Final Account by Peter Robinson

the way you described.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell, I suppose I could imagine a burglar, say, perhaps killing someone who got in the way. You read about it in the papers, especially these days. Or an accident, some kids joy-riding. But this …? It sounds like an assassination to me.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you saw him?”
    â€œAbout a month ago. No, earlier. In March, I think. Shortly after St Patrick’s Day. The wife and I went for dinner. Mary’s a splendid cook.”
    â€œDid they entertain frequently?”
    â€œNot that I know of. They had occasional small dinner parties, maximum six people. Keith didn’t like socializing much, but Mary loved to show off the house, especially if she’d acquired a new piece of furniture or something. So they compromised. Last time it was the kitchen we had to admire. They used to have a country-style one, Aga and all, but someone started poking fun at ‘Aga-louts’ in the papers, so Mary got annoyed and went for the modern look.”
    â€œI see. What about the son, Tom? What do you know of him?”
    â€œTom? He’s travelling in America, I understand. Good for him. Nothing like travel when you’re young, before you get too tied down. Tom was always a cheerful and polite kid as far as I was concerned.”
    â€œNo trouble?”
    â€œNot in any real sense, no. I mean, he wasn’t into drugs or any of that weird stuff. At worst I’d say he was a bit uncertain about what he wanted to do with his life, and his father was perhaps just a little impatient.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œHe wanted Tom to go into business or law. Something solid and respectable like that.”
    â€œAnd Tom?”
    â€œTom’s the artsy type. But he’s a bright lad. With his personality he could go almost anywhere. He just doesn’t know where yet. After he left school, he drifted a bit. Still is doing, it seems.”
    â€œWould you say there was friction between them?”
    â€œYou can’t be suggesting—”
    â€œI’m not suggesting anything.” Susan leaned back in the chair. “Look, Mr Pratt, as far as we know Tom Rothwell is somewhere in the USA. We’re trying to find him, but it could take time. The reason I’m asking you all these questions is because we need to know everything about Keith Rothwell.”
    â€œYes, of course. I’m sorry. But what with the shock of Keith’s death and you asking about Tom …”
    Susan leaned forward again. “Is there any reason,” she asked, “why you should think I was putting forward Tom as a suspect?”
    â€œStop trying to read between the lines. There’s nothing written there. It was just the way you were asking about him, that’s all. Tom and his father had the usual father-son arguments, but nothing more.”
    â€œWhere did Tom get the money for a trip to America?”
    â€œWhat? I don’t know. Saved up, I suppose.”
    â€œYou say you last saw Keith Rothwell in March?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHave you spoken with him at all since then?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid he seem in any way different from usual then? Worried about anything? Nervous?”
    â€œNo, not that I can remember. It was a perfectly normal evening. Mary cooked duck à l’orange . Tom dropped in briefly, all excited about his trip. Alison stayed in her room.”
    â€œDid she usually do that?”
    â€œAlison’s a sweet child, but she’s a real loner, very secretive. Takes after her father. She’s a bit of a bookworm, too.”
    â€œWhat did you talk about that evening?”
    â€œOh, I can’t remember. The usual stuff. Politics. Europe. The economy. Holiday plans.”
    â€œWho else was there?”
    â€œJust us, this time.”
    â€œAnd Mr Rothwell said nothing that caused you any concern?” “No. He was quiet.”
    â€œUnusually