A Capital Crime by Laura Wilson

comical at such worldly sentiments so calmly uttered by his innocent child, Monica added, ‘I did my first bruise, too. It was a jolly good one, if I do say so myself. Just here.’ She tapped her left cheekbone.
    ‘Pleased with it, were they?’
    ‘Not half! Aren’t you going to eat your cake?’
    ‘All right, then.’ Stratton picked up the plate. ‘Bossyboots.’
    ‘I’m not!’
    ‘I know. I only said it to make you indignant.’
    ‘I’m not indignant!’
    ‘Yes, you are,’ said Stratton.
    ‘Ooh …’ Monica pursed her lips and picked up a magazine from the sofa.
    ‘Jolly good, this,’ said Stratton, through a mouthful of cake. ‘What’s for supper?’
    ‘Rabbit stew. At least, I think that’s what it is. Auntie Lilian left it.’
    ‘Ah.’ Stratton raised his eyebrows. Lilian’s cooking wasn’t a patch on Doris’s, but as her offerings were not only kindly meant but essential, he never complained. On the whole, he was grateful for the way in which his two sisters-in-law had taken over the domestic arrangements. His home might be shabby (wasn’t everybody’s,nowadays?), but, largely thanks to Lilian and Doris, it was comfortable and clean. Less appreciated were their efforts, in the past couple of years, to find him a wife. These had, so far, resulted in the unwanted attentions of a droopy but persistent widow, a fading but excruciatingly girlish spinster, and an ugly woman with a sniff whose husband, still listed as missing in action, had, in Stratton’s view, simply buggered off sharpish while he had the chance. Worse than all these, however, were the advances of another local widow, mercifully unencouraged by either Doris or Lilian on the grounds that they found her common. Over-rouged, with hands like grappling hooks, she had taken the opportunity, at a party the previous Christmas, of manoeuvring him beneath a bunch of mistletoe and, to his appalled amazement, making a grab for his scrotum, causing him to jump backwards and upset a tray of tea. The memory of it still made his toes curl, and he had avoided her ever since.
    He could see that Doris and Lilian meant well – and that having him off their hands would make their lives a lot easier – but he wished they wouldn’t bother. He didn’t want to get married again. The pricks of anger and resentment at the sight of other couples that he’d felt for several months after Jenny’s death had given way to a numbness which still remained deep within him, so that it was impossible to contemplate that sort of intimacy with anyone else. He supposed that Doris might have a point when she said it was because he hadn’t met the right person, but he wasn’t at all sure whether there would ever be another ‘right person’, or even if he wanted there to be one.
    ‘Dad?’
    ‘Mmm? Oh … Sorry, love.’ Stratton held out the remains of the cake, but Monica shook her head.
    ‘Not that. I asked if you’d had a good day at work.’
    ‘Oh. You know. Tiring.’
    ‘It’s just that I thought you must be doing something important because you didn’t come back last night.’
    ‘Too much to do …’ Stratton hesitated, then said, ‘New case. Chap killed his wife and child.’
    ‘Oh, Dad !’ Monica looked stricken. ‘How horrible for you.’ She put the magazine aside and stood up. ‘It seems so … unfair … your having to do something like that.’
    ‘It’s the job, love.’
    ‘I know, but …’ Stratton knew what Monica was trying to say, but was glad she seemed unable to articulate it. Instead, she looked at his now empty cup and said, ‘Can I get you anything? More tea?’
    ‘I’m fine. I suppose you might put the supper on …’
    ‘All right.’ Monica stood looking down at him, obviously trying to think of something to cheer him up. ‘I think there might be some cocoa left. We could have it afterwards, if you like. And,’ she added, ‘why don’t you finish the cake? Silly for me to have it – there’s only a