CAMBRIDGESHIRE – ENGLAND
Sam opened the back door, sneering at
the lack of security, and went inside.
On the kitchen table was a copy of
the Sunday Times magazine. In colour on the front cover was a photograph of his
father, Henry Decker: Travelling Clergyman. The blurb claimed he was on the
verge of reforming the Christian church; on his way to becoming a bishop. In
the picture his father was smiling, arms folded across his chest. The make-up
and lighting tried to make him seem stylish and mature; wise; but he looked
like a fool.
Sam made his way through the house
where he had grown up: thick faded carpets, bookcase after bookcase; a
grandfather clock in the hall and one in the study; more bookcases. He moved
silently. The murmur of conversation came from the lounge, and he moved toward
it: his father’s voice primarily and making only rare comments: his mother.
Sam slipped up to the door, running
the words through his head that Lucy had said to him over the phone on the day
she died as she arranged to meet him: that she had come here to their parents’
house; that they had argued. She had been crying, inconsolable until the
whisper of her boyfriend in the background calmed her down.
Sam listened at the lounge door.
His father’s voice: “I’m very sorry...
very very sorry that she’s dead.”
And then his mother’s voice too low
and simpering to hear.
“But it was God’s will,” said his
father, “and it was for the best.”
Sam opened the door. “For the best?”
His father got to his feet: grey
shirt, dog collar, black trousers. Beyond him, still sitting down, Sam’s mother
in her dressing gown. “Sam? What are you doing here?”
“For the best?” said Sam. He walked
to the centre of the room. Nothing had been moved since he was a child. The
same sofa set dominated the room in a giant L, same red curtains, same
expression on his mother’s face.
“The police have been here Sam,” she
said, “wanting information. They asked us questions about you. They say you
were seen visiting Lucy around the time she was killed. They say you’ve been
taking money from your company.”
Sam ignored her, walking up to his
father. “What did you mean by ‘For the best?’”
“Don’t be foolish Sam; answer your
mother. What happened to Lucy? Do you know who killed her?”
“Do you Sam?”
He turned to his mother. He stared at
her and then at his father. “You’ve considered the possibility that I did it
haven’t you, just like the police? Just because I was there, you think that I
might have had something to do with it.”
The two of them looked at one another,
then his father looked back at him. “I don’t know why you came here Samuel, I
can’t imagine that it was a social call, but I think that you should go. If the
police come back I don’t want to have to lie to protect you.”
Sam smiled. “I wouldn’t expect you to;
but I came here to ask you something and I plan to do so; about Lucy.”
His father sighed. “All right Sam.
What do you want to know?”
“Do you care at all who killed your
daughter?”
“Of course we do,” said his mother,
standing up, her eyes flicking nervously down the length of his body.
“Well that’s what I’m doing here,”
replied Sam. “I’m trying to find her boyfriend because he was the one who did
it. Now I need to know from you if you know of any family he might have had in
America.”
“We don’t,” said his father. “The
police will find out all that. Just leave it. Go in and talk to them.
Straighten it out about Lucy and your work.”
Sam’s phone rang. He looked at his
father. “No.”
They weren’t going to tell him
anything. It was a waste of time coming here as it always was. He turned his
back on them and answered.
“Sam. Harrison. I’ve got something.”
“Speak.”
“Talked to a friend of mine.
Apparently several private investigators have been employed recently to find
your boy by a firm of solicitors.”
“Because of the inheritance?”
“I guess so.”
“Did you get a name?” asked Sam.
“Yes,” said Harrison. “I did.”
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