As I went to poke my head around the sitting room door, my parents beat me to it. Mum was on her feet, opening the door from the other side so that I nearly flew through. Dad got up quickly from his armchair by the fire, putting his newspaper aside. Both their faces were pale.

‘Oh darling, we’ve been so worried,’ blurted out my mother.

‘Worried? Why?’

‘No, not worried,’ said Dad quickly. ‘We’re sure it’s nothing. It’s just – the police have been round, love.’

‘The police? Why?’ I stared at them.

‘They’ve caught the burglar.’

‘What?’ Even as I said it, though, I knew.

‘The one who broke into your house. You know. The one who had a scuffle with Michael.’

‘Except now, of course,’ my mother informed me, her pale blue eyes wide behind her spectacles, ‘he’s not just a burglar. He’s also a murderer.’

24

I gazed at my parents, who looked terribly old suddenly. I felt that awful sinking feeling one does at times like this: when the lift rising smoothly and inexorably to the top floor, suddenly fails, stalls – and then crashes to the ground.

‘Right,’ I said, forcing myself not to betray any emotion. Forcing myself to stay calm. ‘Right, well, that’s good, surely?’ I said, coming in and sitting by the fire.

‘Of course it is,’ said Dad buoyantly, sitting down again, opposite me. ‘I told your mother it was nothing to worry about. I don’t know why she’s got so upset.’

‘But why would the police want to talk to you, darling?’ she said, clearly very worried.

‘Well, to let me know, I’m sure.’

‘But they said they had some questions they wanted to ask you. It didn’t seem like a formality to me.’

‘To tie up loose ends, no doubt,’ said my father. ‘Go down tomorrow, love.’

‘Down?’

‘To the station. They asked if you’d drop by.’

‘Oh.’ I stared at him. ‘Oh, well no, actually, I’ll go now,’ I said slowly. I got to my feet. ‘I’d rather.’

‘Yes, I should,’ said Mum quickly. ‘Get it over with.’

Dad shot her a look. ‘There’s nothing to get over,’ he said irritably.

‘No, no I know, but—’

‘Cecily, for once—’ They were talking over one another.

‘It’s fine,’ I cut in. ‘Dad, Mum is rightly anxious. It brings back … memories. And I’d rather go. Have you had some tea? How were the Frobishers?’ I made myself function.

‘I’ll put the kettle on and make your mother one,’ Dad was saying. He shuffled towards the kitchen, knowing I was asking him to take the helm. ‘And the Frobishers were on good form. Sent their love. We’ll see you in a bit then, love.’ His eyes were anxious too, though, as he filled the kettle at the sink, and I wondered what the police had said.