question with a wave of her hand. ‘Find the pretty red-haired waitress and ask her what her name is. Ask her how old she is and why she’s here. And then later, when everyone has gone, you must tell me exactly where Neil is.’
Chapter Twelve
Stirling had no idea what Cecily was talking about, but one thing he did know was that he couldn’t keep up the pretence any longer.
Only the faintest of hopes that the police had jumped to the wrong conclusion, that it hadn’t been Neil’s body found in the river, had given him the strength to carry on with his mother’s birthday party. But just as he had known that Rosco’s revelations about the missing client money were true, his instinct was – that sixth sense – telling him that Neil was indeed dead. He knew it with absolute certainty. He knew too that life was never going to be the same again. It wasn’t just a brother he had lost; he had lost his oldest and closest friend. So why then was he trying to compartmentalize Neil’s death for the sake of appearances? What sort of unthinking bastard did that?
‘Stirling? Whatever is the matter? You look quite ill.’
He swallowed the painful lump in his throat and held firm. He would not let himself become unglued. ‘Let’s go inside the house,’ he murmured, putting a hand to his mother’s elbow. He concentrated on walking. One step. Then another. And then another.
He closed the door of his study and led Cecily to the two comfortable armchairs either side of the empty fireplace, steeling himself for one of the hardest, if not the hardest thing he’d ever have to do in his life. Cecily had never had favourites when it came to him and his brother, but Neil had always had a special place in her heart, just as Lloyd did.
He told her first about Rosco’s discovery in the office. She made no reaction, merely listened attentively, sitting bolt upright, her hands on her lap, as if knowing there was worse to come. Then he told her about the police and the reason for their visit. He heard the quiet catch of her breath and she closed her eyes for a very long time. Stirling watched her carefully.
‘I knew,’ she said, when finally she looked at him again. ‘I knew something was wrong. He wasn’t happy. When I last saw him I sensed he was at odds with himself. I asked him if everything was all right, but he wouldn’t open up to me. I should have tried harder. If only I had. If only . . .’ She closed her eyes once more.
‘If anyone should be saying that, it’s me,’ Stirling said. He knelt at her side, covered her hands with his. ‘I should have realized he was going through some kind of hell. I just don’t understand why he didn’t turn to me. Didn’t he trust me? Didn’t he think I’d help . . .’ He broke off, unable to continue. The lump in his throat had returned; it was made of anger and bewilderment. Why? Why hadn’t Neil come to him? It hurt him acutely that his brother hadn’t confided in him. Then he did what he hadn’t done since he’d been a small boy. He rested his head in his mother’s lap and wept. For a while he wasn’t conscious of anything other than the feeling that he would never recover from this. He thought he knew what it was like to feel real sorrow – he’d experienced that when his father died more than ten years ago – but this was different. The desolation was all-consuming. It was unbearable.
Gradually he became aware of Cecily’s hands on his head and neck, gently stroking him as she had when he’d been a boy. He was shocked how easily he had reverted to being that child in need; shocked also at his selfishness. He should be the one soothing and consoling her; she had lost a son. He pulled himself together, dug out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, blew his nose, wiped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice a rasp.
‘What for? For being human? Don’t ever apologize for that. Where’s Pen?’
‘She wanted to go home, but I insisted she stayed
Chapter Twelve
Stirling had no idea what Cecily was talking about, but one thing he did know was that he couldn’t keep up the pretence any longer.
Only the faintest of hopes that the police had jumped to the wrong conclusion, that it hadn’t been Neil’s body found in the river, had given him the strength to carry on with his mother’s birthday party. But just as he had known that Rosco’s revelations about the missing client money were true, his instinct was – that sixth sense – telling him that Neil was indeed dead. He knew it with absolute certainty. He knew too that life was never going to be the same again. It wasn’t just a brother he had lost; he had lost his oldest and closest friend. So why then was he trying to compartmentalize Neil’s death for the sake of appearances? What sort of unthinking bastard did that?
‘Stirling? Whatever is the matter? You look quite ill.’
He swallowed the painful lump in his throat and held firm. He would not let himself become unglued. ‘Let’s go inside the house,’ he murmured, putting a hand to his mother’s elbow. He concentrated on walking. One step. Then another. And then another.
He closed the door of his study and led Cecily to the two comfortable armchairs either side of the empty fireplace, steeling himself for one of the hardest, if not the hardest thing he’d ever have to do in his life. Cecily had never had favourites when it came to him and his brother, but Neil had always had a special place in her heart, just as Lloyd did.
He told her first about Rosco’s discovery in the office. She made no reaction, merely listened attentively, sitting bolt upright, her hands on her lap, as if knowing there was worse to come. Then he told her about the police and the reason for their visit. He heard the quiet catch of her breath and she closed her eyes for a very long time. Stirling watched her carefully.
‘I knew,’ she said, when finally she looked at him again. ‘I knew something was wrong. He wasn’t happy. When I last saw him I sensed he was at odds with himself. I asked him if everything was all right, but he wouldn’t open up to me. I should have tried harder. If only I had. If only . . .’ She closed her eyes once more.
‘If anyone should be saying that, it’s me,’ Stirling said. He knelt at her side, covered her hands with his. ‘I should have realized he was going through some kind of hell. I just don’t understand why he didn’t turn to me. Didn’t he trust me? Didn’t he think I’d help . . .’ He broke off, unable to continue. The lump in his throat had returned; it was made of anger and bewilderment. Why? Why hadn’t Neil come to him? It hurt him acutely that his brother hadn’t confided in him. Then he did what he hadn’t done since he’d been a small boy. He rested his head in his mother’s lap and wept. For a while he wasn’t conscious of anything other than the feeling that he would never recover from this. He thought he knew what it was like to feel real sorrow – he’d experienced that when his father died more than ten years ago – but this was different. The desolation was all-consuming. It was unbearable.
Gradually he became aware of Cecily’s hands on his head and neck, gently stroking him as she had when he’d been a boy. He was shocked how easily he had reverted to being that child in need; shocked also at his selfishness. He should be the one soothing and consoling her; she had lost a son. He pulled himself together, dug out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, blew his nose, wiped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice a rasp.
‘What for? For being human? Don’t ever apologize for that. Where’s Pen?’
‘She wanted to go home, but I insisted she stayed
Similar Books
