The First Week by Margaret Merrilees Page B

School for instance. Did he finish school? He seems like a bright boy.’
    â€˜Yes. He started Anthropology at the university but he hasn’t finished that.’
    â€˜Still studying?’
    â€˜No, he isn’t, he dropped out.’ A drop-out.
    â€˜When was that?’
    â€˜Early this year. Since then he’s been working on and off. Gardening.’
    â€˜Gardening eh? You can take the boy out of the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the boy.’
    Marian didn’t respond. What did raking up leaves in green city gardens have to do with the gritty reality of the farm?
    â€˜Father no longer alive, I gather?’
    â€˜No.’
    For once, disconcertingly, the lawyer waited in silence. Marian eased sideways in her chair. Her left foot was going to sleep. ‘He died about ten years ago.’
    â€˜Who inherited the farm?’
    â€˜Brian. My other son.’
    â€˜So Charlie’s the younger son. That’s how it goes. Bit of a blow for him I suppose?’
    Marian considered this. Had it been a blow for Charlie? But he’d always known.
    â€˜Who ran the farm after your husband died?’
    The question floated in front of her. Who did he think? Who the hell would run the farm?
    â€˜I did.’
    A brave little woman look formed on his face, but she was used to that, and cut across it. ‘I got in workers whenever I could afford it.’
    â€˜Must have been hard for you.’
    Hard. The dry-eyed wakeful nights. The constant weariness. The loneliness. Sitting up, after the boys had gone to bed, with accounts that never balanced. The neighbours who were kind. The ones who weren’t. The ones who were waiting to buy her out. The ones who helped and then thought they might as well stay the night. In her bed.
    As if.
    â€˜Yes it was hard. Sometimes.’
    â€˜Difficult choice, with two children.’
    But there was nothing else she could have done. Did he think that she should have married again? But who, exactly?
    â€˜Are you still running the show?’
    â€˜Brian does most of it these days.’
    â€˜Now what about girls?’
    â€˜I only have two sons.’
    Simon Ingerson laughed cheerily. ‘Charles, I mean. Girlfriends? Normal boy in that way?’
    This echo of her own earlier thought irritated her.
    Normal. Until Monday it had never crossed her mind that people in her life were anything other than normal. There was Tara, but that was different, just one of those things.
    What was the lawyer asking?
    About Charlie, whether he was normal.
    â€˜I suppose so,’ she said reluctantly. Of course he’s not normal, she wanted to scream. He just killed two complete strangers.
    She pulled herself together. ‘You’ve talked to him, have you?’
    â€˜Yes. That’s to say I’ve visited him. I didn’t get much out of him. Perhaps he’ll talk to you. I’ve arranged for you to see him tomorrow. Hope that’s all right? You could go today if you wanted to. Up to 3pm I think it is.’
    â€˜Thank you.’ Her insides collapsed downwards at the thought.
    â€˜The police have been out to the farm,’ he said. ‘Checked the registration of the gun. With Brian.’
    If he knew about Brian, why had he asked who ran the farm now? Was it a trick? Maybe they thought Brian knew something. Oh God. What if they thought Brian was involved in the shooting?
    â€˜Brian didn’t know Charlie had taken it.’ Even she could hear the fear and hostility in her voice.
    â€˜When did Charlie last come home?’
    â€˜At least six months ago. He and Brian don’t get on.’
    â€˜It’s okay Mrs Anditon. There’s no suggestion that Brian knew, if that’s what you’re worrying about.’
    She must try and clear her head.
    Simon Ingerson spread his hands theatrically. A performer. But perhaps lawyers had to be.
    â€˜All routine. A check on where the gun came from and how Charlie