Kieron turned back to his iPad, Cat opened her book. Britten had given way to mellifluous Corelli and somewhere in the distance, emergency sirens wailed through the darkness.

Fifty-Three

He should have left the flat at least a quarter of an hour earlier but he had hung about, without an excuse, checking his emails, washing up a couple of mugs, putting his dirty shirt in the laundry basket.

‘Seven, for a drink beforehand,’ his father had said, ‘and I would be obliged if you were not late, my recipe is carefully timed.’

He would be late, not by much but enough to put his father’s back up before the evening had properly begun. He picked up his phone, keys, jacket. Left the usual light on. Slammed the door behind him. As he got into the car, he remembered his sister’s words, ‘he’s on his own’, and wondered fleetingly if he would ever feel the same. No. Or at least not until he too was pushing eighty.

He was on the open stretch of the bypass, where on a quiet night like this, he could enjoy giving the Audi its head, but before he had the chance, he heard sirens and saw the blue lights coming up behind him. He slowed and pulled over to let two fire engines past, followed by a patrol car, and a minute later by another engine. He was heading off the road to the west, they carried on.

‘Six minutes late. Better than expected.’

‘Why?’

‘I usually give you ten.’

‘I was slowed down by emergency fire engines.’

‘Always something, Simon. Gin and tonic? Or a sherry?’

‘Gin, thanks, Dad, but let me get it.’

‘Thank you. It’s all laid out.’

‘Something smells good.’

‘I’ve braised the pheasants this time, with celery. Too old for roasting.’

‘Excellent.’

It had surprised them all when Richard had started to cook, after a lifetime of having done no more than make toast. Simon’s mother Meriel had been a decent, plain cook, without taking much notice of what she was doing, his stepmother, Judith, had been better, and there had always been others. Perhaps his taking to careful, recipe-led cooking was a sign that Richard knew those days were behind him.

Simon was carrying the tray of drinks into the living room when his phone rang.

‘I hope you will ignore that.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m off.’ But he still glanced at the screen. The station never called on rest days unless it was urgent. ‘I ought to just get this, sorry, Dad . . . it won’t be anything.’

‘Then ignore it.’

But he had already stepped into the hall.

‘Serrailler.’

‘Sorry, guv, you’re needed. Chinese pharmacy in Starly has gone up in flames. Query explosion.’

As he left, Richard was shouting, ‘I’ll throw the whole bloody supper in the bin, and you needn’t expect a further invitation.’