Free Fatlands by Sarah Dunant Page A

out I have been told. Parents especially. Fathers and mothers. I wondered how they were going to conduct the funeral. Have separate services and bury the corpse twice? What corpse? I tried not to think about it.
    Oh, yes indeed, I still had a whole slew of unanswered questions. I went for a first parting shot. ‘About Mattie’s mother—’
    But he didn’t let me finish. ‘There’s nothing to say about her. My wife is a disturbed, unstable woman. We haven’t seen each other for a year.’
    â€˜Disturbed and unstable,’ I repeated. ‘But not violent?’
    His eyes narrowed. ‘And what does that mean?’
    I waved a hand. ‘Nothing. Only that I’m trying to find out who killed your daughter. And since it was pretty obvious the device was intended for you, I—’
    â€˜My God, you think it was Christine?’ This time he laughed. It was not exactly an infectious sound. ‘No. She gets too much pleasure from having me alive. Anyway, it’s not her style. Christine would have trouble changing a plug, let alone constructing a bomb.’
    Well, that sorted out that one. On the other hand it sometimes takes two to be electrically incompetent. Maybe he was the kind of man who needed to do it all himself. In which case I certainly wasn’t looking at an absent-minded professor, the sort who regularly misplaced theatre tickets. I saw Mattie whirling round in her father’s study, phone to her ear. One last question. I was careful how I phrased it. Right at that moment, apart from the person on the other end of the line, I was the only one in the world who knew about that phone call. And just for the present I wanted to keep it that way. So I asked him when he had last talked to his daughter. He treated it as an odd question, one implying neglect rather than affection. Maybe it did.
    â€˜I don’t see that it’s any of your business. Now, if you don’t mind I have a lot to do.’
    You betcha. Like finding a cure for cancer before the suppressed guilt makes you ill yourself. Don’t reckon your chances. ‘Of course. You’re right. I’m sorry.’
    I got to the door before I turned. ‘Oh—stupid thing, really. Mattie was under the impression that you’d given me the theatre tickets for last night. I wasn’t supposed to have them, was I?’
    He looked at me as if I was slightly deranged. How irrelevant could something be. He’d never know. ‘No. They were at the theatre. Why do you ask?’
    I shrugged. ‘Just wanted to check I didn’t owe you some money.’
    I went back to the office. Not because I had anything to do there, but because it felt better than going home. Frank had gone back to the leftovers of the
tapas
and the echoes of Spanish cedillas in his ear. One of these days I’ll get to meet his family, the indestructible Ginny. As marriagesgo it didn’t sound too bad. At least they weren’t out to kill each other.
    Of course I didn’t believe it was Mattie’s mother. I had just wanted to rattle Shepherd into some unguarded remark. In retrospect it didn’t rate as one of my greatest interrogations. My technique or his personality? Let’s call it a draw. My only consolation was that I couldn’t believe the police had done much better.
    The phone took the top of my head off, but then the office doesn’t get too many calls on a Sunday evening. Frank had put the machine on so I just let it go. After the beep a man’s voice said in a chatty kind of way: ‘Well, off spending Sunday with the family, eh, Frank? I thought that was one part of this job you used to like. Listen, I thought you might want to know we brought in Ben Maringo, had a few words with him. He says it’s no one he knows, but then he claims nobody’s talking much to anyone these days. Gave us a few leads, though. I’ll let you know when we do. Cheers. Oh, and by the