Page 9 of Worse Than Murder
Claire turns a corner and pulls up outside the front gates to Alison’s mum’s home.
‘Send me a postcard,’ Alison says, climbing out of the car and closing the door behind her.
* * *
Alison lets herself into her mother’s cottage. She makes her way along the dark and narrow hallway into the brightly lit kitchen.
Lynne is at the sink, washing vegetables dug from the garden. She’s wearing her usual beige gardening trousers, that are filthy and have seen better days, and a cotton long-sleeve T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her greying hair is tied back into a messy bun. Alison goes to the radio and turns down Kate Bush.
Lynne spins round quickly. Her sad, lined face lights up into a smile upon seeing her daughter. ‘Oh, hello. I didn’t expect to see you this evening.’
Alison puts her arm around her and kisses her on the cheek. ‘I thought I’d pop in. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of course, I don’t. You’re always welcome here.’
‘Where’s Iain?’
‘He’s out checking the stables. Have you heard about the storm forecast?’
‘Yes. We’ve got the local farmers on standby. They’ll be doing the rounds with sandbags from Saturday afternoon. Any chance of a brew?’
She holds up her dirty hands. ‘Could you help yourself?’
‘Do you want one?’
‘Please. I don’t feel like I’ve stopped all day.’
‘Been busy?’
‘Hay delivery came. Two hours late. Wrong again, as usual. I spent over an hour on the phone only to be told their new computer system was having teething troubles. The vet came out to put poor Agides to sleep. Julie was inconsolable. Of course, she was left to me to comfort. By the time her Brian came to pick her up, it’s three o’clock and I’ve hardly done any of what I had planned for the day.’
‘Poor Julie. She loved that horse.’
‘She did. But twenty-seven is a good age and he had a good life.’
‘Oh, how was the meal last night?’ Alison asks, suddenly remembering.
‘It was delicious,’ Lynne answers, her eyes almost rolling into the back of her head. ‘That has to be the best Chinese restaurant in the whole of the country.’
‘Fifteen years married,’ Alison says.
‘I know,’ Lynne replies, wistfully. ‘Who’d have thought…’ She stops herself and returns to scrubbing the vegetables.
Alison takes her mug to the small table, pulls out a chair and sits down. She looks around the busy kitchen and takes in the ornaments on the walls and windowsills, postcards stuck to the fridge with magnets. It’s such a homely, comfortable place, but appearances are deceiving and there is always an element of sadness in the air.
‘Are you all right, love?’ Lynne asks, glancing at her over her shoulder.
‘Yes. Fine.’
‘You look very pensive.’
‘I want to ask your advice on something.’
‘Oh. Okay,’ she says, rinsing her hands under the running tap and drying them on a tea towel. She comes over to the table and sits down. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘I’d like to ask you and Iain. It concerns you both.’
‘This sounds serious. Should I be worried?’ she asks, her face dropping.
