Page 25 of Famous Last

“Not everything’s about Garrett, Mum. I’m mulling over things I’ve got on my plate at work next week.”

He loved both his parents and rarely filtered anything when he spoke to them, but right now was not the time to tell them about his encounter with the tabloid’s latest prey.

“Oh, sorry, dear. I haven’t asked you. How are things going in the wonderful world of magazine publishing? You remember we have a local paper down here, don’t you?The Bournemouth Echo. They’re bound to be interested in a serious journalist with your talents, ones that are honestly being wasted right now.”

She didn’t bother to mask her contempt for Spencer’s employer. His mother had never been a magazine person.

“I love my job. And I’m bloody good at what I do. I just wish they’d see me as more than an office boy, someone to fetch and carry and clean up after people’s messes. I take great pride in what I do.”

“You’re conscientious to a fault, darling. You get that from me. Those people neither appreciate nor deserve you.”

Like all mothers, Coleen Wyrrell thought her sons had been born to lead, not to follow or to be managed. At least Garrett ran his own company.

“And you’re coming back for Christmas, aren’t you?” said his mother, standing with him on the front doorstep while Spencer’s father revved the car’s engine. They usually timed everything to the second so that Spencer would be on the platform five to ten minutes before the train’s departure. If all went well, he would arrive at his front door in Morden between seven and seven-thirty.

“Of course. If I’m allowed.”

“What do you mean, if you’re allowed?” she asked, looking aghast.

“If the government are talking about a national lockdown, about introducing a tier system, then they’ll soon start restricting the number of people for any kind of gathering.”

“To six, according to your father. So even if Peony joins us this year—which I would love—that’s only five of us. And I promise to let your father cook the turkey this year.”

Folding her into his arms, he gave his mother the kind of oversized hug she gave others.

“I promise to move heaven and earth to make sure I get home, Mum. Who else does Christmas like the Wyrrells?”

“Exactly. And you know you can bring someone, if you want to,” she said, giving him one last squeeze then pushing him away before he could respond. “Go on with you, now. Your father’s waiting.”

* * * *

Whenever he visited his parents or came home from work midweek during the summer months, Spencer enjoyed the short walk back from Morden station. With the daylight on his skin, the quick burst of exercise and the fresh air—he even took theshortcut through the park some days—he savoured the remains of the day before arriving home. But during the dark winter months, he put his head down and marched beneath the row of streetlights.

At seven in the evening, seeing groups of people huddled around the grimy station entrance was not unusual. Some waited for taxis or connecting buses to head to their homes while others met up with friends. But there always seemed to be enough random groups of people hanging around not to worry too much.

Except tonight, for some reason, Spencer singled out a tall man in a dark overcoat. He lounged against the wall with the collar up, a black woollen ski hat dragged down over the ears, wearing dark glasses and a black surgical mask covering his mouth. Dressed like an assassin, he peeled away from the wall beside the station convenience store the moment Spencer exited the station. Shaking his head at his overactive imagination, Spencer wrapped the ridiculously long brown and mustard scarf around his neck—a Doctor Who scarf, his father called the gift—before beginning the hike for home.

Somebody had once told him that intuition is real and that we should never ignore the signs, then went on to impart a cautionary fable about Welsh miners sensing wrongness in the air of a mineshaft and escaping just before the roof of the mine collapsed. Spencer felt nothing like that, but without even thinking, he turned a couple of times to see if he was being followed. Both times he saw nobody. Both times he cursed his brother and his insistence on last night’s television horrorfest.

When he reached the familiar row of shops, with the cheerful green, yellow and red lights of Romano’s Pizzeria, he felt the tension drain from him. With one hand on the handle of his luggage, he pushed open the front door to the empty shop. Instantly, the owner’s head popped up from behind the counter.

“Hi, Gino,” he said. “How’s business?”

“Hey, Spencer. Bloody crazy until half an hour ago. How’s family?”

“Same as ever, mad as a box of frogs.”

“All families are the same. Mine are all back in Milan, thank goodness. You want to order your usual?”

“Let me check upstairs first. Let Tiger know I’m back then see what I’ve got in the fridge that needs finishing. I’ll pop down if I need to order.”

“Okay. And don’t worry. Your cat, she is still alive. My wife has been spoiling her with fresh fish and cat treats. Think she wants to kidnap her.”

“Good luck with that. But please thank Mrs R for taking care of her. No doubt the little princess will still give me attitude for being away the whole weekend.”

“That’s females for you.”

Spencer laughed. “I’ll take your word for that.”

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