The Comforts of Home

by Susan Hill

‘Here’s to us,’ Dave said, ‘and wiping the floor with them.’

  ‘Cheers, Dave.’

  They were focused. They were ready. That’s all any of them were thinking about.

  Fifty-eight

  ‘Have a glass of wine, Dad? It won’t clash with any of your meds.’

  ‘I am well aware of that, thank you.’

  ‘Or a Scotch?’ Kieron held up the bottle of Famous Grouse.

  ‘Don’t you have a malt?’

  ‘We do. Laphroaig?’

  ‘Too peaty for me. I’ll have the Grouse.’

  Kieron shot Cat a look as he reached into the cupboard for a glass. She knew he was biting his tongue and who would blame him? Her father had always been irascible but since being ill he had become downright rude – to all of them, except for Felix, who was his favourite, the apple of his eye, the one who had done no wrong since the day of his birth, and who never said more than half a dozen words to his grandfather.

  ‘Water or soda?’

  ‘Splash of water. No ice.’

  ‘How are you feeling, Richard?’ Kieron asked as he set the drink on the table beside him.

  ‘Tired but otherwise pretty well, no thanks to the poor treatment in my old hospital – wrong drugs, not given at the right times, awful food, registrars aged thirteen and consultants never to be found, and the standard of hygiene has plummeted. Do they not teach it any more?’

  ‘The trouble is that years ago, cleaning was outsourced to a private contractor, who inevitably got the contract with the lowest bid, and if you do that, you have to cut corners to make any profit at all. They pay their staff the minimum and there are too few of them to do a decent job. What do you expect?’ Cat was sitting on the sofa with a glass of Sauvignon balanced on the arm and Mephisto and Wookie on her lap together. ‘And you and I probably looked thirteen to the older patients, when we were junior doctors.’

  ‘Don’t try to humour me.’

  ‘Perish the thought, Dad.’

  Richard swirled a mouthful of whisky round, savouring it, but then said, ‘By the way, I hope not to impose on you for too much longer.’

  ‘Of course you’re not imposing, you’ve been very ill.’

  ‘But recovering. Now – the house is let to these perfectly acceptable tenants for another month, and if he gets an extension to his research post, they will probably want to renew. I’m happy with that because I won’t want to return there. Too big and too full of the past. I’ve been thinking about getting somewhere else.’

  ‘A smaller house?’

  ‘No. Do you remember the old maternity hospital, Ascot Court?’

  ‘Just about. Didn’t it become a private nursing home?’

  ‘Yes. Awful place. They shut it down and rightly. It was empty for a time but I read in the Gazette that it’s been bought by a developer and is being converted into luxury flats – just eight of them and exclusively for those over sixty.’

  Cat stroked Mephisto’s back slowly. What should she say? Not leap at the idea, not condemn it out of hand. Take the lead from him.

  ‘You’d want your independence, Richard,’ Kieron said. ‘No forced social gatherings.’

  ‘Certainly not. Unforced might be a different matter. I would want one of the two larger ones – garden flats. It has very pleasant grounds, as I remember. I went on calls there once or twice. I’ll probably buy one straight away. I won’t sell Hallam House for the time being. I thought you should know my plans.’

  ‘It sounds good. And not too far from here.’

  ‘Nor too near.’

  ‘I’m surprised you’ve felt up to thinking about it at all.’

  ‘Reading a newspaper and thinking wasn’t beyond me, Catherine.’

  ‘Clearly not.’ Cat stood up. ‘I’m going to put the vegetables on. Have another whisky, Dad.’

  ‘Thank you, no. Perhaps after supper.’

  She went out to the kitchen feeling elated. Trust her father to have said no word at all about contemplating his next move, just when the worry about his being with them for good had become serious and Kieron had started muttering threats.

  Kieron. She heard Sam come up the drive at the same moment as Kieron’s mobile buzzed from where he had left it on the kitchen table. She picked it up, cursing, and took it through, colliding with her son. ‘Hey, Mum. So, guess what I’ve been doing today? The mortuary run.’

  Fifty-nine

  It was fine. It was great. It had worked out. As always, he had wanted to stay back and watch, see it all unfold, get the buzz, enjoy the happy ending, but this time he couldn’t. He knew better than to take the risk. He had some sense, didn’t he? He was buzzing though.

  And then it happened, on the way back, climbing over the high gate at the back of four houses down, onto the waste ground behind. He’d done gate climbs, and much harder, much higher, a hundred times and this wasn’t difficult and then his foot had caught and he hadn’t time to save himself, just gone hurtling over and landed badly, one leg under him, arm splayed out. The pain had been terrible and he’d yelled aloud, couldn’t stop himself. Then he’d blacked out.

  First off, he didn’t know where he was or why or who was talking to him. They kept asking his name and he could smell the smoke, and the pain in his leg and ankle was worse. There was a lot of noise from nearby, voices, engines. Yellow and orange spurts and flares behind his eyes and in the sky.

  Something was put over him.

  ‘He’s not going anywhere.’

  He remembered then, but it was no good because he couldn’t move and because of the pain. He had to get away and he couldn’t get away, and after a long time and a lot of smoke, the voices again, and the faces looking down on him, asking his name.

  ‘Can you hear me, Barry? You’re in an ambulance, on the way to hospital.’

  They had put something over his face so he couldn’t reply but they kept on asking and then, ‘Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, Barry.’

  Squeeze.

  ‘Is your name Barry Grove? Squeeze my hand.’

  Squeeze.

  There was something wrong, he knew, something that should have happened. Or shouldn’t. Or was going to. Just that he didn’t know what. It was there in his mind, hovering about, but it wouldn’t come clear. Something was wrong. Something.

  Her father went to bed straight after supper, leaving Cat to clear up while Sam and Kieron watched Chelsea versus Spurs, and, as neither of them supported either team, they could enjoy the match without tensions arising.

  She was still getting over her surprise at Richard’s announcement, and as he had gone upstairs, Kieron had given her a thumbs up, with a grin. Her father had always been a man to make his own decisions, and to be brisk with those who tried to change his mind. But she would not dream of trying to do so. He would enjoy a totally different life in the new flats, might or might not make any friends, but in any case would be safe and not too far away if he needed any of them.

  ‘Everything’s working out then,’ Sam said, coming in to fetch a beer for Kieron and a cake for himself. ‘Except Grandpa doesn’t think I should be a porter.’

  ‘Has he said that?’

  ‘Yes. I think he feels it reflects on him.’

  Cat snorted.

  ‘Thing is, nobody much remembers him now.’

  ‘Sam – do NOT tell him that.’

  ‘As if. Whoa, sorry, Kieron. It’s OK, I’ve got them.’

  ‘Update. The fire was in Mountfield Avenue. It was pretty certainly arson and they think they’ve got him.’

  ‘You don’t have to go, do you?’

  ‘No. They’ll brief me first thing. Come on, Sam – I have a hunch Spurs are going to walk this.’

  ‘Nah … luck, that last one, pure luck. Yours are all over the place.’

  They had set up a rivalry where none had existed, which, for them, was probably the whole point of watching a match. Cat smiled to herself.

  They had dosed him up but he was aware of being pushed along c
orridors, through swing doors, and then X-rayed, aware of the young doctor telling him his break was very bad and did he give his consent, would he sign the form, why had he said ‘None’ when asked for his address, and ‘Nobody’ for name of next of kin?

  He said his name again. Nothing else. There was nothing else. Someone put a paper close to his arm and he signed it. He remembered the man wearing a green sheet and a mask rubbing something on his arm and then he remembered nothing.

  Sixty

  It was ten past seven in the morning but the Chief had to be in London by eleven.

  ‘Update, Simon. Mrs Still was pronounced dead at the scene … she didn’t stand a chance. She’d locked and bolted every door and window after the scares she’d had about noises outside, so she would have been overcome by smoke and then the fire took over very quickly. Place is pretty much gutted. We have Barry Grove in hospital – he’s been operated on for breaks in his leg and ankle and we can’t talk to him yet but someone’s waiting till the medics give the green light. We know it was him, he had traces of the accelerant all over him, and his footprints are in the soil of the flower bed under Mrs Still’s window. But more to the point, he’s a known arsonist – he went to prison for it a few years back when he was living in Bevham. What we want to find out is who set him up – because someone did. He’d started plenty of fires before but never anywhere near residential property or people. This was new. So either it was the culmination of a lot of practice runs or someone knew what he did and paid him. He’s in a bad way so my guess is he’ll crumble at the interview.’

  ‘This is Russon.’

  ‘We just have to prove it. Meanwhile, I read through all your notes – you got pretty close on the CCTV ID – good work, Superintendent. And no doubt you could get further if you had the speed camera stuff analysed, but honestly, do you need to do that now? I don’t think so. Because whatever you found to corroborate that it was Lee Russon walking out of Adelaide Road Park with a girl who was pretty certainly Kimberley Still, without any material witness and without a confession, you and I know that this wouldn’t persuade the CPS to reopen the case and bring Russon up for a new trial. But if he did get this Barry Grove to set Mrs Still’s house on fire and Grove names him, we’ve got him that way.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t?’

  ‘We cross that bridge. I think it’s very likely he will.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So, what do we do? We can’t charge Russon with arson of course and there’ll be no paper trail. Grove gets charged anyway – murder almost certainly but he might get away with manslaughter if he claims not to have known there was anyone in the house at the time – been told it was empty, all of that. Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘My guess is that he’ll sing. What’s he got to lose?’

  ‘This case was reinvestigated because poor Mrs Still never let it go. Understandably. But she’s dead. She wanted justice for her daughter, proof that she was murdered by Lee Russon, and her body found. That’s what we wanted – case solved, file closed. But Russon is serving life. If the arson and Mrs Still’s murder are pinned on him, he is never going to get out of prison alive.’

  ‘So why pursue him for this? Yes, you’re right. I don’t like it though.’

  ‘Nor do I, but police resources are finite. If he was still out there of course we’d pursue it. If this guy in hospital so much as breathes Russon’s name you go back there and this time it’s under caution, he’ll have his Brief with him but you still ask him again about Kimberley.’

  ‘Russon won’t talk,’ Simon said. ‘Ever. Why would he?’

  ‘It’s bloody frustrating, I know – you got very close.’

  He called Monroe as he was leaving the building late that afternoon.

  ‘We can’t go any further.’

  ‘But listen –’

  ‘We know it’s the right man, we know we’ve got the car and placed him at the scene at the right time, but it would never stand up. CPS wouldn’t buy it as cast-iron grounds and new evidence for recommending a retrial, and as you know, nobody can be tried twice for the same crime unless there is “compelling new evidence”. It’s a dead end. But you’ve done excellent work, and thanks very much for your help.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I know. Unfinished business – you have to get used to it. Sorry. It’s bloody frustrating.’

  ‘Right. Well, glad to be of some help anyway.’

  Simon heard the flatness in her voice, knew her disappointment at what, at the moment, seemed like time wasted. But on several fronts, it had not been. They had, as the Chief said, come close. Now, maybe the arsonist would sing and they could link him to Lee Russon. Or maybe not.

  And then there was the island. That was unfinished business too, and the police would not be able to close that file either, so long as there remained the faintest possibility that one day they might turn up something. On that basis, it would remain as yet another cold case.

  He felt drained suddenly. His shoulder ached. In a couple of days he would have the permanent prosthesis fitted. His bionic arm. Robbie would want to see that in action, give him tests – ‘Pick up a pin with it. Now hold that jug and don’t drop it. Now wave to me. Now twist your hand round.’

  He smiled. Would he ever go back to the island? Probably not. Some things were best left.

  Kirsty rang him gone eleven o’clock that night. ‘Is it too late? Had ye gone to bed Simon?’

  ‘Never before midnight, if then, but I’m surprised you’re still up. Are you all right?’

  ‘Aye, more or less – I don’t sleep so well now with a footy game going on under my ribs, and Robbie has been having nightmares.’

  ‘Nice to talk then. Poor Robbie … my mum used to open the window and throw the nightmares out. She said they went galloping away across the sky.’

  ‘That’s a great notion, I’ll give it a try. Listen, I just wanted to give you an update.’

  ‘About Iain?’

  ‘Well, of course once they knew about the hanging everyone’s had their own theory, but nobody knows for sure about him and Sandy – Lorna never said anything and she’s gone now.’

  ‘Gone for good?’

  ‘Aye … she never really liked it here and she couldn’t run the pub and stores on her own. The pub’s closed. There’s an idea of taking the stores over as a community thing – because it’ll take a while to get someone new, if we ever do.’

  ‘Community pub too?’

  ‘Maybe. That’s a bit of a bigger enterprise. We’ll see. The thing is, news got out about Sandy. Everyone knows.’

  ‘How the hell did that happen? Who talked?’ He could not imagine any of those officially involved saying a word out of turn.

  Kirsty sighed. ‘Letters. Something official-looking arrived, addressed to “Alexander Michael Murdoch”.’

  ‘Gordon.’

  ‘He said he had to open it to get a return address. He started by asking if anyone knew if Sandy had a brother or even a husband, but it turned out to be something medical – gave the game away.’

  ‘And he told everyone.’

  Kirsty was silent.

  ‘Not sure he shouldn’t be reported for that,’ Simon said after a moment.

  ‘Och, no, you wouldn’t, Simon, you –’

  ‘I wouldn’t, no. There are one or two things I could be reported for too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how have people taken it?’

  ‘After the initial shock … not so bad. This is a tight little island. Sandy had become part of it when not many outsiders do. She was liked. She pulled her weight. I should say “he” but I can’t … I can’t think of Sandy as a man, I just can’t … it’s sad she didn’t feel able to tell us.’

  ‘Yes, it is sad, but I wouldn’t worry about it. Life goes on, life takes over.’

  ‘It has. It’s hard but we’ve just to get on with things. I’ll have to go, Robbie’s shouting out again and it’s only me he wants when he has these dreams.’<
br />
  ‘Don’t forget – throw them out of the window. Look after yourself and your boy, Kirsty.’

  ‘Boys. I had to get a scan as they thought there was a problem – there isn’t but it showed another boy.’

  ‘Your three boys then.’

  He smiled to himself as he tidied round before going to bed. Three boys. Kirsty might have thirteen and she’d probably take it all in her stride. It was what they had to do on Taransay, take things as they came and deal with them, because life was too full to do anything else. They had known Sandy as a woman and that was how they would always think of her, so long as their memory of her survived. And if she had still been alive? Well, Kirsty was right – gradually, they would have just accepted him and got on with that too, and if the odd one found that difficult, they’d have kept it quiet. But he thought that what many did not understand was that finding it difficult for a time, having to learn how to take it, did not mean disapproval or concern. It meant, like so many things, that it was all a matter of time.

  Barry Grove woke again to find two cops at his bedside and his leg stuck up in the air and held in some sort of sling. It wasn’t hurting, just now, but it had and he knew that it would again, and then they would give him more of the stuff which made his brain spin off into fairyland. He had to sort things out before that happened.

  ‘Can I have a drink?’

  One of them poured him a glass of water. The young one. There was an older, fat one who he thought would be the hard one. Didn’t matter. He drank. Then he said, ‘I want to tell you about it.’

  ‘Good,’ the fat one said.

  Barry Grove began to sing like a canary.

  Sixty-one

  ‘How does it feel?’ Cat asked. They were sitting outside in the pub garden under a heater, having a glass of wine before going inside to eat. It was a quiet Saturday evening, too late for ramblers, too early for the supper crowd coming out from town. She had not seen Simon for almost a month, though they had talked and messaged each other, because she had been finding her feet in her new job, at the start of Concierge Doctors, and he had been away, and then easing himself back into full-time work again.