A Killer Ball at Honeychurch Hall by Hannah Dennison

took the twins to the dentist and now he’s dropping them off with his grandmother.”
    â€œMrs. Cropper?” Mum seemed surprised.
    â€œNo, Helen’s mum,” said Roxy. “She helps Shawn out after school.”
    â€œHe needs an au pair—or a new wife.” Mum looked pointedly at me.
    â€œIt’s not been two years since Helen died,” Roxy said sharply. “She was the love of his life. He’ll never marry again.”
    â€œOh, I am sorry, dear,” said Mum sweetly. “That must be so hard for you. As I was saying to Officer Cairns, Kat, I’m not sure how I can help.” Mum looked daggers at the plastic shopping bag. I could tell the suspense was killing her. “Do you want to put that down somewhere?”
    Roxy clasped it closer. “No, thanks.”
    Mum looked over at the singing bird clock above the kitchen door. It wasn’t quite five. “Is it too early for something stronger?”
    â€œYou might need to keep your wits about you,” Roxy declared.
    I wasn’t sure if she was joking. “Tea, in that case.” I marched over to the kettle and switched it on.
    â€œCan I use your loo?” said Roxy.
    â€œUse the one downstairs just off the carriageway,” said Mum. “Through the door and take the first one on the left. The bowl is Victorian and very pretty. It’s decorated with horse heads and flowers so do take a look before you sit down—shall I hold your shopping?”
    â€œNo, thanks.” Roxy clasped the plastic shopping bag even closer and scurried off.
    â€œAre you thinking what I’m thinking?” Mum whispered urgently.
    â€œThe plastic shopping bag?”
    â€œShawn’s show-and-tell,” said Mum. “It’s pathetic.”
    â€œWe’ll soon find out.” I handed Mum a china mug of tea with a splash of milk.
    â€œShe’s so childish.”
    â€œSpeaking of children,” I said and went on to tell Mum how concerned I was about Harry. “And what’s more, he has a nasty bruise on his forehead. I think he’s being bullied.”
    â€œDon’t worry. I’ll get Alfred to give him a few boxing lessons.”
    â€œDon’t you dare!” I exclaimed.
    â€œHarry’s got to show them who is boss,” said Mum. “Alfred taught me, you know. I’ve still got a very good left hook.”
    The doorbell sounded. “I’ll get it,” I said. “I expect it will be Shawn.”
    But it wasn’t. It was a man in his early seventies. He reminded me of a slimmer version of an aging Marlon Brando with deep-set eyes, fleshy lips and a strong jaw.
    â€œCan I help you?” I said.
    â€œBryan—with a y —Laney,” he said and offered his hand. “You advertised for someone to do a spot of D-I-Y?”
    â€œOh. Yes. I did.” I took in his appearance. With his dark green corduroy trousers and a sports jacket he had an almost military bearing—someone I’d never have taken for a handyman. But then my father had been a tax collector and no one ever believed he was good at D-I-Y, either. Dad had always done our decorating, loved woodwork and was always puttering in the garage making this and that.
    â€œMuriel at the post office told me,” Bryan said. “I used to live around here. I’m in the process of moving back. Need a bit of work, that kind of thing.” He smiled. “Retirement doesn’t suit me.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Why don’t we meet tomorrow morning so I can show you what needs to be done and then you can give me an estimate.”
    â€œO-nine-hundred hours suit you?” he said.
    â€œPerfect. Do you have a mobile?”
    Bryan handed me a scrap of paper with his phone number on it. He’d obviously been prepared. “By the way, I always enjoyed your show. Pity you retired. I don’t think the new host is much good—she’s not got your