Chapter Three-point-Zero-Three
The front door bumped open and Susan swept into the hall, all bundled-up in her winter wear, because it was flipping perishing out there.
She dumped her bags-for-life on the mat and pulled off her leather gloves, then unbuttoned her black ankle-length coat – which toned perfectly with the long grey heavy skirt, knee-high boots, pale-grey jumper, bright-orange scarf, and matching beret.
Some might argue that staying monotone would be more stylish, but it was fun to throw in a little colourful nod to September’s russet plumage.
She performed that famous small-dog ballet: Danse Avec Le Petit Crétin – swapping Genghis Khat’s lead from one hand to the other as she corkscrewed her way out of her coat and hung it up. A pas de deux, for excitable Yorkshire terrier and slightly cuddly lawyer.
‘Robbie?’ She clunked the front door closed. Picked up her bags and bustled into the dining room to place them on the covered table. Raised her voice a little louder. ‘Robbie?’
Then stood there, with her head cocked, listening.
But the only reply was Genghis Khat, whining.
‘Sorry, little man.’
She unclipped his lead and he did a happy trio of catherine-wheel turns, then scampered off, yapping. As weenie dogs were wont to do.
Dear old Genghis Khat . . .
He was a twit, but that’s what happened when you let your children name a family pet. Mind you, it was still better than Robbie’s suggestion. Because there was no way Susan was standing in the middle of Duthie Park shouting, ‘AGAMEMNON!’
Never live it down.
Susan pulled a box from one of her bags – a Lego Bonsai Tree. And yes, officially the kit was for ages eighteen-and-up, but kids grew up so fast these days.
Now: where were her wrapping things?
Susan located the correct plastic crate, then laid a dark-navy roll of paper on the table, followed by the special long scissors, Sellotape dispenser, gift tags, bows, and . . .
What happened to her scarlet ribbons?
Going back to the crate for another rummage.
And still not finding any.
Hmmm . . .
Maybe she’d filed them in the kitchen by mistake?
Out in the hall, she swapped her chic boots for a pair of fuzzy green slippers, hung up her beret, and took a deep breath. ‘ROBBIE? I’M PUTTING THE KETTLE ON: YOU WANT TEA?’
No answer was the loud reply.
Strange.
Robbie didn’t say anything about going out.
‘ROBBIE!’
Honestly, the woman was a law unto herself. One of those forces-of-nature people Mother warned you about.
Susan raised her voice again. ‘I SNEAKED OUT EARLY, BECAUSE NAOMI’S GOT THAT FRIEND’S BIRTHDAY PARTY TONIGHT AND LORD FORBID SHE SHOULD BUY HER OWN PRESENT FOR WHATEVER SPOILED brAT’S INVITED HER.’
Scuffing through into the kitchen.
Which was nice and tidy. No breakfast or lunch things lying about. So, Robbie must have been busy. Before she disappeared.
‘I GOT HER A LEGO TREE DOODAH! THIRTY QUID: SURELY THAT’S ENOUGH FOR A TEN-YEAR-OLD?’ And it would’ve been over forty, if it hadn’t been on sale.
She filled the kettle and set it to boil. ‘I WAS GOING TO GET YOU A CUTE LITTLE ITALIAN RIVIERA THING TO BUILD, BUT YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE HOW EXPENSIVE THE BIG SETS ARE! MAYBE FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY . . .?’
The only sound in the whole house was the kettle, pinging and gurgling.
While it did its business, Susan went through the kitchen drawers. But those flipping scarlet ribbons remained elusive.
The kettle rattled to a halt.
Two mugs, teabag in each, freshly boiled water. Stir-stir, squish-squish.
‘I WAS THINKING: CAULIFLOWER CHEESE FOR TEA! MAYBE WITH CHIPS IF YOU’VE BEEN NAUGHTY?’
Without the kettle’s song, the silence throbbed.
For goodness’ sake.
Time to go searching.
Susan poked her head around the living-room door: no one.
Mistress bedroom: no one.
Spare room: the valance was all rumpled, and it needed a dust – because no one had stayed over for ages – but it was still devoid of Robertas. So, Susan straightened the valance and tried the dressing room, bathroom, box room, then up the stairs to Naomi’s octopus’s garden/pigsty: no one.
There was someone in Jasmine’s room, but he was a cardboard cutout of that author she’d been swooning over the month before – holding his latest blockbuster and smiling like a fat, middle-aged balding lothario. Signed in gold Sharpie.
But. Still. No. Roberta.
Susan even opened the attic door, flicking on the light to expose four generations’ worth of dust, packing cases, and an infinite number of spiders. Closed it again with a shudder.
Back downstairs, she checked the utility room.
‘Robbie?’
Nope.
‘Unbelievable.’ Taking a sip of what was now tepid tea. ‘Poof – into thin air.’
Maybe a biscuit would help?
In the kitchen, she helped herself to a Wagon Wheel, leaning on the worktop to eat it, looking out over the back garden.
That lawn needed mowing again.
The apple tree was heavily pregnant with fruit, the branches bowed beneath the weight of scarlet temptations. And there was Mr Rumpole lurking between the yellowing leaves like a snake, out of the wind.
Susan rumbled open the patio door. ‘Come in, you hairy lump!’
But Mr Rumpole just stared back at her with his ineffable amber eyes. Tail twitching.
Really: men.
Stepping out onto the patio, Susan clapped her palms against her thighs a few times. ‘Mr Rummmmmmmmmmpole! Come see Mummy!’
It wasn’t that bad out here, sheltered by the high garden walls, and their big granite house. Still a bit nippy, though. Clap, clap, clap. ‘Come on, dafty!’
But he wasn’t budging.
Perhaps she should put her wellies on and go get the silly muffin? Because he wasn’t as young as he used to—
A . . . something moved, snagged the corner of her eye, and Susan turned hard right peering at the little line of outbuildings that ran along one side of the garden wall.
Oh no.
There was a light on in one of them – seeping out beneath the door.
‘Robbie?’
She shuffled across the too-long lawn with its thick damp grass, to the door. It still had their silly sign screwed to the wood: ‘THE POLICE SCOTLAND MEMORIAL RETIREMENT SAUNA’. No Boyz Allowed.
Susan reached for the handle . . . and froze.
What if it wasn’t Robbie?
What if someone had broken into the house?
What if they were lurking in there, right now, waiting for a chance to pounce and murder them all in their beds?
Well, they were messing with the wrong lawyer!
A garden spade rested against the cancelled-sauna wall – even though she’d asked Roberta to lay it by at least a dozen times – Susan grabbed it.
Nice and heavy.
Bet the blade would do some damage too.
OK.
Raising her weapon like a Viking’s axe, she hauled in a breath and threw the door open. ‘YOU BETTER RUN, MOTHERFUCKER, COS I’M GONNA BASH YOUR brAINS OUT!’
‘Aye . . .’ Robbie blinked back at her. ‘Been there, tried that. And it’s no’ as much fun as you’d think.’