“That was a long walk,” he said. He didn’t sound anxious and she felt resentful. There was a murderer on the loose and he wasn’t even concerned. Instead he stood leaning against the window sill looking around the room, beaming.
“We went to see Wendy.”
“She’ll have liked that.”
“She thinks the person who murdered Abigail Mantel could still be living round here.” #
He frowned. “I suppose it’s possible. Does it bring that all back? Like a nightmare? Of course, I can’t possibly understand what it can be like.”
She was surprised and moved, went up to him and kissed his forehead.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said. “Not to either of you.”
“I know.”
“Why don’t I cook? You get the baby ready for bed, then put your feet up.”
She thought this was how it could be. She could give up her dreams of Dan, who after all was edgy and unpredictable, not even likeable if she thought about it seriously. They could be content, the two of them. She could make small concessions, like going willingly to church with him, and taking more interest in his work, like initiating regular if unimaginative sex, and he would take care of them. For some reason she knew she could trust him to do that. He would agree to her returning to teaching, even if he didn’t much like the idea. Their marriage would survive without argument or disturbance; it would be at least as happy as that of most of their friends. Was that what she wanted? And anyway, did she deserve it?
When she came downstairs from settling Matthew to sleep, James was in the kitchen. He was standing at the workbench chopping onions and garlic, concentrating so hard that he didn’t hear her approach. He’d changed into jeans and a thin woollen jersey. There was nothing between the jersey and his skin and
Emma found herself thinking, with an odd excitement, about the faint irritation this must cause. She stood behind him and slid her hand beneath the jumper, moved her fingers down the knots of his spine, inside the waist of his jeans. He turned, still with the knife in one hand, a bulb of garlic in the other, disarmed. He bent and kissed her forehead, ran the tip of his tongue over her eyelids.
“Why don’t you leave that?” she said. “We can have it later.” It was an experiment. Could she forget her fantasies of Dan Greenwood and learn to make do with reality? A quiet domestic life?
James reached behind him to replace the garlic and knife on the bench. It was as if he had his hands tied behind his back. All the time he was kissing her, and just for a moment she felt herself relaxing.
Then there was a banging on the door. The heavy knocker was rammed down three times. In the quiet house the sound seemed to echo. Emma immediately imagined Vera Stanhope standing there. She was certain it was her, could picture her, legs apart, putting all her weight behind the knocking.
“We could ignore it,” James said. Emma thought the suggestion was half-hearted. It would be too daring for him, and already he was feeling slightly embarrassed by his abandon.
Ske came to his rescue. “No.” If it was Vera Stanhope she wouldn’t go away. She would stand there all night if necessary, get a warrant and smash in the door.
Emma had been so convinced that the inspector would be standing there that she almost felt cheated. She’d been planning an angry outburst. Do you realize my baby’s asleep? I’ve already told you everything I know.
The figure on the doorstep was taller than Vera Stanhope, better proportioned, almost athletic. He’d turned away and was looking out at the square. His long hair was tangled. He wore a thin waterproof anorak and there was a small rucksack at his feet. It was the last person she would have expected.
“Chris,. What are you doing here?”
He turned to face her. His face still had the brooding quality he’d developed as an undergraduate. She’d thought it was a pose, a way of attracting women, but now it seemed to have become a habit. There were dark shadows under his eyes, emphasized by the light over the door, which also made his features more angular than she remembered.
“I’ve come to see my sister,” he said. “Of course.” He bent and pecked her abruptly on her cheek. His lips were icy. “I hope you’ve got some beer in there. Otherwise we’ll have to send James out to find some. I’ve been travelling all day. I’m desperate.”
“How did you get here?”
“Last bus from Hull. It took bloody hours.”
“You should have phoned. I’d have come to get you.”
“I don’t believe in cars.” He laughed. She couldn’t work out if it were a joke at his expense for having such uncomfortable principles, or if he were mocking her for taking him seriously. She’d never known how to react to him. Although she’d been the older one, she’d always been intimidated by his intelligence. The gap between them had grown wider since Abigail’s death. Neither of them had made the effort to bridge it.
She realized she was still standing in the doorway, blocking his way into the house. She moved aside.
“Come in. James is cooking supper. I’m sure there’s beer.”
The kitchen was at the back of the house and she led Chris through. During the day it seemed dark and rather gloomy, but now, after the chill of standing on the step, it was warm, even welcoming. James had returned to chopping onions. He sliced them into fine, almost translucent semicircles.
“Will there be enough food for three? Look who’s come to supper.” Her voice sounded unnaturally bright. She wasn’t really sure how well the two men got on. They seemed pleasant enough to each other, though once, in an unguarded moment, James had told her he thought her brother arrogant. It was true, she thought. Sometimes Chris gave the impression that he despised the whole world, apart perhaps from a couple of Nobel scientists.
James looked up from the chopping board. He must have heard Chris’s voice at the door and had his response already prepared.
“Sure,” he said. “It’s great to see you.” He paused for a beat. “Do Robert and Mary know you’re here? We could invite them round too.”
“God, no.” Chris was horrified. “I need a good night’s sleep before I can face that.”
James slid the onion from the board into a frying pan.
“There’s beer in the fridge,” he said. “You can get me one too.”
When Chris had his back to them James rolled his eyes and pulled a face. What was that about? Chris’s attitude to his parents, or his own disappointment that they would no longer have the evening to themselves? Emma couldn’t tell.
They would eat in the small narrow room which led immediately from the kitchen. Emma lit candles and set the table, while Christopher went upstairs for a shower. James moaned gently at her through the open door while he prepared a salad.
“Really,” he said. “Chris could have given us some warning. We might have been busy. Who else would just turn up on the doorstep like that?”
“He’s very focused,” she said. “He decided he wanted to visit and that was it. He wouldn’t think much of anything other than how he’d get here, once the decision was made.”
Christopher had always been like that, even when he was quite young. He would become obsessed with an object of study or a project. All his energy would be taken up with that. Other school subjects would be dealt with in a cursory, detached way, but his teachers would know that his mind was elsewhere. The fixation would end as suddenly as it had begun and he would move on to something else dinosaurs or gravity or an obscure composer. He had stuck with seabirds for a surprisingly long time. Perhaps the puffins had come to bore him and that was why he was here.