A Bitter Feast(22)
Fergus O’Reilly, however, she thought as she dumped twenty pounds of veal bones into a stockpot, was another kettle of fish.
He was mercurial, prone to shouting at the staff over the least little detail, while ignoring things that drove her bonkers, like the dirty vent hoods. But when he cooked, he was absolutely bloody brilliant, making the kind of food she’d dreamed about since that sixteenth birthday dinner. And lately he’d been listening to her suggestions and a couple of her ideas had turned up on the menu.
But she wanted to be back on the hot line—she missed the adrenaline rush of service and the challenge of getting the plates up. When a spot opened up on the line, she was going for it, no matter what it took.
“What about this one?” Kit shoved his phone across the train carriage table towards Doug Cullen. With an exaggerated sigh, Doug lowered the tabloid he’d picked up at Paddington Station. This must be the tenth car Kit had shown him in the last hour and a half.
“A Volvo?” It was a sleek and powerful S90 saloon. “That’s pretty hot.” Doug slid the phone back. “But your dad doesn’t need hot. He needs boring. How do you think you lot and the dogs would fit in that?”
Kit rolled his eyes and elbowed his younger brother. “We could leave him home.”
Toby, earbuds in and eyes glued to the iPad Kit had let him use, was oblivious.
“You sure what he’s watching is okay?” Doug asked, a little nervous with his temporary parental role and Toby’s access to the Internet.
Glancing at the screen, Kit said, “Ballet. And more ballet. Justin Peck again.” Toby had discovered the New York City Ballet’s resident choreographer and was in the grip of adulation. Kit scrolled through his phone, then handed it back to Doug. “What about this one?”
A Mercedes SUV this time. Doug snorted. “Not bloody likely. That’s not a cop’s car. And you don’t even know for certain that the Astra can’t be fixed. Not to mention that your dad could have been killed.” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. It was a horrible thing to say to a boy who had lost his mum.
Kit glanced away and shrugged, his mouth set in a scowl. “But he wasn’t. He’s fine.”
But it had been Kit, when Doug had rung him about the accident last night, who’d insisted on coming early, as if he had to see for himself that Duncan wasn’t seriously hurt.
“Of course he is,” Doug said, then breathed a sigh of relief as the announcement for Kingham came over the train’s address system. “Come on, you two, get your things together. Moreton-on-Marsh is the next stop. Melody’s picking us up.”
As the train pulled into Moreton a few minutes later, he saw Melody waiting on the platform. In faded jeans and T-shirt, she looked more like a teenager than a seasoned detective sergeant. Her face, too, looked more relaxed than he’d seen in ages, which surprised him. Usually, encounters with her parents left her tense and edgy. Maybe it was the country air that agreed with her. Then, she saw them, and waved.
When they’d disembarked, she gave Toby’s straw-fair hair a friendly tousle. “Good journey?” she asked.
“Boring,” Kit and Toby said in unison. “Is there anything to eat?” Toby added. “I’m starving.”
Doug rolled his eyes. “You had tea and biscuits on the train.”
“But that was hours ago,” Toby protested.
“I think there’s a packet of crisps in the car,” Melody said. “Whoever gets there first has dibs.”
Toby whooped and took off towards the car park. “No, you don’t,” shouted Kit, sprinting after him, his rucksack swinging wildly from his hand.
“You survived,” Melody said to Doug as they followed the boys at a more sedate pace.
“Barely. Kit is already car shopping for his dad. I’m surprised he hasn’t picked out a Lamborghini.”
“Dad’s taken Duncan to the recovery yard this morning, but it doesn’t sound like the prospects are good. Listen.” She touched Doug’s arm, slowing him down as the boys reached the little Renault. “I thought you should know. Both passengers in the other car were killed. Dad’s taking Duncan to make a statement this morning as well.”
“But there’s no question of him being at fault?” Doug asked, frowning.
“No, I don’t think so. But he’s pretty battered. And my mum and dad knew the driver. She was from the village. They say they can’t imagine how it could have happened.” Opening the Clio’s tailgate with her fob, Melody called out, “Bags in the back.” As she and Doug reached the car, she pulled a shopping bag from the cargo space, adding, “And look. Two bags of cheese and onion crisps. Emergency rations. Just don’t get crumbs all over.”
The boys squeezed in on either side of Charlotte’s car seat, opening the crisps, as Doug got in the passenger front seat. Just how lucky had Duncan been, he wondered, to walk away from that sort of crash? He’d seen enough when he was in uniform to know how bad it might have been.
As Melody pulled out into the high street, he had a glimpse of low buildings in golden Cotswold stone, colorful awnings, and a bustle of people. “You should see it on market day,” said Melody, following his gaze. “It’s bonkers.”
For the first time, he really grasped that Melody had spent a good part of her childhood here. She’d always seemed such a quintessential city dweller. “Is it far, your parents’ house?” he asked.