sunshine.’
‘Splendid.’
‘Great summer in fact.’
‘Greenhouse effect.’
‘More power to it.’
‘ Too hot, really.’
‘Well, yes, I’d say so.’
‘They say it’ll break soon.’
‘But they always say that,’ concluded Gerard, ‘don’t they?’
Mark fetched their bags, and Gerard showed them the guestroom. It was more of the same: an illustration from a catalogue; a backdrop to a tweed collection. The double bed had a bolster, and through the window sheep posed placidly beneath a spreading chestnut tree, probably. Gerard showed them how the wardrobe worked: it had a sliding door. Left to themselves, she and Mark would have cracked this fairly soonish. You could take the host business too far, she thought, but you couldn’t fault his geniality.
Except you had to see it as an act. If you had decided he was responsible for the deaths of a young widow and her curiously extant husband, and, by logical extension, the kidnapping – or at any rate disappearing – of their surviving daughter, you had to take this newly jovial front with a quarryload of salt. Sarah had, of course, no evidence. For the moment, though, she wouldn’t let that get in the way; with a weekend on the premises to go, she could have him bang to rights by Monday.
‘Not too shabby,’ Mark said, once Gerard had left them.
‘Mmm?’
‘All this.’ He waved a hand: the room, the cottage, the country. He was desperate for her to be pleased, she realized; for the stage to be suitable for a convincing performance of enjoyment. So they could both pretend, even in front of each other, that it was brilliant they were here. Maybe she should tell him, she thought as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, that the entertainment potential in this weekend had increased by a factor of ten. On the other hand, though, she definitely shouldn’t.
‘All right?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Fine. Everything’s fine.’ And they went downstairs.
It was hard getting a handle on Gerard in his home environment. It was as if the slate had been wiped clean, and he was determined not to acknowledge in any way that their first encounter had been anything but immensely cordial. He did mention the explosion once, but addressed his question to Mark while Sarah was asking Paula something interesting about neighbours, and couldn’t butt in to prolong the dialogue.
‘Anything ever come of that incident? Developments?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Hmph. Trouble with the police, they’re so busy bending over backwards to prove they’re not racist thugs, they never get anything done . It’s like everything else, you want results, go private.’ He glanced at Sarah as he said this, but she was too busy being fascinated by Paula to respond. Something about a TV star three doors away. His last party started on Friday and went on till Monday morning !
One of the non-bomb-related puzzles that had been exercising Sarah, why there was no activity in the kitchen, was solved when Gerard explained he’d booked a table at the local pub for lunch. Booked , mind. Not one of those pub lunches where you just turn up. Within a few minutes of that, they were in The Feathers, a pub that was everything the rest of the village promised, having uniformed staff, a wide choice of real ale and expensive food. Sarah, though, was on her best behaviour. So, it seemed, was Gerard. When he spoke, she listened and laughed; when she spoke he attended as if expecting questions later. Mostly Mark did the talking, though, while Paula picked at her food and didn’t offer much, beyond adding the odd name to her list of the village alumni. Sarah thought she’d be happier in Planet Hollywood. Even Gerard threw her odd glances, as if wishing she’d try harder.
After the garlic bread, the lasagne, the summer pudding, Gerard suggested a walk. ‘Lovely walks round here, aren’t there, darling?’
Paula shrugged.
‘Woods?’ asked Mark, to show he knew a thing or two about the
‘Splendid.’
‘Great summer in fact.’
‘Greenhouse effect.’
‘More power to it.’
‘ Too hot, really.’
‘Well, yes, I’d say so.’
‘They say it’ll break soon.’
‘But they always say that,’ concluded Gerard, ‘don’t they?’
Mark fetched their bags, and Gerard showed them the guestroom. It was more of the same: an illustration from a catalogue; a backdrop to a tweed collection. The double bed had a bolster, and through the window sheep posed placidly beneath a spreading chestnut tree, probably. Gerard showed them how the wardrobe worked: it had a sliding door. Left to themselves, she and Mark would have cracked this fairly soonish. You could take the host business too far, she thought, but you couldn’t fault his geniality.
Except you had to see it as an act. If you had decided he was responsible for the deaths of a young widow and her curiously extant husband, and, by logical extension, the kidnapping – or at any rate disappearing – of their surviving daughter, you had to take this newly jovial front with a quarryload of salt. Sarah had, of course, no evidence. For the moment, though, she wouldn’t let that get in the way; with a weekend on the premises to go, she could have him bang to rights by Monday.
‘Not too shabby,’ Mark said, once Gerard had left them.
‘Mmm?’
‘All this.’ He waved a hand: the room, the cottage, the country. He was desperate for her to be pleased, she realized; for the stage to be suitable for a convincing performance of enjoyment. So they could both pretend, even in front of each other, that it was brilliant they were here. Maybe she should tell him, she thought as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, that the entertainment potential in this weekend had increased by a factor of ten. On the other hand, though, she definitely shouldn’t.
‘All right?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Fine. Everything’s fine.’ And they went downstairs.
It was hard getting a handle on Gerard in his home environment. It was as if the slate had been wiped clean, and he was determined not to acknowledge in any way that their first encounter had been anything but immensely cordial. He did mention the explosion once, but addressed his question to Mark while Sarah was asking Paula something interesting about neighbours, and couldn’t butt in to prolong the dialogue.
‘Anything ever come of that incident? Developments?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Hmph. Trouble with the police, they’re so busy bending over backwards to prove they’re not racist thugs, they never get anything done . It’s like everything else, you want results, go private.’ He glanced at Sarah as he said this, but she was too busy being fascinated by Paula to respond. Something about a TV star three doors away. His last party started on Friday and went on till Monday morning !
One of the non-bomb-related puzzles that had been exercising Sarah, why there was no activity in the kitchen, was solved when Gerard explained he’d booked a table at the local pub for lunch. Booked , mind. Not one of those pub lunches where you just turn up. Within a few minutes of that, they were in The Feathers, a pub that was everything the rest of the village promised, having uniformed staff, a wide choice of real ale and expensive food. Sarah, though, was on her best behaviour. So, it seemed, was Gerard. When he spoke, she listened and laughed; when she spoke he attended as if expecting questions later. Mostly Mark did the talking, though, while Paula picked at her food and didn’t offer much, beyond adding the odd name to her list of the village alumni. Sarah thought she’d be happier in Planet Hollywood. Even Gerard threw her odd glances, as if wishing she’d try harder.
After the garlic bread, the lasagne, the summer pudding, Gerard suggested a walk. ‘Lovely walks round here, aren’t there, darling?’
Paula shrugged.
‘Woods?’ asked Mark, to show he knew a thing or two about the
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