Death at Rainbow Cottage, Jo Allen [top 100 books of all time checklist .TXT] 📗

It was the blackest of looks he got in return, one that implied the half an hour he’d managed to salvage was a worse insult than his absence would have been. ‘Good of you to make the effort.’

‘Something came up.’

‘Something always comes up.’ Mikey turned his back.

Jude hadn’t eaten since the middle of the afternoon and the promised mass of food had all but disappeared. Picking up a paper plate, he helped himself to the few edible treasures among the remains — a curled sandwich, a distressed-looking sausage roll or two, a crumbling slice of salmon and broccoli quiche. The dishes that had contained Becca’s famous macaroni cheese had been scraped clean. He strayed over to the drinks table and helped himself to all that was left there for a driver, a can of warm lemonade.

He didn’t even like lemonade. There was no sign either of his mother, so it looked as if he’d arrived so late she’d already gone home, probably disappointed in him, or of his father who, had he come, would definitely still have been there, propping up the bar.

‘You made it, Jude. Good for you.’

The hand on his arm surprised him, but not nearly as much as the lack of sarcasm in Becca’s voice. She was balanced on a pair of heels that were far higher than she was used to, so that when he turned he found himself almost looking directly into her eyes. ‘I would have been here earlier, but I couldn’t get away from work.’

‘You never can, can you? But I’m glad you’re here. I told Mikey you’d turn up. I was beginning to think I couldn’t rely on you.’

What was he to say? He wanted to explain to her just as he wanted to explain to Mikey, but even if it was professionally appropriate, would any of then have understood how important it was, how the law had to be followed and the woman who’d killed four people and tried to kill a fifth should be put through due process? He remained silent, thinking of Natalie. That was why he struggled to summon up any kind of a smile, even as everyone else around him was having a wild time. Or maybe it was less complicated than that. Maybe it just came with the territory of being the only sober man at the tail end of a party. ‘I’ve seen him and he knows I came. That’s what matters. Maybe I should head off again.’

‘Not without a dance.’ She grabbed his arm, regardless of the can in his hand. Left with no option he slid the plate down on the table and the can of lemonade after it, and followed her out onto the dance floor. He did it, he told himself, because it was probably the last dance they’d share. By then the playlist had moved in from the bleak, dark stuff that Mikey favoured, so obscure that he couldn’t even name its genre. Someone had got on to the oldies.

‘Love a dose of Elvis.’ Becca grabbed his forearm and swung him round to face her. She was drunk, and he couldn’t say he wouldn’t have welcomed a shot of the hard stuff himself, but if he had done he’d have had to stay over at his mother’s and wake up the next morning to face Mikey’s hangover and his fixation on all the times Jude hadn't been there.

‘Steady.’ He caught her as she stumbled.

‘Love a dose of Elvis,’ she said again, an echo from her own mind. ‘Remember this one? It was in the charts when we first went out. They were playing it in the restaurant. Remember?’

It always amazed him how selective memories were. He could remember a lot about their first date, but not that. She’d been wearing black jeans and an asymmetrically-patterned top, scarlet boots with heels as high as those she was wearing that night, and her hair, which had been much longer then and blonde rather than brown, had been twisted up into a knot that hadn’t lasted the evening. They’d gone into Carlisle for a film and a Chinese and he’d kissed her when he brought her home. But he didn’t remember Elvis singing Are You Lonesome Tonight. ‘Don't be daft. The King was dead before we were born.’

‘It was rereleased.’ She laughed at him, not realising it was a joke.

Three minutes of Elvis passed in a few seconds, or so it seemed. ‘Brilliant. Thanks for the dance, Becca. I’m going to head off now. I’ve done my duty.’ He headed for the door.

‘Duty?’ She came tottering behind him. ‘I’m coming out, too. I need some fresh air. Is that all it was? Duty?’

Jude stepped out into the chilly night. ‘No. It was important. What do you want me to do? Walk out on my job? I got myself in enough trouble getting here. I don’t need any more from you.’

‘I’m not thinking of myself,’ she said, as though that was what he’d accused her of. ‘I’m thinking of Mikey.’

‘Yes, and so am I. I came. For God’s sake, what more do I have to do?’

They were outside, in the fresh March air, and he stopped, turning to face her. ‘I try, okay? I try my hardest. If my best isn’t good enough, then that’s too bad. It’s all I’ve got.’

She stared at him for a second longer, shaking her head. ‘Oh, Jude.’ She reached out a hand and touched his cheek. ‘Oh, Jude.’

He lost his mind. Maybe it was Elvis after all, coursing through his blood in a way he hadn’t remembered, or maybe it was tension, or maybe it was the memory of a dead woman’s shoe in the darkness of the churchyard and the overwhelming, irrational fear that Becca was dead.

But she wasn’t dead. She was