He told me all about Melanie, how pretty and bright she was, and then about Annette, his wife, who had multiple sclerosis and had been forced to give up her job as a clerk in a solicitor’s office and was very depressed in consequence, and about their house in Purley Oaks that they were struggling to pay the mortgage on, and Annette’s mother who lived with them. Her name was Ivy, and Stan called her Ivy the Terrible because she was so disagreeable. I was sympathetic about all these difficulties and Stan said it was as good as a tonic to talk to someone who really understood.
In return I told him a little about my family. Despite the awfulness of my father’s arrest and wrongful imprisonment, I realised that our life sounded much more fun than Stan’s and I felt embarrassed by our comparative good fortune. Because he had been so honest with me I felt obliged to do a little unburdening myself. So I told him about Bron’s dormant acting career and Ophelia’s engagement, which looked unlikely now and Portia’s having gone off with a sinister-sounding man, and Stan was very kind and made all sorts of consoling and boosting remarks.
‘Tell you what,’ Stan shook his head and little starry drops of water fell on my knees, ‘it’s getting dark and I could do with a drop of sustenance. What say we finish me sandwiches leftover from lunch and then have one last holler for the hound?’
I was not at all hungry but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings as he’d been so decent, so I agreed it was a good plan. Stan undid the unappetisingly soggy parcel and a split second later Derek materialised at his knee. His coat was silvered all over with fog but he was quite unharmed. I was so pleased to see him I forgot to be angry about the wasted time spent searching. I snapped on the lead and begged Stan to give Derek my share of the fish-paste sandwiches as he had fixed the package with his large brown eyes and was drooling unbecomingly.
By the time we had walked back across the park, exulting in a shared sense of relief, Stan and I were the best of friends. Though he thought it wouldn’t come out because the light was bad, he took a photograph of Derek for his daughter because Melanie loved dogs and would be interested to hear how her father had spent the afternoon. He hoped it would cheer Annette up a little to hear that the dog had come at once in response to the sandwiches.
‘Laughter’s the best medicine, when all’s said and done,’ he said, with a wink.
As I was waving a fond farewell a black car drew up and Inspector Foy and Sergeant Tweeter got out. At once I felt guilty because I had been smiling at Stan and forgetting, for a moment, my father’s predicament. Actually, I think now that it is impossible to keep sorrow continually before one’s eyes, and almost the worst thing about unhappiness is constantly remembering it, so that you realise your grief a thousand times over with the devastation of a fresh shock each time.
Derek took a shine to the inspector at once and made lengthy smears over the immaculate mackintosh with his muddy paws. I apologised profusely but the inspector said it didn’t matter a bit. This confirmed my opinion that despite his calling as a fascist instrument of proletarian oppression he was a nice man.
‘Is your mother coming with us?’ he asked, attempting to wipe his coat with his handkerchief and making a worse mess.
‘I’m afraid not. She’s – having an operation.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He looked so concerned that I almost told him the truth. ‘What about your brother and sisters?’
‘Cordelia’s coming. Portia’s still away, Bron’s got a – business appointment and Ophelia, my eldest sister, isn’t well.’
Just as I said that the front door opened and Ophelia came down the front steps. Even by the light of the streetlamp, which was refracted into a halo by the excessive moisture in the air, she looked stunning. She was wearing a white wool coat, a diaphanous silver scarf and a black Juliet cap. The fairy-tale romance of her appearance was exaggerated by her golden hair, which was knotted loosely behind her head and tumbled down her shoulders in elegant waves, like the youngest of three princesses, who is always the most virtuous and kind-hearted. Ophelia shrank back from Derek’s overtures.
‘For God’s sake, don’t let that bloody animal near me.’ She ignored the inspector. ‘I’m going out to dinner with Peregrine Wolmscott. I can’t stand another minute in that depressing house of horrors. Woe, woe, woe! All those ghastly flower arrangements – nobody cheerful to talk to. As for Maria-Alba, she’s sinking so fast into depression, I think she’s going to have to go in for another sizzle.’ She meant the electroconvulsive therapy that Maria-Alba so hated and feared.
‘It’s awfully early for dinner.’ I looked at my watch. It was not yet six. ‘Do come with me and see Pa.’
‘I thought I’d go to a news cinema and cheer myself up watching the Libyans blasting one another to bits.’
‘I’d be grateful if you’d give me a few minutes of your time.’ Inspector Foy looked gravely at Ophelia and I longed to explain to him that she only talked like that because she was unhappy.
‘You are …?’ Ophelia turned her eyes towards him for the first time with her most crushing look of boredom and indifference, which she had spent years perfecting.
The inspector reacted only by the merest contraction of his eyebrows. ‘If you’ll just step inside, Miss Byng. It shouldn’t take long.’
‘As I just said, I’m going out.’ She turned to walk away but the inspector made a sign to Sergeant Tweeter, who placed his large bulk in her path.
‘Don’t let’s play games, Miss Byng.’ The inspector looked very calm. ‘My time is valuable. I want to speak to all the members of Mr Byng’s family. I can interview you at the police station if you prefer.’ He nodded towards the car and Sergeant Tweeter took a step forward and opened the door.
‘Are you going to arrest me?’ Ophelia gave a contemptuous laugh.
‘You’ll look less ridiculous if you come with me into the house of your own free will.’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘The choice is yours.’
Something in the inspector’s face persuaded Ophelia, for once, to capitulate. She flounced up the steps to the front door and stalked in ahead of us. I went down to the kitchen. Maria-Alba had just finished making the strozzapreti.
‘Is there anything for Derek to eat?’ I asked. ‘I’m going to creep out to the police car. Probably he won’t whine if he’s got food. Where’s Cordelia?’
‘She watch the television. Sì, I give him the faraona from lunch and the bones of the coscetto d’abbachio we have for dinner.’
This was one of her specialities, a boned leg of lamb stuffed with onions, liver, sage and pearl barley, delicious but bloatingly rich. Evidently Cordelia had forgotten to give her my message. She opened the fridge door and Derek gave little shivering growls of anticipation. ‘Sausages!’ I heard Maria-Alba mutter. ‘Cos’altro! Dio ci scampi e liberi!’
I had collected Cordelia from the television in the coal-hole and my hand was on the front door when Derek gave voice to several ear-splitting bars of painfully high notes, like an amateur Queen of the Night. I could hear Ophelia’s voice in the drawing room, though not what she was saying. I heard her laugh scornfully. Cordelia and I sat in the car with Sergeant Tweeter and I tried not to worry. Five minutes later Inspector Foy ran down the steps and got into the front passenger seat. ‘All right, Sergeant.’ He sounded almost savage. ‘Let’s not dawdle. We haven’t got all night.’
Cordelia and I exchanged glances. It seemed that Ophelia had, after all, won the encounter. I could detect anger in the tilt of the inspector’s head. Even the bristles on his neck seemed to express a contained fury. No one said anything until we drew up outside a massive, red-brick Victorian