‘Sure thing, mate,’ said my son.

‘Thanks, mate,’ said Dodge. ‘I’ll be fine. Like I say, healing just needs time.’

Because of my recent encounter with Mary Griffin, I couldn’t help saying. ‘And you’re absolutely certain that you don’t want to report what happened to the police?’

‘Never been more certain of anything, Ellen.’

It was rarely that Dodge used my name. The fact that he did seemed to reinforce his determination. I knew I couldn’t sway him.

Ben followed Dodge’s instructions as to where to put the potion he was brewing, and we were ready to leave.

‘Hang on in there, mate,’ said Dodge to my son.

I’m sure nothing had been said between them about the state of mind Ben was in, but Dodge instinctively empathized, understood.

SIXTEEN

I stopped at Sainsbury’s on the way into Chichester, to buy the makings of Sunday lunch. If I’d been on my own, I would have had an omelette but, given the fact that I had a large son with me, I planned something more elaborate.

Some depressives lose their appetite when they’re down. Ben never has. In that he’s like Oliver. Oliver never lost his appetite for food. Or drink. Particularly drink. Ben’s like him in that too. In so many ways he’s like Oliver. That’s why I worry so much about him. Can a child ever recover from the fact that his father committed suicide? Can the man’s widow ever recover, come to that?

We agreed on steak for lunch. Didn’t need to ask, really. Ben’s always liked steak. Since he was about five, if there was a birthday meal coming up or some other celebration, he would demand, ‘Steak and Mum’s fat chips.’ (That was before he’d developed the affectation of calling me ‘Ma’.) He never wanted any other vegetables or garnish, just far too much ketchup. Ben’s ultimate comfort food.

I’d got a couple of cases of Merlot at home, so we’d be all right for that, but I did also buy a new bottle of whisky. Famous Grouse, that’s what Oliver always drank. OK, I’ve read all the medical stuff, I know alcohol’s a depressant, but I also know my son. For Ben, before alcohol’s a depressant it’s a relaxant. And he’s likely to be a lot more confiding and open with me when he’s got a couple of Scotches inside him.

Anyway, it’s once he’s stopped drinking that he’s likely to get depressed. There was no way I was going to let him out of my sight for the next few days.

As soon as we arrived back at the house, I got out one of the heavy-bottomed tumblers, put in three lumps of ice and handed Ben the opened bottle of whisky from the cupboard. I poured myself a glass of Merlot and started peeling the potatoes to make ‘Mum’s fat chips’. (No great secret about how I’ve always done them – I always use King Edwards and double-cook.)

I didn’t initiate conversation, just waited till Ben came round to it. That happened when he’d finished his first Scotch and poured a second one. He began slowly, off the main subject that I knew he’d get round to in time. ‘Dodge didn’t say anything about how he got into that state … you know, who attacked him.’