Page 10 of Worse Than Murder
‘No. Well, it is serious, but it’s nothing… I’m not ill or anything.’
‘Oh, good,’ Lynne reaches across and places a comforting hand on her daughter’s. She looks around. ‘Where did I put my mobile? I think I left it in the living room. I’ll give Iain a ring and tell him to pop back. He’ll be glad of a break in this heat.’
* * *
It’s another ten minutes before Iain comes into the cottage via the back door. He spends a full minute wiping his wellington boots on the doormat. He enters the living room wearing combat trousers and a navy polo shirt which is past throwing out. There are so many holes in it, Alison wonders if he is ever confused which one to put his head through.
Iain has worked outdoors since the day he left school. He joined his dad running the family farm. Unfortunately, his father had hidden the truth about the costs of the farm and, when he died, Iain saw that he had spent his entire life in poverty. The farm wasn’t working, and Iain had no intention of following in his father’s footsteps. The animals were sold, and Iain turned the barns into stables and the land into a paddock. He made more money in a month renting out to horse-owners than his father had earned in a year. The success was bittersweet.
Iain is tall, well over six feet. He towers over Lynne. Their wedding photographs are a lesson in comedy. His face is ruddy, his hair permanently windswept and his shovel-sized hands are covered in cuts and callouses.
‘Do you want a tea?’ Lynne asks.
‘No. I’ve just finished my flask.’
‘How are the stables?’
‘Fine. They should hold. I’m going over to Kendal tomorrow to get more groundsheets just in case we lose any tiles.’
Alison sits in the armchair and watches the play between her mother and stepfather. She misses her dad every day, but is glad her mother has moved on. What happened all those years ago was unbelievably sad and painful. She was only a small child at the time so had no comprehension of what her mother was going through, but she’s pleased she has Iain for support. Alison remembers, fondly, fifteen years ago, when her mum and Iain sat her down and told her, with earnest expressions, that they planned to marry. They were worried how Alison would react to her mother marrying her uncle, her father’s brother. They had been through such torment; she was over the moon that they had found happiness with each other.
‘You wanted to talk to us,’ Lynne says, turning to Alison.
She clears her throat. ‘I did. I was called out to Nature’s Diner this morning.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Lynne asks, sipping her tea.
‘Yes. They’ve had another attempted break-in. The thing is, the Meagans have got a friend staying with them at the moment, and she’s a police officer. A detective. She’s taking some time off.’
She pauses and Lynne and Iain look at her with blank faces, waiting for her to continue.
‘She’s a DCI.’
More blank faces.
‘I was thinking about maybe popping along to see her and having a chat.’
Iain frowns. ‘What for? If you want promotion, wouldn’t you be better off talking to Gill?’
‘No. I’m not looking for promotion. Well, I am, obviously, but not right now. No, this detective, DCI Darke, she’s worked on some really big cases over the years. I thought I might ask her about… Celia and Jennifer. And Dad,’ she says, her voice quietening towards the end so as not to upset her mother and stepfather.
Silence fills the room. A clock on the mantelpiece chimes the top of the hour.
‘Why do you think she’ll be able to help? Why after all this time? Is there new evidence?’ Lynne asks, her questions tripping over each other.
Iain reaches forward and places a hand on her shoulder.
‘No. Not that I’m aware of. It’s just… she has this amazing track record. She’s a brilliant detective. She may be able to find something nobody else has.’
Lynne stands up and goes over to the armchair, perching herself on the arm. She takes her daughter’s hand in her own and squeezes it comfortingly.
‘Alison, sweetheart, do you really think it’s wise getting someone else involved? I don’t think your boss would be too pleased about it. She might think you’re… what’s the word?’ she asks, looking to Iain.
‘Usurping.’
‘That’s it. She might think you’re usurping her, that you don’t have any confidence in her as a detective.’
‘Inspector Forsyth is a brilliant police officer, but she’s never had a case like this before. Nobody has around here. This DCI Darke, she’s worked on some really tricky stuff. I’ve been reading up on her.’
