Trouble in the Cotswolds (The Cotswold Mysteries) by Rebecca Tope

a slow anticlimax, once all the presents were opened and the turkey demolished. The afternoon wreckage would stay in Thea’s mind’s eye for several weeks, from the age of about eight. The new toys became familiar and shabby, but that moment when the stocking was delivered never palled.
    When she dragged herself out of bed, she could smell a sour sweat on her pyjamas that carried associations of old people and unwashed clothes. Her head was throbbing painfully, exacerbated by movement. Her eyes hurt when she turned on the bathroom light. ‘I thought these things were always better in the morning,’ she muttered. Hard as it was to admit, the fact was that she was significantly worse than the day before.
    Who would come to help her? Panic washed through her with the stark truth that there was nobody. The Dennis man was going away, as was the Cherylwoman. Her mother was otherwise engaged. Her sisters were entirely occupied with their own concerns. Her daughter was frightened of rats. There was Damien, though. Her big brother, who lived not so very far away and had no children. Nobody would ever take him for a nursemaid, with his annoying proselytising, but he would come if asked. Until that moment, it had not for a second occurred to Thea to ask him.
    His number was in her phone, but she could not properly see the buttons or the writing on the screen. Frowning fiercely, she forced it to do her bidding. There he was, in the list, D for Damien. She didn’t think she had phoned him for at least the past three years. Not since Carl had died and there were ceaseless phone calls to and from everybody, in a crazy surge of emotional conversations, plans, and a simple need to maintain contact. The phone wanted to know for sure that it was her intention to make a call. She blindly pressed the same green button, wishing it would just get on with it.
    ‘Peaceful Repose Funerals,’ came a wholly unexpected voice. ‘How can I help you?’
    ‘What? Who’s that?’
    ‘Thea?’ The voice came gentle and questioning. ‘Is that you?’
    ‘Drew! I was calling Damien, not you.’
    ‘Both in the Ds,’ he said lightly. ‘Easily done. Are you all right?’
    ‘Not at all, no. I’ve got flu. It’s horrible. My head’s killing me. I can’t see properly.’
    ‘Where are you? Not house-sitting again, I hope?’
    ‘Stanton. Yes, I am.’
    ‘But it’s Christmas.’
    ‘I know. You sent me a card, and I sent you one.’
    ‘The flu’s a disaster. Maggs has got it, and Stephanie looks rather hot this morning, so she’s probably getting it. You’ll have to go home. You can’t work if you’re ill.’
    ‘It’s not exactly work. There’s only a dog and some rats. But I can’t just leave them.’
    ‘Well, at least there hasn’t been any murder, then.’ He laughed.
    ‘Actually …’
    ‘No! Don’t tell me.’
    ‘Next door. A woman. Yesterday. At least, it might have been an accident, or suicide. I don’t know for sure. I had horrible dreams about it,’ she remembered.
    ‘Thea, you sound pretty awful. How long have you had it?’
    ‘Um … Friday evening it started. It’ll soon be gone. I’m sorry about poor Stephanie. I hope it doesn’t spoil her Christmas.’
    He made a sound that reminded her that this would be the first Slocombe Christmas without Karen, and likely to be somewhat flat accordingly. What would it be like, she wondered, trying to go through the usual traditions with two young children and no mother? ‘Have you got them lots of presents?’ she asked.
    ‘Nothing special. Steph suggested we ignore it completely, as a sort of memorial to Karen, butTimmy thought that was the worst idea he’d ever heard. He’s right, really. Karen wouldn’t take kindly to such self-denial. She always liked Christmas – made everything herself, of course. Pudding, pies, trifle. It’s all bought stuff this year.’
    ‘I got myself a few nice things at a supermarket on Thursday. I think that’s where I caught the flu,