The Killing Club by Angela Dracup

were you released?’ she asked, putting on some thick gloves and lifting a blue dish from the oven. She had her back to him, so he could look at her without feeling bad about it. He’d thought maybe she wouldn’t be too put out to see him, but he’d never dared think she’d be like this – asking him in, giving him food, treating him like he was someone she could respect.
    ‘A couple of days back.’
    ‘Where have you been staying?’ She was ladling out the stew now, on to a plate with a pattern of flowers around the edge. It was good that she was busy, made him feel OK about talking.
    ‘In a bedsit. Probation gave me the money.’ He didn’t mention the previous night when he’d slept in the bus station, wrapping his arms around his chest to keep warm. Watching her, he saw that she had got old-looking, more like a granny than a mum. When she’d come to the jail to teach reading, her hair had been dark brown, almost black, and she’d not had so many wrinkles on her face. He liked the idea of a granny – less scary than a mum.
    She moved to a drawer, and started pulling out knives and forks. He jumped up. ‘I’ll do it.’
    She turned to him, startled a little, then smiling.
    ‘Am I shouting?’ he asked, staring down at her, the cutlery in his fingers.
    ‘No.’ She let him set out the knife and fork, then placed the plate of food in front of him. He stared at it, before closing his eyes briefly and allowing the lovely smell to filter into his nostrils. He picked up his fork.
    ‘You can stay here for the night, if you like, Craig,’ she said, once he was filled with stew and potatoes and some tinned treacle pudding she’d found in the cupboard and smothered in cream.
    He shot her a look, wondering if she was just winding him up. But no, her eyes were still kind.
    ‘Would you like to do that?’ she prompted.
    ‘Yeah.’ He couldn’t believe it. He kept thinking she’d turn on him. Maybe turn into a female version of Blackwell. ‘Thanks,’ he said. He swallowed, not knowing what to say next.
    ‘Craig is a nice name,’ Ruth said. ‘I remember you telling me how it came about that you got that name. It was your grandad who suggested it, because he was Scottish.’
    He was astonished. ‘How can you remember that?’
    ‘Oh, I’ve always squirreled all kind of things into my memory.’ She smiled at him.
    ‘Aye,’ said Craig, not believing his luck in having made this long journey and found Mrs Hartwell. But most of all that she still seemed to like him, even though he was a murderer. She knew that, he’d told her all those years ago when she taught him to read. Who else would have a murderer in their house?
    The doorbell tinkled.
    Ruth raised her head like a startled animal. She got up, giving Craig a reassuring smile. ‘Oh, dear,’ she murmured, as she walked towards the front door, seeing the shadowy figure of Harriet waiting behind it.
    Craig started up as Harriet entered the kitchen.
    ‘Hi,’ she said to him, placing a paper bag with a bottle in it on the table and then shrugging off her coat.
    ‘Who are you?’
    ‘Craig,’ he muttered.
    ‘Right.’ Harriet sat down at the table and drew a bottle of whisky from the paper bag. ‘Who’s for a nightcap?’ she said, smiling at her two observers. Without waiting for a response she jumped up and rooted in one of the kitchen cupboards, producing three dusty-looking cut-glass tumblers.
    Ruth had seen, as soon as she opened the door, that all was suddenly right with the world for Harriet. Which meant, first and foremost, that she’d had some positive phone contact with Charles, and that, presumably, all had gone well during her talk with Chief Inspector Swift. Maternal relief rolled through her. She took a swallow of whisky and water, enjoying the cold sensation as it rolled down her throat and tickled the lining of her stomach.
    ‘Do you take water with it, Craig?’ Harriet said with faint provocation, pushing a tumbler towards the