EIGHT

       Ben arrives home late

      Night was folding Potherthwaite in its grip. The girl with the golden hair and Dr Mallet’s vase must hurry. Soon Inspector Pellet would be back from his function. To get on to the roof of the garage was child’s play – and she had forgotten that she was still a child. It was easy too to shin up the drainpipe, even with that great big delicate vase in her hand. It was hard to imagine that she had the strength, this slip of a girl, to open still further the upstairs window that hadn’t quite been closed (and him a policeman and involved in Neighbourhood Watch!). She didn’t need to open the window very far. She was so slim. The rest was easy: slip in, place the vase in full, challenging view on the dressing table in the scene of the Pellet lovemaking, ugh, the thought, slip out, leave the window open, slide down, disappear into the night, he’d never trace her, the stupid clod, he’d look ridiculous, ha ha, job done.

      It was not yet half past eleven when the driver employed part-time by the council took a very subdued Marigold Boyce-Willoughby home to the cul-de-sac. The lights were on in number 9, where unpacking was still taking place, and the cocoa had not yet even been put on. The lights were still on in number 11 too. Jill was taking off her make-up, and Arnold was just putting the finishing touches to chapter 77, ‘The High Street Suffers in the Era of Rationing’.

      It was in fact twenty-seven minutes past eleven when she arrived home, and there was still no sign of that strange boy Ben Wardle at the Wardle home in Pomfret Crescent.

      Marigold had soon come round after her panic attack, but she had flatly refused to go to the hospital. Her remark, ‘They come out of there feet first,’ had not gone down well with the doctors and nurses who had been rewarded for their generosity by being invited to the party. Councillor Stratton had pointed out that it was obvious that Marigold was unwell and was spouting careless gibberish in her embarrassment and shame. He would see that the hospital got a written apology from her asap.

      Marigold had said that she felt perfectly all right now – it was just the stress of recent days, coupled with the heat of the room, that had made her faint. The only place in the world she wanted to be was in her own home. Councillor Stratton’s secretary, fairly high on champagne, had been forced to type a report stating that Marigold had been offered an ambulance to take her to the hospital, and had refused, and that she knowingly accepted responsibility for any unfortunate consequences that might possibly occur as a result of her decision. Marigold was hurt by this, contemplated refusing to sign the description of her refusal, then suddenly couldn’t be bothered and signed without protest, at exactly the same moment that, in Ellie’s bedroom, Sally Mottram stood up, making the first move in what might well be a lengthy departure.

      Sally didn’t want to leave. She was terrified of entering her empty house. Ellie didn’t want her to leave. She dreaded every night. But there is a convention in social life. You just don’t call round uninvited, and stay till two in the morning. Leave she must.

      By twenty to twelve she had reached almost to the front door of Ellie’s house, and the girl with the golden hair had arrived home, had slipped in silently, had tiptoed through the door of the lounge, where her mother had fallen asleep in her chair, as she did most nights, and was snoring her head off and inhaling the alcoholic fumes of her own breath. The girl was asleep within five minutes.

      Ben’s father felt far from sleep. He was sitting at the kitchen table in his dressing gown, scowling, when Ben arrived home at last.

      ‘What time do you call this?’ his father demanded.

      ‘Eric,’ said Ben.

      ‘What?’

      ‘I call this time Eric,’ said Ben. ‘Though of course time is moving on, and it’s no longer Eric. Aren’t you going to ask me what it is now?’

      ‘No, I am not.’

      ‘It’s now Eric plus one.’

      ‘Well, I call it late.’

      ‘Pretty dull name, Dad, to be absolutely frank.’

      ‘I do my best with you, Ben.’

      ‘I agree. I think sometimes I’m infuriatingly infantile, to be honest. But I’ll grow up, Dad, sadly. And I don’t happen to think I’m remotely late. I am sixteen, you know. You’re so out of touch, Dad.’

      ‘It’s school tomorrow.’

      ‘School’s crap.’

      ‘So what have you been up to?’

      ‘I don’t see why I should tell you, but it’s true, you do do your best with me, so I will. Nothing. Sod all. No clubs. No films. No alcohol. No drugs. Nothing to eat.’

      ‘And where have you not done all this?’

      ‘In the allotments.’

      ‘The allotments?’

      ‘Yeah. It’s nice there.’

      ‘It’s cold.’

      ‘Yeah. Cool. We’re all obsessed with cool, aren’t we?’

      ‘Why is it nice in the allotments, Ben?’

      ‘Because it’s dark, so you can’t see Potherthwaite.’

      ‘You love running Potherthwaite down, don’t you?’

      ‘I don’t actually. I don’t enjoy it at all. I bitterly regret that I wasn’t born in a beautiful cathedral city with lovely old houses, a thriving arts scene, a Premier League football team and a beautiful estuary leading out to a warm southern sea.’

      ‘Better do something about it then, hadn’t you?’

      ‘Maybe I will. Maybe I just will.’

      ‘So what have you done all evening in the allotments?’

      ‘I’ve told you. Nothing.’

      ‘You must have done something.’

      ‘Well, yeah. Talked. About nothing, though.’

      ‘So you weren’t alone.’

      ‘Sharp, Dad. Very sharp.’

      ‘Don’t patronize me. We feed you, we look after you. We don’t deserve to be patronized.’

      Ben actually looked shamefaced.

      ‘Sorry.’

      There was a brief pause. Tick-tock of the kitchen clock, which was slightly askew – the cleaner had been.

      ‘Who were you with?’

      ‘Tricksy.’

      His father tried so hard not to make any noise, but the very faintest sigh emerged from his mouth. Or his