useless.’
‘Well, he’s obviously using you as an unpaid childminder.’
That was rich, Angela thought.
‘I’ve been an unpaid childminder since I was five. And I’ve never asked for pay from you, so I don’t see why I should from Dad.’
‘Oh, have it your own way. It’s not for me to worry about you now.’ The children remained silent. Leaving them alone had never worried her in the past. ‘Well, I think that’s all I can manage at the moment. Tell your dad I’ll be back for one more instalment, then he can do what he likes with whatever’s left.’
‘I expect he’ll put it out with the garbage,’ said Angela.
‘Oh do you, young lady? Well, if he was the caring, sharing bugger he pretends to be he’d take it to a charity shop, or give it to the Sally Army.Too much trouble, I suppose. Well, he’ll see what trouble three small monsters like you are, won’t he? I suppose I should say “Be good”, but I won’t bother because I hope you give him hell.’
She clicked her case shut with a ringing finality, then pushed past the two younger ones, gave a look of particular dislike at her eldest, then humped the suitcases down the stairs. As she came to the hall she stopped and picked up an envelope from the little table.
‘I missed this. When did it come?’
‘This morning,’ Angela said. ‘Dad had already gone.’
‘My bloody solicitor, getting his finger out at last. Well, tell your dad I mean every word. He’s not getting his way over this – why should he?’
And not specifying what she was talking about, she threw open the front door and banged it shut behind her. Angela went and looked at the envelope. The inscription in the top left hand corner read: ‘Bland, Witterley and Kemble, Solicitors.’ She easily opened the self-adhesive envelope.
Later that day, when Bill arrived home, Angela left a quarter of an hour, as she often did, then went down to talk to him. She found him on the sofa in the sitting room, his head in his hand, sobbing. The letter was on the rug in front of him. She ran over and put her arms around him.
‘Dad! Dad! She doesn’t mean it! She was here today. I know she doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t want anything to do with us. She made that quite clear.’
Bill dabbed a handkerchief to his eyes.
‘Oh, I know that, my darling. I know she couldn’t care less about you. But that’s what I’m afraid of: that some damn fool of a judge will give custody of you to someone who doesn’t give a damn about you.’
C HAPTER F IVE
Deathbed Scene
Charlie Peace looked at Reggie Friedman and Melvin Settle and he saw in their faces nothing but bewilderment. They studied his ID card – ‘Detective Inspector Dexter A Peace’ – as if it were a piece of dog dirt found on the immaculately maintained set of Jubilee Terrace .
‘Yes?’ said Melvin Settle, with a combination of hauteur and condescension.
‘We have received an anonymous letter,’ began Charlie, conscious it was not a brilliant opening.
‘Oh? Don’t the police normally suggest that such garbage is thrown straight in the bin where it belongs?’
‘Sometimes we do. Since this one concerns a national figure – though a very minor one – wethought we could be in deep trouble with the tabloids if we didn’t do a certain amount of investigation.’
‘Oh, the tabloids,’ said Reggie, as if the last thing Northern Television would pay attention to was The Sun or the Mirror . ‘And what national figure, might I ask?’
‘The letter named an actor called Vernon Watts—’ began Charlie. The result stopped him in his tracks.
‘Christ Almighty,’ said Reggie. ‘He’s been dead more than four months.’
‘—who played the part of Bert Porter, I believe.’
‘He did, yes.’ Reggie looked at his watch. ‘Look here, Melvin, I’ve got to be at a script conference. Could you take over here?’
‘You seem to forget, Reggie—’ the voice was oiled and urbane, ‘—that my work title is
‘Well, he’s obviously using you as an unpaid childminder.’
That was rich, Angela thought.
‘I’ve been an unpaid childminder since I was five. And I’ve never asked for pay from you, so I don’t see why I should from Dad.’
‘Oh, have it your own way. It’s not for me to worry about you now.’ The children remained silent. Leaving them alone had never worried her in the past. ‘Well, I think that’s all I can manage at the moment. Tell your dad I’ll be back for one more instalment, then he can do what he likes with whatever’s left.’
‘I expect he’ll put it out with the garbage,’ said Angela.
‘Oh do you, young lady? Well, if he was the caring, sharing bugger he pretends to be he’d take it to a charity shop, or give it to the Sally Army.Too much trouble, I suppose. Well, he’ll see what trouble three small monsters like you are, won’t he? I suppose I should say “Be good”, but I won’t bother because I hope you give him hell.’
She clicked her case shut with a ringing finality, then pushed past the two younger ones, gave a look of particular dislike at her eldest, then humped the suitcases down the stairs. As she came to the hall she stopped and picked up an envelope from the little table.
‘I missed this. When did it come?’
‘This morning,’ Angela said. ‘Dad had already gone.’
‘My bloody solicitor, getting his finger out at last. Well, tell your dad I mean every word. He’s not getting his way over this – why should he?’
And not specifying what she was talking about, she threw open the front door and banged it shut behind her. Angela went and looked at the envelope. The inscription in the top left hand corner read: ‘Bland, Witterley and Kemble, Solicitors.’ She easily opened the self-adhesive envelope.
Later that day, when Bill arrived home, Angela left a quarter of an hour, as she often did, then went down to talk to him. She found him on the sofa in the sitting room, his head in his hand, sobbing. The letter was on the rug in front of him. She ran over and put her arms around him.
‘Dad! Dad! She doesn’t mean it! She was here today. I know she doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t want anything to do with us. She made that quite clear.’
Bill dabbed a handkerchief to his eyes.
‘Oh, I know that, my darling. I know she couldn’t care less about you. But that’s what I’m afraid of: that some damn fool of a judge will give custody of you to someone who doesn’t give a damn about you.’
C HAPTER F IVE
Deathbed Scene
Charlie Peace looked at Reggie Friedman and Melvin Settle and he saw in their faces nothing but bewilderment. They studied his ID card – ‘Detective Inspector Dexter A Peace’ – as if it were a piece of dog dirt found on the immaculately maintained set of Jubilee Terrace .
‘Yes?’ said Melvin Settle, with a combination of hauteur and condescension.
‘We have received an anonymous letter,’ began Charlie, conscious it was not a brilliant opening.
‘Oh? Don’t the police normally suggest that such garbage is thrown straight in the bin where it belongs?’
‘Sometimes we do. Since this one concerns a national figure – though a very minor one – wethought we could be in deep trouble with the tabloids if we didn’t do a certain amount of investigation.’
‘Oh, the tabloids,’ said Reggie, as if the last thing Northern Television would pay attention to was The Sun or the Mirror . ‘And what national figure, might I ask?’
‘The letter named an actor called Vernon Watts—’ began Charlie. The result stopped him in his tracks.
‘Christ Almighty,’ said Reggie. ‘He’s been dead more than four months.’
‘—who played the part of Bert Porter, I believe.’
‘He did, yes.’ Reggie looked at his watch. ‘Look here, Melvin, I’ve got to be at a script conference. Could you take over here?’
‘You seem to forget, Reggie—’ the voice was oiled and urbane, ‘—that my work title is
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