Page 15 of Vengeance is Mine

Something moved out of the corner of my eye. I turned and saw Mr White adjusting his position on the sofa. His face was blank. I wondered if he’d noticed me staring at the photos of his daughter.

‘So, my wife taught you at Benfield?’ he asked. His accent was pure Geordie. He sounded exactly like Pop-pop.

‘Yes. She did. My favourite teacher, actually.’

That made him smile. ‘She always wanted to be a teacher, right from a young age. She couldn’t imagine doing anything else.’

‘She was an excellent teacher.’

He leaned forwards and lowered his voice. ‘You’re not a journalist now, are you?’

‘No,’ I said, placing my hand on my heart.

‘Good. I won’t have my wife upset.’

A shiver ran down my spine.

‘Here we are then,’ Mrs White said, as she breezed into the room carrying a heavy-laden tray.

I hadn’t had enough time to react to Mr White’s warning. I wanted to leave. The last thing I wanted was to upset either of them.

Mrs White placed the tray on the coffee table. There was a large white teapot decorated with flowers growing up from the base, matching cups and saucers and a matching plate with a mixture of biscuits laid out on it.

She poured the tea and handed the cups round, telling me to help myself to milk and sugar from the matching jug and bowl. She was full of smiles, and I smiled back, but I kept stealing the odd glance at Mr White. Although both of them had welcomed me into their home, there was a hint of sadness about them. Their smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes. It was understandable: the murder of their only child would stay with them for the rest of their lives. They wouldn’t have got over the loss of Stephanie, but they would have adapted to a life without her. They’d go on holiday. They’d enjoy birthdays and Christmases together. They’d laugh and go for meals out, but at the back of their minds was the knowledge their only child had been brutally murdered, and that would put a dark tinge on any celebration.

‘So, what have you been doing with yourself since you left Benfield?’ Mrs White asked. She sat back in her armchair opposite me, crossed her legs and blew on her tea before taking a sip.

‘I went to Newcastle University. I studied English Literature and Law.’

‘You kept up with the English then; that’s good.’

‘Yes.’ I smiled and felt myself relaxing. ‘You got me interested in the classics. I was hooked right away.’

‘Do you still read them?’

‘Not as much as I used to, unfortunately. I started The Tenant of Wildfell Hall before Christmas, and I’m not even halfway through yet. Work takes up a lot of my time.’

‘What is it you do?’ Mr White asked. He too had his legs crossed and held a cup and saucer in his hand, but his expression was sceptical. Always the detective, I assumed.

‘I’m a junior paralegal. I work for Schofield and Embleton in town.’

‘Oh, I know them,’ Mr White said. ‘A good firm. Are you enjoying it?’

‘So far.’

‘That’s good. Your mother must be very proud of you.’ Mrs White smiled.

‘She is.’

‘Let me think,’ she said, with a frown. ‘She had a shop, didn’t she? At Blaydon?’

‘Yes. A florist. Hollyhocks.’

‘That’s right. I remember now. Does she still have it?’

‘Yes. It’s doing very well.’

‘Good. I’m glad.’

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