back from the table. ‘That’s right. We’d better think about going.’
‘Eye test?’ Laura Anson frowned. ‘Is there something wrong with your eyes, Caroline? I hope you haven’t inherited your father’s short-sightedness. It got worse when he was in his thirties , you know. And you’re—’
‘Almost thirty,’ Callie finished for her. ‘Yes, Mother. I know.’
‘Tell me, Stewart. Tell me it’s all straightforward,’ commanded DCS Evans wearily. ‘Cot death, pure and simple.’
They were in Evans’ corner office; Evans was sitting at his desk and Neville was standing. He’d not yet been invited to sit, and reckoned that the invitation might not come at all. Evans, he was positive, was not going to like what he had to tell him.
‘I wish I could, Sir,’ said Neville. Evans’ quick intake of breath seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room, so Neville went on hastily. ‘It probably is. I’m sure we’ll find that it is, in the end. But there are just a few…issues.’
‘Issues?’ Evans raised his massive caterpillar-like eyebrows almost to his hairline.
‘Of course we don’t know what forensics will turn up. Or the post-mortem, for that matter. But there may be a case to be made for…’ He hesitated and chose his words with care. ‘Parental neglect, perhaps.’
Neville didn’t think it was possible for Evans’ eyebrows to go any higher; he was wrong. ‘Neglect? What are you trying to say, Stewart?’
‘It’s just something that the baby’s grandmother, Mrs Betts, said to DS Lombardi,’ Neville explained. ‘She said that Muffin would have died, even if someone had been at home.’
The pitch and volume of Evans’ voice went up a notch. ‘Meaning…?’
‘DS Lombardi asked her what she meant, of course. And it turns out that the baby was left at home on her own. Purely an accident, she said.’
‘How could it be an accident?’ growled Evans. ‘Either you leave the baby, or you don’t.’
Neville shifted his weight from one leg to the other. ‘She did explain, Sir. She said that the parents—Jodee and Chazz—went out to a club, assuming that she—Mrs Betts—was sleeping in the room next to the baby as usual. But she’d gone out without telling them.’
‘So the baby—Muffin; what a ridiculous name for a child—was alone in the house when she died? That’s what you’re telling me?’
‘That’s it exactly, Sir.’
Evans closed his eyes and exhaled in a gusty sigh. Neville waited, feeling it better to say no more until required to do so.
‘Good God,’ said Evans at last.
‘Yes, Sir.’
Before they’d even made it round the corner from their mother’s, Peter was dealing with the experience in the best possible way: with humour. He was a gifted mimic, and with years of practice he had their mother down to a T. ‘Oh, dear Celia Fleming,’ he drawled. ‘She would have made such a good wife for you. She would have warmed your slippers by the fire every night, and lit your pipe for you. And shagged you senseless, of course.’
‘Oh, don’t!’ Callie laughed.
But Peter was only just warming up. ‘Not that shagging is a good thing, necessarily,’ he went on in his mother’s voice. ‘Except for the purposes of procreation.’
Callie got a fit of the giggles and had to stop walking.
He stopped as well. ‘Grandchildren, you know,’ he trilled. ‘Sorry to say, it’s the only way.’ Then, as Callie’s giggles showed no signs of abating, Peter continued in his own voice. ‘Seriously, Sis. Can you imagine our parents in bed?’
‘Don’t even go there,’ she warned him.
‘It’s a wonder to me that they had two children.’
Callie put up her hand. ‘Do you mind if we change the subject?’
‘I’m not finished with Celia Fleming, actually.’ Peter pictured the young woman in question, her thin face burned into his memory from that long-ago luncheon party. ‘What a miserable cow she was. I mean, even if I was interested in girls, I
‘Eye test?’ Laura Anson frowned. ‘Is there something wrong with your eyes, Caroline? I hope you haven’t inherited your father’s short-sightedness. It got worse when he was in his thirties , you know. And you’re—’
‘Almost thirty,’ Callie finished for her. ‘Yes, Mother. I know.’
‘Tell me, Stewart. Tell me it’s all straightforward,’ commanded DCS Evans wearily. ‘Cot death, pure and simple.’
They were in Evans’ corner office; Evans was sitting at his desk and Neville was standing. He’d not yet been invited to sit, and reckoned that the invitation might not come at all. Evans, he was positive, was not going to like what he had to tell him.
‘I wish I could, Sir,’ said Neville. Evans’ quick intake of breath seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room, so Neville went on hastily. ‘It probably is. I’m sure we’ll find that it is, in the end. But there are just a few…issues.’
‘Issues?’ Evans raised his massive caterpillar-like eyebrows almost to his hairline.
‘Of course we don’t know what forensics will turn up. Or the post-mortem, for that matter. But there may be a case to be made for…’ He hesitated and chose his words with care. ‘Parental neglect, perhaps.’
Neville didn’t think it was possible for Evans’ eyebrows to go any higher; he was wrong. ‘Neglect? What are you trying to say, Stewart?’
‘It’s just something that the baby’s grandmother, Mrs Betts, said to DS Lombardi,’ Neville explained. ‘She said that Muffin would have died, even if someone had been at home.’
The pitch and volume of Evans’ voice went up a notch. ‘Meaning…?’
‘DS Lombardi asked her what she meant, of course. And it turns out that the baby was left at home on her own. Purely an accident, she said.’
‘How could it be an accident?’ growled Evans. ‘Either you leave the baby, or you don’t.’
Neville shifted his weight from one leg to the other. ‘She did explain, Sir. She said that the parents—Jodee and Chazz—went out to a club, assuming that she—Mrs Betts—was sleeping in the room next to the baby as usual. But she’d gone out without telling them.’
‘So the baby—Muffin; what a ridiculous name for a child—was alone in the house when she died? That’s what you’re telling me?’
‘That’s it exactly, Sir.’
Evans closed his eyes and exhaled in a gusty sigh. Neville waited, feeling it better to say no more until required to do so.
‘Good God,’ said Evans at last.
‘Yes, Sir.’
Before they’d even made it round the corner from their mother’s, Peter was dealing with the experience in the best possible way: with humour. He was a gifted mimic, and with years of practice he had their mother down to a T. ‘Oh, dear Celia Fleming,’ he drawled. ‘She would have made such a good wife for you. She would have warmed your slippers by the fire every night, and lit your pipe for you. And shagged you senseless, of course.’
‘Oh, don’t!’ Callie laughed.
But Peter was only just warming up. ‘Not that shagging is a good thing, necessarily,’ he went on in his mother’s voice. ‘Except for the purposes of procreation.’
Callie got a fit of the giggles and had to stop walking.
He stopped as well. ‘Grandchildren, you know,’ he trilled. ‘Sorry to say, it’s the only way.’ Then, as Callie’s giggles showed no signs of abating, Peter continued in his own voice. ‘Seriously, Sis. Can you imagine our parents in bed?’
‘Don’t even go there,’ she warned him.
‘It’s a wonder to me that they had two children.’
Callie put up her hand. ‘Do you mind if we change the subject?’
‘I’m not finished with Celia Fleming, actually.’ Peter pictured the young woman in question, her thin face burned into his memory from that long-ago luncheon party. ‘What a miserable cow she was. I mean, even if I was interested in girls, I
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