darker side of life, Quantrill had always made a point of trying not to alarm Molly. It had seemed best to let her issue the necessary parental cautions about road safety, and later about smoking and alcohol, while he took secretively upon himself the tightrope tasks of warning the children against strangers without making them afraid of people, and forbidding them to experiment with drugs without arousing their curiosity.
Well, at least none of his three had been molested, thank God. And the two girls had grown up thoroughly wholesome. But Peter â¦
After his court appearance, the boy had become sullen and uncommunicative. The magistrates had given him a conditional discharge, and Quantrill had tried to impress upon his son the need to change his friends and to take up a healthy sport or hobby. Peter had certainly kept out of any further public mischief, but the nature of his current activities was a mystery to his parents. He treated the house as a hotel, and â apart from the occasions when his father hollered at him to answer when he was spoken to â withdrew from any participation in family life.
Naturally, Quantrill had begun to fear the worst. He had searched Peterâs room and found neither smell nor sign of drugs or solvents â but if the boy was using them he would know better than to do so at home. Whenever he could get within reach of his son Quantrill peered suspiciously for tell-tale physical signs, but the only result of this policy was that Peter now kept out of his fatherâs way as much as possible.
This morningâs incident, when he had chased the boy upstairs to demand an apology from him, was in fact the first direct communication that they had had for months. Irritated as he had been at the time, Quantrill had begun on reflection to take heart from the episode. For a few moments Peter had looked and sounded like the cheerful young rascal of old. Heâd been quite funny about Jenniferâs weedy husband Nigel ⦠probably right, too ⦠If only Molly hadnât been there, looking embarrassed, they could have had a father-and-son laugh about it. Still, if it meant that Peter was beginning to come out of his self-imposed exile, that was something to be thankful for.
Quantrill felt almost light-hearted, until he recalled his sonâs cheeky punch-line. Grandad ⦠What a humiliation to have to come to terms with! And there, as he drove along Victoria Road towards Tower House, was Hilary Lloyd waiting for him in her car ⦠She was just thirty-one, only eighteen years younger than he was, but she would be bound to think of him as irretrievably middle-aged, once she knew.
Once she knew . Quantrillâs spirits began to lift again. Hilary didnât know, yet; almost certainly wouldnât, for some time. For the next few weeks, or months, he still had some credibility as a youngish man â so why not try to make the most of it?
He accelerated towards her, indulging in a momentâs fantasy until he heard â faint but clear, and coming unmistakably from the direction of Benidorm Avenue â the voice of common sense telling him not to go making a silly fool of himself.
Quantrill brought his Maestro smartly to a halt at the kerb, nose to nose with Sergeant Lloydâs Metro. He got out of his car as athletically as possible, and went to speak to her through her open window.
ââMorning, Hilary!â And then, because he hadnât seen her for several days, and because she looked in some way different, he added impulsively, âHow are you?â
âPeeved,â said Sergeant Lloyd. She spoke pleasantly enough, but the smile he had hoped for â the rare whole-hearted smile that lit up her strong-boned face in a way that invariably dazzled him â failed to appear. âThis allegation of murder sounds a time-waster, but Iâd have liked to handle it myself. There was no need for you to give up your rest day to come
Well, at least none of his three had been molested, thank God. And the two girls had grown up thoroughly wholesome. But Peter â¦
After his court appearance, the boy had become sullen and uncommunicative. The magistrates had given him a conditional discharge, and Quantrill had tried to impress upon his son the need to change his friends and to take up a healthy sport or hobby. Peter had certainly kept out of any further public mischief, but the nature of his current activities was a mystery to his parents. He treated the house as a hotel, and â apart from the occasions when his father hollered at him to answer when he was spoken to â withdrew from any participation in family life.
Naturally, Quantrill had begun to fear the worst. He had searched Peterâs room and found neither smell nor sign of drugs or solvents â but if the boy was using them he would know better than to do so at home. Whenever he could get within reach of his son Quantrill peered suspiciously for tell-tale physical signs, but the only result of this policy was that Peter now kept out of his fatherâs way as much as possible.
This morningâs incident, when he had chased the boy upstairs to demand an apology from him, was in fact the first direct communication that they had had for months. Irritated as he had been at the time, Quantrill had begun on reflection to take heart from the episode. For a few moments Peter had looked and sounded like the cheerful young rascal of old. Heâd been quite funny about Jenniferâs weedy husband Nigel ⦠probably right, too ⦠If only Molly hadnât been there, looking embarrassed, they could have had a father-and-son laugh about it. Still, if it meant that Peter was beginning to come out of his self-imposed exile, that was something to be thankful for.
Quantrill felt almost light-hearted, until he recalled his sonâs cheeky punch-line. Grandad ⦠What a humiliation to have to come to terms with! And there, as he drove along Victoria Road towards Tower House, was Hilary Lloyd waiting for him in her car ⦠She was just thirty-one, only eighteen years younger than he was, but she would be bound to think of him as irretrievably middle-aged, once she knew.
Once she knew . Quantrillâs spirits began to lift again. Hilary didnât know, yet; almost certainly wouldnât, for some time. For the next few weeks, or months, he still had some credibility as a youngish man â so why not try to make the most of it?
He accelerated towards her, indulging in a momentâs fantasy until he heard â faint but clear, and coming unmistakably from the direction of Benidorm Avenue â the voice of common sense telling him not to go making a silly fool of himself.
Quantrill brought his Maestro smartly to a halt at the kerb, nose to nose with Sergeant Lloydâs Metro. He got out of his car as athletically as possible, and went to speak to her through her open window.
ââMorning, Hilary!â And then, because he hadnât seen her for several days, and because she looked in some way different, he added impulsively, âHow are you?â
âPeeved,â said Sergeant Lloyd. She spoke pleasantly enough, but the smile he had hoped for â the rare whole-hearted smile that lit up her strong-boned face in a way that invariably dazzled him â failed to appear. âThis allegation of murder sounds a time-waster, but Iâd have liked to handle it myself. There was no need for you to give up your rest day to come
Similar Books
