Читать книгу: «The Cinderella Moment», страница 2

‘You’re interested in history?’

‘In art. In history – in both.’

He nodded.

‘I’m an artist.’

‘Oh right. But I thought –’ he nodded towards the briefcase – ‘interviews, people on the phone wanting things.’

‘Needs must.’ She reddened, not quite catching his eye, wishing she hadn’t started this conversation. ‘So is Rome your adventure?’

‘Kind of. I’ve got to go and sort out a little business over there. You know.’

Cass nodded and then, taking a book out of her bag, she made a show of settling in, shutting him out.

‘Good book?’ he asked, as the train pulled out of the station. ‘I love reading.’

Had the man no shame? She could feel him watching, smiling, waiting for a reaction, and at the same time her colour rising.

‘Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a complete pain in the arse?’ she said.

‘Not recently. So tell me what you liked in Rome and I’ll go visit it.’

‘Seriously?’

He nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

Cass considered for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose the thing that surprised me most was that you can walk everywhere – all the famous things are a stone’s throw from each other. The centre is wonderful but quite small, so you can walk from place to place, stop for coffee. The bad thing is every artist you’ve ever heard of has work there: da Vinci, Michelangelo, Caravaggio, Raphael – the list is endless. And that’s without all the Classical Roman stuff…Do you know anything about art?’

He grinned. ‘I know what I like.’

Cass laughed aloud. God, fate was cruel. How come she had met him now?

There was a dog on the line just outside Ely.

‘Hi, this is Cassandra Hammond. I’m on my way to an interview this morning – yes, yes, that’s me – well, I’m afraid I’m going to be a little late,’ she said, her mobile pressed against one ear and a finger in the other. It could have been worse, at least there was a signal. ‘The train’s been delayed. No, nothing serious, fortunately. I am sorry about this, but I’ll be there as soon as I can. Yes, thank you, see you later.’

As she hung up, Cass grimaced. ‘Doesn’t look very good if you’re late for an interview, does it? They sounded OK about it, but it’s not a great start. Maybe I should have driven.’ It struck her that she was thinking aloud and she quickly shut up.

Not that the man seemed to mind. ‘People understand. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ He glanced out of the window; across a stretch of open farmland, two burly men had caught a Collie and were busy bundling it into the back of a Land Rover. ‘At least you can ring in. I can’t ask them to hold the plane for me.’ He looked down at his watch. ‘It’s going to be cutting it fine if I’m going catch my connection.’

Cass groaned, feeling anxious on his behalf. ‘I’m sorry. What time does it leave?’

‘There’s a ten-minute window. The trouble is I’m not sure what time the next train goes if I miss this one. Damn, damn –’

Cass took a long hard look at her watch; not that it helped. She had no idea what time they would get there, or what time his train would leave.

‘We’re moving now. Maybe it’ll be OK. You never know, if your luck’s in, the Stansted train will be running late as well.’

He laughed and offered her a mint humbug. ‘So tell me where else I should go.’

At Cambridge he was up on his feet a long time before the train got into the station. ‘Wish me luck,’ he said, picking up his suitcase. And then, as an afterthought, added, ‘I could send you a postcard, if you like.’

Cass laughed. ‘What?’

‘A postcard. As a thank you. You know, small square of cardboard, arrives back about a month after you do, badly tinted picture of the Coliseum on the front, Weather lousy, wish you were here on the back.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Never more so,’ he said with a grin. ‘So how about it?’

‘How about what?’

‘Giving me your address. For the postcard – so I can let you know if I enjoyed your whistle-stop tour of Rome.’ Cass hesitated long enough for the man to add, ‘I promise you I’m not a stalker or an axe-wielding psychopath.’

‘And if you were you’d tell me, obviously.’

He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Obviously. Goes without saying.’

Cass considered for a second or two more, and then pulled the envelope containing the interview details out of her briefcase, emptied the contents and handed it to him.

He slipped it into his pocket and smiled. ‘Grazie.’

She giggled. It struck her as he hurried off down the train that she didn’t even know his name.

‘Have a great time in Rome,’ she called after him.

He turned. ‘I’m sure I will, and best of luck with the interview. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you. Ciao,’ he said, lifting a hand in salute, and then hurried down the aisle so that he was first at the doors. He was gone almost as soon as the open light flashed on.

Cass was far slower, gathering her thoughts and her things together. Notes, mints…

James Devlin, hurrying out towards the car park, felt pleased with himself. He’d set up a false trail, now he just needed to get into the city and pick up his car.

‘Excuse me?’ said a voice from behind Cass as she headed, embedded in the queue of travellers, down the aisle towards the doors.

‘Excuse me?’ said the voice again, more forcefully this time, followed by a hand tapping her sharply on the shoulder. Cass looked round in surprise.

‘Is this your phone?’ said a small plump woman. She held out a mobile towards her, so close it was almost in her face.

Cass squinted, trying to focus. ‘No, I’m afraid not – I –’

The woman waved it in the direction of the seat Cass had so recently left. ‘Only it was on the floor where you and your husband were sitting,’ the woman said.

‘My husband?

The woman nodded. ‘Yes. It was under the seat. It must’ve fallen out of his bag or his pocket.’

‘Oh – oh thank you.’ Cass looked out on to the platform, trying to spot her travelling companion, but there was no sign of him. Nothing, zilch. He appeared to have vanished into thin air. Maybe he had managed to catch the Stansted train after all.

The woman was still holding the phone out towards her and, without really thinking, Cass took it, thanked her again and dropped it into her handbag. She would ring him later, tell him that he’d lost it but that it was safe. Maybe it was fate; he was very cute. Cass reddened as the thought took hold and caught light. It felt so much better than the dull David-shaped hurt she’d had in her heart.

Outside the station, with one eye on the time, Cass grabbed a taxi and headed out towards the science park instead of taking a bus as planned. In the back of the cab she ran through the menu on the man’s phone.

She moseyed on down through names, numbers and text. In the phone book section she scrolled down until she found ‘HOME’ and pressed call. After three rings a BT callminder answering service cut in.

‘Hi,’ said Cass. ‘I just wanted to let you know that you left your phone on the train this morning. It must have dropped out of your bag or something. But don’t worry, I’ve got it and it’s safe, and –’ she laughed nervously – ‘it was nice to have your company. I hope your trip goes well…’ Cass hesitated. ‘I’m not normally so snappy. Things are a bit rough for me at the moment.’

What the hell was she saying?

‘So, anyway, I hope you managed to catch your connection, and have a great time…’ Cass paused. He was nice; he had been kind and funny and – OK, so maybe she had fancied him just a little even if it wasn’t the right time and didn’t make any sense at all. ‘If you’d like to give me a ring when you get back, we can arrange for you to pick your phone up.’ Cass laughed again. ‘Who knows, maybe I can return the compliment and we can have an impromptu picnic on the train or something. Anyway, you know your phone number, although I’m a bit worried that the batteries on your mobile might go, so I’ll give you my home number and my mobile…’

When she was done, Cass dropped the phone into her bag, paid the taxi driver and headed up the very impressive canopied shiny steel walkway into the huge glazed atrium of Caraway Industries, which appeared to be planted with a miniature rain forest.

‘Hi, and welcome to Caraway. So glad that you could make it,’ said an American guy coming out from behind the front desk to greet her. ‘You must be Cas-san-dra,’ he said, lingering lovingly over every syllable.

Before she could reply, he continued, ‘If you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you down to meet Artie and the rest of the guys. My name is Nathaniel T. Coleridge. I’m vice co-ordinator on our Human Resources initiative.’ With this he offered her his hand – as cool and limp as a dead eel – before clasping hers in a presidential handshake, all the while dazzling her with a smile honed to a sharp social point in California. Cass winced, indiscriminate gushing was so much worse than the Moustache woman’s barely veiled indifference.

Nathaniel, making deep meaningful conversation about planetary issues, global warming and the ozone layer in response to her casual remark about how much she liked the trees, led Cass down a huge spiral stone staircase – a homage to the nautilus shell and the genius of Fibonacci, apparently – to an impressive conference room with one glass wall overlooking a Japanese rock garden. The twenty or so other applicants for the various positions Caraway had on offer were arranged in a horseshoe of chairs around their host, who was standing behind an onyx-and-steel lectern, his great hands holding tight to the sides as if he was delivering a eulogy.

‘How-dee and welcome, Cas-san-dra,’ said Artie, waving her in. No quietly slipping in at the back with this lot. ‘Why don’t you come on down and take a seat with the rest of the guys. We were all just getting acquainted.’ A big bluff Scandinavian-looking man, Artie looked as if he would be more at home at a barn-raising in Minnesota than in Fenland’s answer to Silicone Valley.

Rather self-consciously, Cass took up her seat, arranged the little flip-up flip-over desk thing on the side of her chair, opened the complimentary Caraway introduction and orientation pack, all the while watched by her fellow job seekers. When she was finally settled, Artie began to speak. ‘Okeydokey, now, as I was saying…’

Artie’s voice was low, soft and even, with barely a flicker in pitch or tone or inflection. The sun shone in through the wall of glass, warming the room to a cocoon-like heat. After fifteen minutes or so, despite eating the complimentary mints and doodling on the complimentary notepad with a zippy Caraway complimentary roller ball, it was taking a colossal act of will on Cass’s part not to slip down in the chair and fall asleep.

Alongside her, a plump blonde woman in a trouser suit the colour of ripe plums had given up the struggle. A thin glistening guy-rope of drool clung to her bottom lip and tethered her head to her lapel.

Cass winced; it could so easily be her. She could feel herself starting to nod, just as the woman alongside her began to snore softly. It was like a siren call. She needed this job; she couldn’t afford to drop off. Cass snapped her attention back to Artie, who was now in full, albeit soporific, swing, giving an almost evangelical presentation on the benefits of working for Caraway – not merely a company but a caring family – when somewhere close by a phone started to ring. There was a little flurry of activity as everyone nervously tapped their pockets and bags and looked round to try and track it down. It rang and it rang and then it stopped for a few seconds and then it rang again, and then again. People started to move. The woman in the purple suit woke up with a start.

From the lectern Artie leaned forward. Breaking off mid-flow, he said, ‘Guys, would you like to check your cellphones?’

Cass looked round. Smugly. And still the phone kept on ringing and ringing, and then an icy finger of doubt tracked down her spine. Bugger. It couldn’t be, could it? Very slowly she opened her handbag. The ringing got louder. Not from her phone but from Mr Humbug-and-Peaches-Gone-to-Rome’s mobile. Home was phoning.

All eyes slowly turned and fixed on her.

Cass reddened and smiled sheepishly, mouthing apologies to the other applicants and Artie, whose perfect fixed smile made it look as if rigor mortis might well have set in.

‘Err, sorry, I – I think I really ought to take this,’ she said, making a break for the door. ‘Emergency. Family stuff,’ she lied. ‘I told them it would be OK to ring – I didn’t think they would – well, you know, obviously –’ Art lifted a hand and managed to widen the smile another notch.

‘Whatever it takes,’ he said, sounding as if he meant it.

Bloody Americans. Cass scurried across what felt like a mile and a half of shiny blonde wood floor to the nearest exit; she could feel the attention of the whole room following her. God, there was no way she could work for a company like Caraway, the people were far far too nice and way too squeaky clean.

‘Hello,’ Cass said, taking the call the minute she was through the door.

‘Who is this?’ a cultured female voice demanded furiously.

Female voice?

Cass hesitated.

‘And can you tell me exactly why you have got my husband’s phone?’ the woman growled.

‘I –’ Cass began.

‘There’s nothing you can say, is there? I told James that if this ever happened again it was over. Do you hear me? Do you understand? Do you? Over – no more chances. No more second chances. What did he tell you about me? Did he say that I’m cold? Difficult? That I don’t care? Did he? Did he? The bastard.’

‘Well,’ Cass began, ‘actually…’

‘Did he tell you that he’s got a family? I bet he didn’t. We’ve got two children – two beautiful children. I bet he didn’t tell you that, did he? Did he tell you about Snoops?’

‘Sorry?’ Cass spluttered.

‘Snoops adores him. We’ve had him since he was a tiny puppy. Just a baby. The bastard, how could he do this to us? How could he do this to Snoops?’ The woman began to sob. ‘I’ll hunt you down, you heartless evil bitch. How could you do this?’

Cass stared at the handset, not sure what to do next; she had left her home number, for God’s sake. If the woman had rung there first she also had Cass’s name and her mobile number, because they were on her answer-machine message.

‘Just tell me one thing,’ the woman bawled. ‘Have you slept with him? Have you? Please tell me that you haven’t slept with him.’

‘I haven’t slept with him,’ Cass said firmly in as even a tone as she could manage.

‘Oh God, I don’t believe you,’ the woman wailed. ‘How could he do this to me? How could he? After all that I’ve gone through.’

‘No, no really,’ said Cass, more emphatically this time, trying to calm her down. ‘I haven’t slept with him, cross my heart. I barely know him. We met on the train.’ This was crazy.

‘You cow, you cow – how could you?’ screamed the woman. ‘How could you sleep with another woman’s husband? You home wrecker.’

That did it. Cass had had enough; she snapped.

‘Whoa now, hang on a minute there, lady. I don’t know who you are, but I’m bloody sure I haven’t slept with your fucking husband, all right?’ she roared at the top of her voice.

Which might well have been an end to the matter if at that very moment Artie hadn’t opened the double doors to the conference room and said, ‘Are we OK out there?’

‘He’s with you now, isn’t he?’ wailed the woman.

Cass looked heavenwards. Artie’s smile didn’t falter. ‘Perhaps you should take a few moments.’

The train ride home was very uneventful.

There were five messages on the answer machine when Cass got in. The first was from the madwoman with a dog called Snoops, then one from David, one from the girl who did their ironing and one from the parents of the girl who did their ironing, and the last one – with the number withheld – was something that consisted mostly of sobbing and screaming, interspersed with snarling and possibly some swearing, but it was difficult to pick out because there was a dog barking frantically in the background.

Cass had just got to the end of them when Jake appeared through the front door, pulling on a sweater. ‘Danny’s ready, I’ve put the dog in the Land Rover, and a curry in the oven for when we get back from the b—’ He looked at her. ‘What?’

Cass pressed play, skipped the loony and went straight for David.

‘Hi, Cassandra, it’s David.’ As if she didn’t know. ‘Just a quick call. I think we need to talk. I appreciate that you may feel a little aggrieved at the moment, but, after all, marriage is a game of two halves.’ He laughed at what passed for a joke in his neck of the woods. Jake shook his head as the message continued. ‘So, I wondered if I might pop round one evening…Probably once Danny is in bed would be better, don’t you think? Wednesday would be good for me. After squash.’

‘Amoeba,’ spat Jake, pressing the skip button.

‘Hello, Cass, it’s Abby,’ said an uneven, rather thin, weepy little girl voice. ‘I just wanted to explain…you know, about everything and stuff.’

Jake groaned. ‘Do we have to listen to this?’

‘I don’t want you to be angry or anything,’ Abby interrupted. ‘It just happened, you know. I don’t think that either of us, we – you know, me or David – meant it to. Not really. It was just, you know, like, one of those things, and that, you know.’

‘Fuck, these things should be banned.’ Jake pressed skip again.

‘Er, hello there. This is Abigail’s dad here. We wondered if we could pop round for a bit of a chat one night,’ said a gruff no-nonsense voice. ‘We were hoping for some kind of explanation, really. I mean, me and her mum feel that Abby was in your care, technically. And we didn’t think –’

Jake pressed the button again. ‘Maybe you should arrange it so that they come round the same night as David?’ he said, skipping to the last one, the wailing and the barking. ‘What the hell’s that?’

Cass sat down on the bottom stair. ‘Snoops, possibly. What did you say your friend in Brighton’s name was again?’

Hidden away in his motel room, James Devlin slipped off his jacket, very carefully hung it up in the wardrobe, settled down on the bed with his hands behind his neck, and considered his next move.

2

A few days later, a Thameslink train slowed to a crawl and pulled into Brighton Station. Cass collected her things together and peered out of the grimy carriage window; she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. Brighton didn’t look at all like a seaside town, more like King’s Cross on a bad day, maybe even grimier. There were the sounds of seagulls, but Cass wouldn’t have been surprised if they were a recording being played over the tannoy.

Pulling up the handle on her suitcase, Cass made her way along the platform towards the exit, looking at the sea of faces as she did. Barney, Barney – what the hell did a bad-tempered artist called Barney look like?

Oh, there, that just had to be him: leaning against a pillar was a small plump man with grey skin, bloodshot eyes, a beard like a bird’s nest, and a lot of hair growing out of his ears. He was smoking a roll-up and wearing a nasty oversized well-stained sweater that would have passed muster on any self-respecting artist from eighteen to eighty.

She was about to walk over to him when a cultured voice said, ‘Cassandra?’ She swung round to be greeted by an elderly man who was leaning heavily on a walking stick. His thick silver-grey hair was slicked back and tucked behind his ears, and he was wearing an expensive, beautifully tailored grey suit and a paisley waistcoat. He looked like a well-heeled country squire.

‘Barney?’

The man extended a hand and smiled. ‘Absolutely. Delighted to meet you, my dear. Bartholomew Anthony Hesquith-Morgan-Roberts. Jake sent me a photo of you; it does you no justice at all.’

His deep, dark brown voice came straight out of one of the better public schools, pure top-drawer, clipped and nipped and terribly posh, and Cass – although she smiled and shook his hand – could feel the chip on her shoulder weighing heavy. David was an ex-public schoolboy too and the most terrible snob, and thought some of what he referred to as ‘her funny little habits’ anything but funny.

‘But do feel free to call me Barney,’ the man was saying. ‘Everyone else does, despite my best efforts to stop them. Still, it’s rather nice to give the whole moniker an airing once in a while. So, what did Jake tell you about me?’

Cass looked him up and down. Barney was tall and nicely made with broad shoulders, a generous mouth and a big hawkish nose that dominated his large suntanned face. She had no doubt that, in his day, Barney had been a total rogue – and most probably still was when he got the chance. He had bright blue eyes, and when he smiled his whole face concertinaed into pleats like Roman blinds and promised all manner of things.

‘That you’re a miserable old bastard,’ she suggested.

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘You know, it’s such a cliché, but sadly it’s absolutely true. I used to be a miserable young bastard, but it doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it? For years people – mostly women, it has to be said – have been convinced that I’m complex and deep, a wounded soul who needed saving from a cruel and uncomprehending world, but to be perfectly honest I’ve mostly just been in a foul mood for the last sixtyodd years. I was a dour and grumpy child, spent almost all of my twenties being annoyed about something or somebody, my thirties were worse, and I was absolutely unspeakable in my forties. It was such a relief to get into my fifties; people take it for granted that you’re grumpy then. My sixties have been an absolute dream.’ He paused. ‘I think it would be best if we took a cab. Getting a car in and out of here and then finding somewhere to park would very possibly have given me heart failure. Besides, it makes me swear dreadfully at people – who can, it has to be said, be bloody infuriating.’ He tucked the cane under his arm, grabbed hold of the handle of her suitcase and marched off towards the taxi rank at top speed, Cass having to run to keep up.

‘I thought you’d got a bad back?’ she said, scuttling after him.

‘I have,’ he grumbled. ‘I hate the fact it slows me down. Although my mood’s improved tremendously since the pain eased up. I’m bloody awful at being old. Jake told me that you have a son?’

‘Danny.’

Barney nodded gravely. ‘I hate children.’

Cass tried to work out if he was joking.

‘Is he quiet?’

‘Of course he’s not quiet. He’s six.’

Barney looked thoughtful. ‘Right. I see. And you’re expecting me to let you live in my flat with your noisy son, are you?’

Cass ground to a halt and glared at him. ‘Whoa. Hang on a minute there. Is this some kind of trial by ordeal? Because if it is, I’m not interested. Right now my life is about as messy as I ever want it to be. If you expect me to help you out and work in your gallery, that’s fine. But I don’t need to jump through hoops of fire to prove anything – all right? Is that clear? And being rude and then telling me you’ve always been like that doesn’t cut it as an excuse. Capiche?’

Barney stared at her and then nodded appreciatively. ‘I think we’re going to get along just fine,’ he said. ‘You remind me of my mother.’

Cass carried on glaring at him. ‘How do you really feel about children?’

Barney mulled it over for a few moments. ‘I hate them,’ he said cheerfully.

‘I’m sure, given time, Danny will hate you right back.’

Barney nodded. ‘Sounds like a very equitable arrangement. And you’ve got a cat called Bob and a dog –’

‘Called Milo.’

Barney smiled. It lit up his face like a flare. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. I adore animals. Now, let’s find a cab. I thought we’d go to the flat first, leave your luggage there, and then we’ll come back into town once you’ve got your bearings.’

‘And look at the shop?’

He nodded. ‘Yes. It’s in the Lanes.’

‘Sorry?’ Nothing that Cass had seen of Brighton so far suggested there were anything approaching lanes within miles.

‘Have you never heard of it? It’s a magical little area, very arty – better than the rest of Brighton put together, in my opinion. You’ll love it. It’s between North Street and the seafront. It predates the Regency rush to Brighton; gives you an idea how the whole place must have looked when it was a fishing village.’

‘And your shop is there?’

‘Oh God, yes. It’s wonderful, whole place is like a North European souk – bohemian, busy, bubbling, vibrant. There are designer shops and hippie shops and gem shops and juice bars, all sorts of amazing little treasures nestled together. And, well, you’ll see – my place has an eye on the commercial; beautiful things designed for broader tastes.’ He paused. ‘We’ve got all sorts of wonderful old tut in there.’

Cass looked along the busy concourse. It certainly didn’t seem the kind of place you’d have problems getting staff. ‘And you want me to work there because…?’

Barney considered for a few moments. ‘Because I trust Jake’s judgement, and mine is bloody awful. Good help is still hard to come by, however old the cliché. I need someone who is versatile, enthusiastic and talented, and who won’t keep moaning about what a pain in the arse I am.’

Cass laughed. ‘Is that what Jake said about me?’

Barney nodded as they stepped up to take the next taxi in the rank. ‘That and the fact that you’ve got the most terrible taste in men.’

Barney’s enormous basement flat looked as if it could easily have belonged to the man on the station, the one with the hairy ears and the well-stained sweater. As Barney guided Cass in through the little outer lobby and then the galley kitchen that ran parallel to an enormous sunlit sitting room, he looked decidedly apologetic. ‘I need someone to take care of me,’ he said miserably.

Cass looked round. He was right. It was the most beautiful room – or at least it once had been – with large windows at street level, giving ample light even though they were below ground. By the enormous open fireplace stood a scarlet linen sofa and two huge armchairs draped with ornate embroidered throws. There was a gilt mirror on the wall opposite the windows, another above the fire catching every last glimmer of sunlight, and waist-height bookcases running all the way round the room, full of everything from first editions through empty milk bottles, cans of paint, cats’ skulls, odd shoes and umbrellas, to piles of what looked like striped pyjamas and a checked dressing gown. On one shelf stood a row of old clocks in various states of disrepair, while below them, on the broad bottom shelf, half on and half off the well-worn, well-chewed wood, lay a grizzled black and white greyhound, sound asleep amongst a nest of old magazines and newspapers, and an enormous ginger cat curled up against the dog’s belly. The cat watched their progress through one rheumy, world-weary eye.

Barney waved towards them. ‘The dog is called Kipper, because that is what he does best, and the ginger menace is called Radolpho. In the world of the brainless dog the one-eyed cat is king, and needs to be saved from himself, prevented from stealing from shopping bags, eating dog food and anything he can prise from the fridge, your plate or the bin. He likes to pee in the sink and the dog likes to have sex with stuffed toys…In fact, they both have very sordid tastes in general.’

The cat closed his eye, stretched and then settled down.

‘I really need someone to help me get the place under control,’ Barney said reflectively, flicking a long tail of cigarette ash into the bowl of a dead pot plant.

‘I can see that, but I’m not a cleaner or a housekeeper, Barney,’ said Cass, setting her suitcase down amongst the debris.

He looked aghast. ‘Good Lord, no – of course you’re not. I wasn’t suggesting for one moment that you were. But you could find one for me. I can’t do any of that kind of thing. I’m completely useless. I get myself into the most terrible muddles, get taken in and hire people who use my credit cards to buy sports cars and then steal my shoes. It’s dreadful.’

Cass looked at him. ‘Barney, you don’t need me, what you really need is a wife.’

He shook his head. ‘No, no, I don’t,’ he said emphatically. ‘No, I’ve had several of those and, trust me, while it sounds all very well and good in principle, it always ends in tears. Besides, my mother invariably hates them.’

‘Your mother?’

Barney nodded. ‘Extraordinary woman. She’s upstairs now, so I don’t have to worry about her quite so much, knowing where she is.’ As he spoke, he looked heavenwards. ‘It’s been a weight off my mind.’

Cass hesitated, wondering if ‘upstairs’ was a euphemism for dead as a stuffed skunk, but apparently not.

‘She used to be such a worry when she lived up in town. She pretends she is as deaf as a post, drinks like a sailor, is built like a wren, and has the constitution of a Chieftain tank. She terrifies me. I keep thinking the only way I’m ever going to get rid of the old bat is to shoot her.’

At which point Cass’s mobile rang.

‘I hate those things,’ grumbled Barney.

‘Is there anything you do like?’ Cass said in a voice barely above a whisper while pulling the phone out of her bag.

Barney considered for a second or two, apparently taking the question seriously. ‘Quite a few things, actually. Strip clubs, blue paint, those nice little cups they serve espresso in. Seasonal vegetables. Oh – that woman on breakfast TV with the fabulous…’ He mimed those parts that he was particularly fond of.

Cass decided to ignore him and looked at the phone to see who was calling.

‘Hi, Jake, how are you?’ she said, pressing the phone to her ear. He didn’t answer at once, which was ominous. ‘Is everything all right?’