He switched on the oven and while he waited for the remains of last night’s casserole to heat up, he sat down to consider Sallis’s mobile phone. He had spoken more or less truthfully when he had said he was not familiar with mobile phones, but it was easy enough to see the principle of making and receiving calls, and to call up the directory of saved numbers. Whom did Sallis phone? What kind of friends and business associates did he have? It might be as well to know: to be prepared for any questions that might come hurtling out of the unknown after Sallis’s death was made known. If Michael Sallis had family who might know the truth about Ashwood – who might still talk about it, or hand down the memories – Edmund needed to know.
But when he scrolled curiously through the list of names and numbers there did not seem to be very much of interest, and there certainly did not seem to be any family names, which had been his main concern. There were various hostels and homeless centres and housing associations, which would be connected with CHARTH, and there were several numbers casually listed under first names. Edmund supposed these would be friends. Most were in London, but some were not. A number was listed for Francesca Holland, which was a surprise: Edmund frowned over that for a moment, and then moved on. Doctor, dentist, bank. One or two restaurant numbers, a taxi firm in North London. It was interesting how you could build up a picture of someone’s life from their stored phone numbers.
The oven timer pinged, and Edmund went back to the kitchen and ladled his food on to a plate. He liked to have a proper nourishing meal in the evenings. Normally he had a glass of wine or a small whisky as well, but tonight he would not do so in case he did decide to drive back to Deborah’s house later on. He was always very strict with himself over not drinking when he was driving.
It was just after seven when the phone in Trixie’s house rang, and Francesa’s heart sank. Michael was not coming. Probably it had been just a casual invitation that he would have kept if something better had not turned up, and the kiss and the intimacy in Trixie’s kitchen had been just casual as well. The something better had turned up, and now he was phoning with a polite excuse.
But Michael had not thought better of it, and he was not phoning with a polite excuse. He explained that he had had to drive up to Deborah Fane’s house early that morning, and there had been an accident to his hand which meant he could not drive back. And even if he had been able to drive, his car had been vandalized.
‘I’m so sorry, Francesca,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d be back in London in plenty of time to meet you. But I’m stuck up here, and there’s no means of getting back until tomorrow at the earliest. And even then—’
Fran suddenly had the feeling that he was choosing his words with extreme care. She said, ‘Michael – is anything wrong? I mean – you are all right, aren’t you?’
‘I’m furious at being stranded with a ruined car and a mangled hand,’ he said. ‘And I’m even more furious at not seeing you.’
The thought of Michael being in pain upset Fran so much that she said, without thinking, ‘How will you get back? By train? Or shall I drive up there tomorrow?’
There was silence. Damn, thought Fran, I didn’t mean that to come out. I’ve overdone it. He’ll say, no, it’s fine, thank you, everything’s already fixed up.
But Michael was already saying, ‘Oh Francesca, you have no idea how much I’d like that. But what about your classes?’
‘None until Thursday afternoon. So it really wouldn’t be a problem. I could drive you back.’ Fran was glad to think she had finally managed to get her car fixed and driven back to London by a helpful local garage. ‘It’d be a sort of quid pro quo for you driving me back to London that day, if you remember that.’
‘Of course I remember it,’ he said softly, and there, without warning, was the sudden slide down of his voice into a caress.
So as not to get too carried away, Fran said in a practical voice, ‘If I set off fairly early – around half past seven or eight, say – I’d be there by mid-morning. Where exactly are you? Still at Mrs Fane’s house?’
‘No, I’m at the White Hart in the village, although God knows how I got the car this far, because—D’you really mean it about driving up? I’d love you to be here, but it’s over hill, over dale—’