done with singing, apparently. Will you be sorry?’

‘Yes and no, but whatever, it’s his choice.’

She picked up her book but as she opened it there was a whimper. ‘OK, Wookie . . . come on.’

The Yorkie settled down on Cat’s lap with a happy sigh.

‘He went trotting across the field OK this morning but I guess jumping onto a sofa is more of a strain.’

Cat rubbed Wookie’s ears. ‘He’s a lucky little hound. I think he still misses Mephisto though.’

‘Rubbish.’