equipment.
They went back they way they had come. ‘There’s another sitting room here,’ said Erica. ‘It’s the one with the television.’
Four leather armchairs around a fireplace, a television on a shelf to the left, more Swedish sound equipment to the right. Cosy by the standards of this house, thought Cashin.
‘Well,’ said Cashin, ‘that’s it. We needn’t go upstairs, I gather it’s undisturbed.’
There was a moment when she looked at him, something uncertain in her eyes.
‘I’d like to go up,’ she said. ‘Will you come with me?’
‘Of course.’
They crossed the house to the entrance hall, walked side by side up a flight of broad marble stairs to a landing, up another flight. All the way, he shut down his face against the pain, did not wince. At the top, a gallery ran around the stairwell, six dark cedar doors leading off it, all closed. They stood on a Persian rug in a shaft of light from above.
‘I want to get some things from my mother’s room, if they’re still there,’ said Erica. ‘I’ve never had the nerve before.’
‘How long have you waited?’
‘Almost thirty years.’
‘I’ll be here’ said Cashin. ‘Unless…’
‘No, that’s fine.’
She went to the second door on the left. He saw her hesitate, open the six-panel door, put out a hand to a brass light switch, go in.
Cashin opened the nearest door and switched on the light. It was a bedroom, huge, twin beds with white covers, two wardrobes, a dressing table, a writing table in front of the curtained window. He walked on a pale pinkish carpet, lined like a quilt, and parted the curtains. The view was of a redbrick stable block and of treetops beyond,near-leafless, limbs moving in the wind, and then of a low hill stained with the russet leaves of autumn.
He went back to the gallery and went to the balustrade and looked down the stairwell at the entrance hall, felt a flash of vertigo, an urge to throw himself over the barrier.
‘Finished,’ said Erica behind him.
‘Find what you wanted?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing there. It was stupid to think there might be.’
They went back to the sunroom and sat with a glass-topped table between them.
‘Notice anything worth mentioning?’ said Cashin.
‘No. I’m sorry, I’m not much use. I’m pretty much a stranger in this house.’
‘How’s that?’
She looked at him sharply. ‘Just the way it is, detective.’
‘Everything locked at night, alarm switched on?’ he said.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been here at night for a very long time.’
Time to move on. ‘About your brother, Ms Bourgoyne.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘He drowned, I’m told.’
‘In Tasmania. In 1993.’
‘Went for a swim?’
Erica shifted in her seat, crossed her legs in corduroy pants, twitched a shiny black boot. ‘Presumably. His things were found on a beach. The body wasn’t found.’
‘Right. So you were here on Wednesday morning.’
‘Yes.’
‘Visit your step-father often?’
She rubbed palms. ‘Often? No.’
‘You don’t get on?’
Erica pulled a face, looked much older, lined. ‘We’re not close. It’s our family history. The way I grew up.’
‘And the reason for this visit?’
‘Charles wanted to see me.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘This is intrusive,’ she said. ‘Why do you need to know?’
‘Ms Bourgoyne,’ said Cashin, ‘I don’t know what we need to know. But if you want me to record that you preferred not to answer the question, that’s fine. I will.’
She shrugged, not happy. ‘He wanted to talk about his affairs.’
Cashin waited until it was clear that she wasn’t going to say any more. ‘On another subject. Who’ll inherit?’
Widened eyes. ‘No idea. What are you suggesting?’
‘It’s just a question,’ Cashin said. ‘You didn’t discuss his will?’
A laugh. ‘My step-father isn’t the kind of person who would talk about his will. I doubt whether he’s ever given dying a
They went back they way they had come. ‘There’s another sitting room here,’ said Erica. ‘It’s the one with the television.’
Four leather armchairs around a fireplace, a television on a shelf to the left, more Swedish sound equipment to the right. Cosy by the standards of this house, thought Cashin.
‘Well,’ said Cashin, ‘that’s it. We needn’t go upstairs, I gather it’s undisturbed.’
There was a moment when she looked at him, something uncertain in her eyes.
‘I’d like to go up,’ she said. ‘Will you come with me?’
‘Of course.’
They crossed the house to the entrance hall, walked side by side up a flight of broad marble stairs to a landing, up another flight. All the way, he shut down his face against the pain, did not wince. At the top, a gallery ran around the stairwell, six dark cedar doors leading off it, all closed. They stood on a Persian rug in a shaft of light from above.
‘I want to get some things from my mother’s room, if they’re still there,’ said Erica. ‘I’ve never had the nerve before.’
‘How long have you waited?’
‘Almost thirty years.’
‘I’ll be here’ said Cashin. ‘Unless…’
‘No, that’s fine.’
She went to the second door on the left. He saw her hesitate, open the six-panel door, put out a hand to a brass light switch, go in.
Cashin opened the nearest door and switched on the light. It was a bedroom, huge, twin beds with white covers, two wardrobes, a dressing table, a writing table in front of the curtained window. He walked on a pale pinkish carpet, lined like a quilt, and parted the curtains. The view was of a redbrick stable block and of treetops beyond,near-leafless, limbs moving in the wind, and then of a low hill stained with the russet leaves of autumn.
He went back to the gallery and went to the balustrade and looked down the stairwell at the entrance hall, felt a flash of vertigo, an urge to throw himself over the barrier.
‘Finished,’ said Erica behind him.
‘Find what you wanted?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing there. It was stupid to think there might be.’
They went back to the sunroom and sat with a glass-topped table between them.
‘Notice anything worth mentioning?’ said Cashin.
‘No. I’m sorry, I’m not much use. I’m pretty much a stranger in this house.’
‘How’s that?’
She looked at him sharply. ‘Just the way it is, detective.’
‘Everything locked at night, alarm switched on?’ he said.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been here at night for a very long time.’
Time to move on. ‘About your brother, Ms Bourgoyne.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘He drowned, I’m told.’
‘In Tasmania. In 1993.’
‘Went for a swim?’
Erica shifted in her seat, crossed her legs in corduroy pants, twitched a shiny black boot. ‘Presumably. His things were found on a beach. The body wasn’t found.’
‘Right. So you were here on Wednesday morning.’
‘Yes.’
‘Visit your step-father often?’
She rubbed palms. ‘Often? No.’
‘You don’t get on?’
Erica pulled a face, looked much older, lined. ‘We’re not close. It’s our family history. The way I grew up.’
‘And the reason for this visit?’
‘Charles wanted to see me.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘This is intrusive,’ she said. ‘Why do you need to know?’
‘Ms Bourgoyne,’ said Cashin, ‘I don’t know what we need to know. But if you want me to record that you preferred not to answer the question, that’s fine. I will.’
She shrugged, not happy. ‘He wanted to talk about his affairs.’
Cashin waited until it was clear that she wasn’t going to say any more. ‘On another subject. Who’ll inherit?’
Widened eyes. ‘No idea. What are you suggesting?’
‘It’s just a question,’ Cashin said. ‘You didn’t discuss his will?’
A laugh. ‘My step-father isn’t the kind of person who would talk about his will. I doubt whether he’s ever given dying a
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