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Authors: Christobel Kent
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waiting.
What was in the carrier bag? What did it matter? This was just distraction. But she leaned over Ben to turn it towards her, tilted her head to look inside, her breathing constricted. She heard a sound from upstairs and everything stopped. Someone called down, ‘Mrs Hall?’ DS Gerard.
He was in her bedroom, standing at the far side of the bed and looking down.
‘What are you doing up here?’ Fran said from the doorway, trying to sound reasonable. The room was full of pale clean light, flooding across the landscape. She remembered, as if from far away, how much she had loved it, their first morning here. Gerard stood between her and the windows. ‘Don’t you have to have a warrant or something?’ Trying, too late, to make it sound like a joke. DS Gerard looked up, gave her a stiff smile. ‘Just trying to save time,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you.’
‘I got Rob on the phone,’ said Fran.
‘So I gathered.’ Gerard let out a sigh. ‘It’s a difficult conversation to have. It must have been a nasty shock for him.’
‘I just … I wanted to be the one to tell him,’ she said, stubborn. Gerard nodded, non-committal.
‘He’s up a mountain in Wales. He’s coming down. He’s got to walk out though, it’s some kind of course—’
Gerard cut her off, gently. ‘It’s fine. We’ll make contact with him. It’s fine.’ His voice was so calm and level, she found herself wondering, does he care? Does he even care? He frowned, and she could feel her heart thudding as she came up to the bed on the opposite side.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Do you think now might be a good time,’ he said, quiet, reasonable, ‘to get down to the station?’
Ali Compton was late by seven minutes, but it didn’t matter, it turned out. ‘Not here yet,’ said Derek, looking up from the front desk. Sergeant Derek Butt, in weary receipt of more stupid jokes than Ali could remember. Sometimes she wondered if he’d stuck at desk sergeant, evading promotion, just because of his name. She didn’t even have that as an excuse, compassionate grounds not counting for much as an excuse for career stasis, with them that mattered.
‘Thanks, Derek.’
‘He’s requested interview room four,’ he told her, watching for her reaction, and Ali raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘That’s interesting. Pressed for space are we today?’
Interview room four was no one’s favourite place. The station – state-of-the-art, three years old – had a nice new airy set of rooms specially designed for the bereaved. It doubled up as an interview suite for children but as far as she knew – and Ali, like most of them, had a grim radar for incoming cases involving minors – it wasn’t in use.
‘Nope,’ said Derek. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Ah well,’ Ali said, ‘I’m sure he has his reasons. As sure as I am that, being Doug Gerard, and a believer in full disclosure and gender equality, he will bring me right up to date.’ She sighed. ‘Anything else I should know?’
‘I believe the wife was the one that found the body.’ Derek averted his eyes, expressionless. ‘And there was a call from DI Craddock, asking when DS Gerard was expected back.’
Doug Gerard had given her the impression Craddock was letting him have his head with this one. Maybe that had just been wishful thinking, or maybe this wasn’t just a domestic, after all. She saw Derek frown at her shirtfront and she pulled the cardigan closed over a blob of something that must have landed on her shirt between buttoning it at the top of the stairs and saying goodbye at Mum’s kitchen door. Mum looking up at her, lip quivering. ‘I’ll be back to make you a sandwich,’ Ali had said, already dreading the grief she’d get over that at the nick. ‘That’s sorted with work. Half one at the latest. I’ve put it in a note.’ Two weeks off was a long time.
‘Oh, shit,’ she said, looking down.
‘More like porridge, if you ask
What was in the carrier bag? What did it matter? This was just distraction. But she leaned over Ben to turn it towards her, tilted her head to look inside, her breathing constricted. She heard a sound from upstairs and everything stopped. Someone called down, ‘Mrs Hall?’ DS Gerard.
He was in her bedroom, standing at the far side of the bed and looking down.
‘What are you doing up here?’ Fran said from the doorway, trying to sound reasonable. The room was full of pale clean light, flooding across the landscape. She remembered, as if from far away, how much she had loved it, their first morning here. Gerard stood between her and the windows. ‘Don’t you have to have a warrant or something?’ Trying, too late, to make it sound like a joke. DS Gerard looked up, gave her a stiff smile. ‘Just trying to save time,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I startled you.’
‘I got Rob on the phone,’ said Fran.
‘So I gathered.’ Gerard let out a sigh. ‘It’s a difficult conversation to have. It must have been a nasty shock for him.’
‘I just … I wanted to be the one to tell him,’ she said, stubborn. Gerard nodded, non-committal.
‘He’s up a mountain in Wales. He’s coming down. He’s got to walk out though, it’s some kind of course—’
Gerard cut her off, gently. ‘It’s fine. We’ll make contact with him. It’s fine.’ His voice was so calm and level, she found herself wondering, does he care? Does he even care? He frowned, and she could feel her heart thudding as she came up to the bed on the opposite side.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Do you think now might be a good time,’ he said, quiet, reasonable, ‘to get down to the station?’
Ali Compton was late by seven minutes, but it didn’t matter, it turned out. ‘Not here yet,’ said Derek, looking up from the front desk. Sergeant Derek Butt, in weary receipt of more stupid jokes than Ali could remember. Sometimes she wondered if he’d stuck at desk sergeant, evading promotion, just because of his name. She didn’t even have that as an excuse, compassionate grounds not counting for much as an excuse for career stasis, with them that mattered.
‘Thanks, Derek.’
‘He’s requested interview room four,’ he told her, watching for her reaction, and Ali raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘That’s interesting. Pressed for space are we today?’
Interview room four was no one’s favourite place. The station – state-of-the-art, three years old – had a nice new airy set of rooms specially designed for the bereaved. It doubled up as an interview suite for children but as far as she knew – and Ali, like most of them, had a grim radar for incoming cases involving minors – it wasn’t in use.
‘Nope,’ said Derek. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Ah well,’ Ali said, ‘I’m sure he has his reasons. As sure as I am that, being Doug Gerard, and a believer in full disclosure and gender equality, he will bring me right up to date.’ She sighed. ‘Anything else I should know?’
‘I believe the wife was the one that found the body.’ Derek averted his eyes, expressionless. ‘And there was a call from DI Craddock, asking when DS Gerard was expected back.’
Doug Gerard had given her the impression Craddock was letting him have his head with this one. Maybe that had just been wishful thinking, or maybe this wasn’t just a domestic, after all. She saw Derek frown at her shirtfront and she pulled the cardigan closed over a blob of something that must have landed on her shirt between buttoning it at the top of the stairs and saying goodbye at Mum’s kitchen door. Mum looking up at her, lip quivering. ‘I’ll be back to make you a sandwich,’ Ali had said, already dreading the grief she’d get over that at the nick. ‘That’s sorted with work. Half one at the latest. I’ve put it in a note.’ Two weeks off was a long time.
‘Oh, shit,’ she said, looking down.
‘More like porridge, if you ask
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