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question,’ Henry said. ‘The hall as it stands is dreadfully dull. This is the perfect opportunity to jazz it up a bit. At the same time we’re helping a young offender.’
    ‘Who? How?’ Adele asked.
    ‘The painter. He was convicted of spraying graffiti on the promenade shelters. The new ones near the fishermen’s memorial.’
    ‘We campaigned against them for months,’ Duncan said. ‘Not only are they quite out of keeping with the existing architecture, they offer little or no protection against the elements.’
    ‘Don’t try to tell me he was objecting to the design,’ Adele said severely.
    ‘In essence, yes,’ Henry replied. ‘The graffiti were highly sophisticated. His defence was that he was an artist.’
    ‘Isn’t everyone these days? Some of us have had the privilege of knowing a true artist.’
    ‘Yes, of course,’ Henry said smoothly. ‘The magistrates showed leniency. Instead of sending him to jail, they ordered him to pay compensation and do a hundred and fifty hours of community service, which turned out to be the redecoration of the church hall. Joel Lincoln, one of our churchwardens, knew Jordan’s story. He proposed that, rather than just filling in cracks and painting walls, he design a mural.’
    ‘Making the punishment fit the crime,’ Duncan said.
    ‘In effect,’ Henry said. ‘The PCC saw some of his work.’
    ‘In the shelters?’ Adele asked.
    ‘No,’ Henry replied, laughing. ‘On paper. It showed real talent. He – Jordan – was the best artist in his school. His teachers wanted him to go to college, but there was some family crisis and he left at sixteen to work in a garden centre. This is his chance to express and redeem himself at the same time. Everyone’s happy.’
    ‘Are we?’ Adele asked. ‘I mean
are they
? Does this mural have a subject, or is it modern?’
    ‘The Garden of Eden.’
    ‘That can hide a multitude of sins. How far has he got with it?’
    ‘It’s hard to tell. He’s put dustsheets up to stop people peeking. It’s only fair to respect an artist’s privacy.’ Adele harrumphed. ‘The one person he appears to have taken into his confidence is Mary.’
    ‘Which Mary?’ Adele asked.
    ‘My Mary,’ Duncan said. ‘The cleaner at Mercury House. I had to cut back her hours and knew that Henry was looking for someone for the church.’
    ‘I hope you haven’t cut them too much. I’ve yet to meet a tidy journalist.’
    ‘No matter what I do, I can’t seem to persuade my mother of the need to economise,’ Duncan said to Henry, his mock exasperation masking genuine concern.
    ‘The truth is that my darling son is ruining himself to provide for a woman who deserted him.’
    ‘You know very well, Mother,’ Duncan said sharply, ‘I stopped paying Linda alimony when she married Derek. All I give her now is maintenance for Jamie.’
    ‘But why, when Derek is so much better off?’
    ‘Because he’s my son.’
    ‘So you’ll indulge your son but you’re happy to deprive your mother?’ She turned to Henry. ‘I have nothing except my widow’s pension – my widow’s mite – and the tiny dividends from the paper.’
    ‘All I’ve asked is that you keep a close watch on expenditure. This house is a money pit.’
    ‘Which is your excuse for putting me in a home?’
    ‘Who mentioned a home? I simply said that it might be time to look for somewhere more manageable.’ At their father’s death, Duncan and Alison had agreed that it would be cruel to ask their mother to leave her home of twenty-five years. Now, as he gazed around the large dining room, where an air of neglect confirmed the general impracticality, he feared that the cruelty might be forced upon him. ‘Look at me!’ he said, in a bid to distract himself as well as Adele. ‘I’ve been reduced to living above the shop.’
    ‘Don’t say that!’ she said, her face crumpling. ‘I’ve asked you never to say that.’ She turned to Henry. ‘He only says it to annoy me.