EPILOGUE
A few weeks later, at the beginning of July, after they heard that Marcus had got life with no chance of parole for twenty-five years, Pat received a letter from Rebecca Clayton thanking her for her tenacity, for never giving up on Henry when the rest of the world had.
Pat had invited her to the ceremony she, Sofia, Prichard and Dorna had planned: a naming ceremony for a bench to commemorate her son’s life.
But Rebecca had understandably declined.
She did not want to visit the place where he had lost his life, at least not just yet, and she was also not inclined to do so with an audience of strangers.
‘Darling, you really shouldn’t be carrying that,’ said Pat, rushing around the side of the moss-mobile to relieve Sofia of the large tin she had in her hands. ‘Not in your condition.’
‘Well, firstly it’s not a condition. It’s not an illness, it’s a pregnancy.
Secondly, I’m as fit as a fiddle, and thirdly it’s a strawberry pavlova, and I don’t think you’ll find anything that’s lighter than meringue.
And anyway you shouldn’t be carrying it with your hip. When are you having the operation?’
‘I’m on a list, any time soon.’
‘Why don’t you pay to have it done?’
‘It’s a way of putting it off.’
‘You two, stop bickering,’ said Dorna, who was lugging two straw picnic hampers with a rug tucked under one arm.
‘Here,’ said Prichard, grabbing the tin from Sofia’s hands. ‘Happy now, Pat?’
‘Don’t you bloody fall over carrying that,’ said Sofia. ‘I know how clumsy you are, Prichard!’
‘You sound exactly like your mother,’ he said, turning and marching up the coastal path towards Fin du Monde. ‘The apple didn’t fall far from that tree, did it!’ he added over his shoulder.
Pat stood in the car park, taking the rest of the picnic out of the boot. She thought for a second about locking it, but a cursory look around made her realise no one was coming anywhere near it. She smiled. Not locking the car – another sign she was over her trauma.
It was a beautiful afternoon. One of those clear, warm days when summer finally decided it was serious and the grass smelt like baked goods and the heat from the warm earth seeped through Pat’s flip-flops and the yellow rays of the sun toasted her shoulders either side of her vest top. She should have worn a shirt.
She walked slowly along the path carrying the heavy freezer box full of ice and soft drinks.
It had been her idea to name a bench in Henry’s honour.
There were many along the coast, quiet memorials from husbands, wives, children, friends, each one marking a life that had mattered.
Somehow it felt right that Henry should have one too.
She had managed to persuade the council to engrave the bench where she’d found his phone, the place where he’d dropped it, or hidden it from Marcus when, as it turned out, he’d been trying to defend himself.
The honourable member of parliament himself had intervened and facilitated all the paperwork.
‘So what do you think?’ she asked, putting down the cold box and looking around. ‘The location? The engraving? Do you think he would have liked it?’
‘I like it, Mum,’ replied Sofia, helping herself to a cucumber sandwich from Dorna’s basket. ‘And I’m sure he would too.’
‘Well, cheers!’ Pat raised her can of San Pellegrino. ‘Here’s to you, Henry Clayton, you charming, funny, clever, handsome man.’ She took a sip and sighed.
‘And I for one am thrilled you caught the bastard!’ said Dorna.
‘I couldn’t have done that without your help.’
‘I’m sure you would have caught him in the end,’ Dorna smiled.
‘I’m just lacking the tech skills,’ replied Pat, taking another sip of her drink.
‘Have you thought about those computer classes in the village hall?’ Prichard suggested helpfully.
‘The ones for the elderly?’ asked Pat.
There was a long pause.
‘Anyone for pavlova?’ asked Sofia.
‘Try stopping me!’ said Prichard, helping himself to a plate.
Dorna flapped out the rug and they all sat down in the sun, looking out to sea and spooning in mouthfuls of Sofia’s delicious pavlova.
Pat helped herself to a little more. ‘I have to say, this is one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten. You really do have a talent, Sofia.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’ Sofia smiled up at her, her large hat shielding her face. ‘I’m glad you like it.’ She turned her head to look down the hill towards the car park. ‘I think your policeman friend is coming this way.’
‘Really?’ asked Pat, straining her neck.
She watched as PC Footer made his way towards them, stopping once to catch his breath.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said when he finally joined them. ‘Sorry to disturb.’
‘Would you like a sandwich? Or some pavlova?’ asked Dorna. ‘Join us – come and sit down.’
‘Oh, no thank you. No eating between meals for me,’ he said proudly.
‘Wow,’ said Pat. ‘What’s brought about this change?’
‘I’m on the pen,’ he announced.
‘You mean the weight-loss injections?’
‘That’s it. I don’t even think about food any more. You really got me thinking about my eating.’
He nodded towards the wooden bench with Henry’s name carved in the middle.
‘You’ve done a nice job. It’s a good spot.’
‘Thank you.’ Pat looked at him, her eyebrows raised questioningly.
‘Anyway, your gardener, Caroline, said you’d be here,’ he said. ‘I wonder, Dr Phillips, if I might have a word about another case? I think we might need your help.’