All Bones and Lies by Anne Fine Page A

over the wall to jam a wedge of carrot deep in Mr Lee’s extractor fan; an account of the father’s response when confronted – ‘Boys will be boys. A mere prank.’ On the top of these lay a litter of irate messages passed on by Shirley at Switchboard that he’d been trying to sift into piles according to gravity: threats, punch-ups, complaints of laxatives fed to the Haksars’ cat. From Colin’s point of view, of course, this childish feud could not become
Vendetta!
fast enough. That, after all, would move it from its current file in Public Health into some overflowing police in-tray, and he himself could once again lean back against that great dependable stone wall, ‘I’m afraid that it’s out of myhands now. Sorry,’ and get back to his report on the safety of balconies.
    He had stopped listening. Surfacing temporarily from his midden of anxiety, he realized that, apart from registering the steady drip into his sister’s monologue of this new woman’s name – Marjorie, was it? – he’d not been following at all. So he was startled when, once again as if she’d been sitting across the cramped café table monitoring his own inner voice, Dilys finished up roundly, ‘and Marjorie agrees with me that any day now it’ll be a police matter.’
    He tried a bit of fishing. ‘Really? A police matter?’
    â€˜Well, yes. You can’t, after all, keep worming yourself into the houses of all your mother’s elderly Canasta Club companions without a few eyebrows being raised. Sooner or later someone is bound to complain. You know how these things work. “Perdita Moran? Now where have I heard that before? Didn’t some old lady phone in last week about a woman of that name practically offering to carry her off to the old folk’s home?” They’ll make a few inquiries, and then, because of the embarrassment, Tor Bank will have to move her back to Insurance. Or on to Home Loans, or Arrears.’ She beamed with satisfaction. ‘No fat commissions there! And I won’t have her back in Corporate Sponsorship. Absolutely not.’ Reminded by this reference to her own little enclave, she dug in her bag. ‘Here. Invitation for Wednesday, in case we’re a little thin on the ground.’
    He tried not to accept it. ‘Actually, Wednesday’s going to be rather diff—’
    But, leaving less of a tip on the table than he wouldever have dared, she was already halfway to the door. ‘So we’ll meet at the bank at seven? Then we can walk down to Stemple Street together.’
    And she was gone. Mournfully he pocketed the invitation without even looking at it, and sat wondering if he dare risk the stares of other customers to wrap the remains of his cake in his napkin, so he and Tammy could feed it to Timothy Duckling.
    But, as he might easily have guessed at the start, in the end he just stabbed it to death and then left it.
    Did his family have nothing better to do than pester him at work? It was only next morning when Shirley tapped on the fortified screen designed to protect her from frenzied citizenry, and said accusingly through the little patch of holes drilled in the glass, ‘You’ve been unplugging that little machine of yours again, haven’t you, Mr Riley?’
    His face flared. ‘No.’
    â€˜And don’t think I haven’t guessed what you’ve done to your mobile.’
    Rain from his waterproof spattered his Slaughterhouse Inspection Rota as he pawed the ground, waiting.
    At last she favoured him with the bad news. ‘I’m afraid it’s your mother again.’
    He couldn’t help the shudder. ‘Any clues?’
    â€˜No. She said it’ll keep till you get there tonight.’
    â€˜Tonight? I’m not going tonight.’
    â€˜
She
thinks you are.’
    Oh, God! This was a poser he could never crack. Could she really no longer be