“I handed her fifty quid last week, went round a day later and she’d stocked up on booze and fags rather than food. Not a penny of it left.”

“She needs looking after.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

“Who else will do it if you don’t?”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?”

“Oh, you’re good at dishing out the money, but sometimes a little more is required.”

“I come see you when I can. Though God knows why, since we always seem to end up like this.”

“It would just give me a bit of solace if I knew the two of you were going to be all right.”

“We’re getting by.” Fox stretched out his arms and gave a shrug. “I wish I could say we’re both on course for our Nobel prizes, but there you are.”

Mitch Fox smiled sourly. “The pair of you were always this way. It drove your mother up the wall.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“No, butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. You’d carry the shopping, set the table…But if you ever did something, you’d be quick to lay the blame on poor Jude, keeping your face straight as you lied through your teeth.”

“Will this character assassination take long?” Fox made show of checking his watch. “Only I’ve an appointment with a carryout menu…”

“You really think you’ll cope when they drop you back into CID?”

“I’m working a murder case right now—nobody’s scrawled any graffiti about me in the toilets.”

“That’s something, I suppose.” Mitch Fox’s eyelids were drooping again, his mouth hanging open half an inch.

“I better be off, Dad,” Fox said, returning to the bed and touching the back of his father’s hand. “Fancy an ice cream on the seafront this weekend?”

“Will it be bracing?”

“In Portobello? I think I can guarantee that.”

“And is Jude invited?”

“I’ll ask her,” Fox said, giving the mottled hand a final squeeze, and feeling the pressure returned.

Day Ten

Day Ten

18

18