Free River Deep by Priscilla Masters Page A

wine.”
    “How interesting?”
    “New Zealand Shiraz.”
    “All right. Nine?”
    “Fine.”
    It was only after she had pressed the End Call button that she realised she hadn’t told him where she lived.
    The house was quiet and dark when she returned. Sam was at rugby practice and Sukey and Agnetha were huddled together on the sofa watching
Abba the Movie.
Even Bobby barely raised his head from his paws as she walked in. By the light of the TV she could see that Sukey was sucking her thumb. She left them together and started preparing an evening meal.
    When Martin had been alive she had begun this formality of eating well and together in the evening. The twins had been small then but they had still sat around, like a family should.
    Now the twins were bigger – and particularly with Sam’snecessary calorific intake – she had continued with the tradition. She and Agnetha often shared a bottle of wine and the meal usually stretched into the evening.
    It was an oasis of contentment.

6
    At tea the talk was all of Sam’s football, and Martha forgot about the complications of work. Life seemed so much more important than death. Sam’s face was still flushed with effort and pleasure as he tried to affect modesty, failing miserably when he described how he’d scored the winning goal and was the hero of the entire school. Martha felt a warm glow from a secret, maternal source. By eight o’clock she’d heard a breakdown of the entire match four times over from starter’s whistle to triumphant, shoulders-high march back from the playing fields. The hero was flopped on his bed, worn out with being the Beckham of Shrewsbury School. Sukey had retired to Agnetha’s room, doubtless to try on clothes, shampoo their hair in Borne Blonde shampoo, play records and swap Scandinavian pop star stories. Martha had time to herself to shower and change into black snug-fitting trousers and a cream sweater.
    At nine Mark Sullivan arrived, fidgety on the doorstep, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, holding out a bottle of wine loosely wrapped in pink tissue paper and looking uncomfortable. She tried to put him at his ease by greeting him warmly. “Hello. Come in.” As she closed the door behind him she commented, “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
    He tapped them. “Contact lenses, usually, but after wearing them all day my eyes get tired.”
    She led him into the kitchen. There was the wine to open, the Tanner’s New Zealand bottle winning over Sullivan’s claret. He watched her remove the cork without offering to help and they walked into the sitting room, he carrying the tray holding the cheeseboard and olives, shebearing the opened wine and two glasses. He glanced around the room with frank curiosity but without comment, waiting for her to sit down first. They sipped their drinks slowly and made small-talk about the town and the floods. A couple of times he pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes as though he really was tired. He waited until they had both eaten, she perched on the big, soft sofa with her feet tucked underneath her, and he on the adjacent chair, before he moved the conversation back to the case. “I didn’t really come down here to talk about the town and the floods. I promised Alex I’d let you know we still haven’t identified John Doe,” he said.
    “I did wonder.” She wriggled her feet around. “Just that Haddonfield was seen on Monday whereas you seemed pretty sure our man died on Sunday?”
    “Our man had died about thirty-six hours before we saw him,” he said. “Rigor mortis had almost completely worn off and besides – there was the evidence of our good friend, Calliphora. Her maggots were well-fattened.”
    “Ugh.” She wrinkled her nose.
    “So has Haddonfield turned up, then?”
    “Couldn’t tell you, Martha.” He stretched out, relaxed, his arms folded behind his head, the glasses off and his eyes half closed. She could almost have thought he was about to drop off to sleep. He