“Come on then, get out,” he snapped.
She hauled herself out of the car, cursing her shoes and this stiff dress. Oatmeal, they’d told her in the shop. The colour drained her face, she’d known it as soon as she’d put the thing on. She went to the front door and waited for Bryn. Bryn’s health wasn’t so good since he’d had a mini stroke two years earlier, and she often had to wait for him. He keyed in his code and the door swung open.
She took off her shoes and placed them at the bottom of the stairs, where she could grab them on her way up to bed. She padded into the kitchen and turned on the lights. The rain beat at the windows but it was warm in here, a large tabby cat sprawled out in front of the Aga. She bent over and gave it a tickle under the chin.
“Hey, Rose,” she muttered. The cat narrowed its eyes at her and started to purr.
“Where’s my drink?” Bryn prowled in behind her and threw himself into a chair at the pine table. She hurried to the drinks cupboard and grabbed a bottle of his favourite Scotch. She placed it on the table then pulled a heavy crystal glass down from the shelf. It gleamed under the LED spotlights. She kept everything clean in this house.
“Stop fussing, woman.”
She went to the kettle. “I’ll make myself a cup of tea, take it up to bed.”
He flicked the glass across the table at her. It teetered on the edge and she dived to grab it. She placed it in front of him again, not meeting his eye.
“Go,” he said. “Leave me.”
She heard a bang from outside. His gaze followed hers out of the window towards the garden.
“Goddamn back gate,” he said. “Again. Shut it on your way to bed, will you?”
Margaret nodded and went to the hallway. Her boots were under the stairs, side by side in a basket. As he walked past she pulled herself into the space under the stairs, careful not to get in his way.
“I’m going into my study. Don’t wait up.”
She gave him a tight smile. “Night.”
Bryn grunted and opened the door to his study, at the back of the house. It was the nicest room in the house, the one that got the best sun on a weekend morning and had a view of the magnolia in the back garden. It would have made a beautiful sitting room.
A gust of cold air blew from the study, making her shiver. The room had double doors set into the back wall, beautiful stained-glass pieces that were original to the house. He wouldn’t have left them open.
“What the fuck?” Bryn muttered. He strode into his study and slammed the door behind him.
She followed him to the door and stood at it, considering whether to knock. She was worried about the gust of air, the open doors. Or maybe he’d opened a window earlier in the evening and forgotten to close it when they went out.
If she disturbed him in there, he wouldn’t be happy. She withdrew and dragged the other boot onto her throbbing foot.
Outside, the back gate swung in the wind. Margaret drew her jacket around her and heaved it shut. She kicked it into place and pulled the bolt. It was temperamental, that gate. The wood swelled when the weather changed and it would burst its hinges if the bolt wasn’t properly slid across.
She turned back to the house, alarmed. Had she heard a voice?
The night was dark and the glow from the streetlamp beyond the house faint. The CCTV camera high on the wall would be deactivated. Its purpose was to watch her, not would-be intruders.
The light in Bryn’s study was on and one of the doors was open a crack. She frowned and approached it. Had it been left open while they were out, or had he just opened it?
The curtains were drawn so he couldn’t see her. She put a hand on the door handle. She listened. Inside, Bryn was muttering. On the phone, no doubt. He often made calls late at night. She assumed it was to police colleagues, but could never know for sure.
The curtain shifted and Bryn’s hand appeared. Margaret shrank back into the darkness, heart pounding. He pulled the door shut. She waited for the sound of the key turning but it didn’t come.
The curtains were thin, made of Portuguese linen, and she could see his shadow moving around the room. He would be in there every day from now on, whiling out his retirement on the other side of a locked door.
That was, if she was lucky. At home every day, he would have a thousand opportunities to find fault with her. She would never be able to go out, never have what little contact she did manage with the women she called friends. She only knew them because they were the wives of his friends.
She would be a prisoner.
She’d been taking anti-depressants for the nine months since his retirement had been made official. She should have come off them months ago, but had upped the dose instead. Bryn thought she’d been visiting the GP with her elderly mother.
Going to the GP would become impossible, too. Bryn only liked her to see her mother twice a year on Boxing Day and on her mother’s birthday. Not on Christmas Day – the old bat would ruin it, he said. The doctor’s appointments were tolerated, if only because they brought the prospect of his mother-in-law’s death closer.
Margaret heard the key turn in the lock. She headed for the back door that led to the passage alongside the kitchen, the way she had come. She had no idea how long he would be in there. How long he would leave her alone.
Chapter Four
Zoe tossed off her shoes and slumped onto the settee. The house was quiet, meaning Nicholas was still out with friends.
She thumbed the TV on and went to the kitchen. She flicked on the filter machine. Even at this time of night, all she drank was strong black coffee. If it kept her awake, then all the good, the night was when she had her best breakthroughs on cases. One advantage of being single – if inspiration struck in the small hours, turning the light on and grabbing the notepad by her bed wouldn’t disturb anyone.
She filled her Doctor Who mug and opened the fridge. The food at the party had been for effect more than for sustenance. Tiny morsels on silver platters, nowhere near enough to soak up all the booze her colleagues had sunk.
There was a plate on the second shelf with a post-it attached. Lasagne 19 Oct. Today’s date. She smiled to think of Nicholas leaving it for her and put it in the microwave. Zoe was a terrible cook and her son had learned at fourteen that if he wanted better than chicken dippers and oven chips, he’d have to learn to cook. And learn he had, with bells on.
She took her plate and mug to the sofa and flicked on the TV. The lasagne was good. He’d said something about adding chocolate to the sauce. She’d scoffed that morning when she’d spotted the bar in the cupboard, but it worked. His instinct for flavour hadn’t come from her, and certainly not from her own mother.
Her phone buzzed on the table: a text from her mum. The coincidence made her uneasy.
Not feeling very well. Call me, please?
Zoe wrinkled her nose and tossed it back onto the table. Her mum had spent Zoe’s entire childhood not feeling very well. Hungover, in other words.
Nicholas knew little of what his grandmother was really like, but Zoe kept the two of them apart. Annette Finch was a toxic influence.
She’d wait up and thank him, for the lasagne. She didn’t see enough of him these days. The Canary case had meant long hours and little sleep, and she’d neglected him.
He’d made out like he appreciated being neglected, but she knew better. She knew what real neglect was, and what it did to a person.