Desperate Measures

‘No one is killing anyone,’ Janine said.

Eleanor and Tom began objecting but Janine raised her hands. ‘We finish the meal like civilized human beings, without squabbling or fighting, or you two can go upstairs – no pudding and no screen time.’

‘God.’ Eleanor made a show of rolling her eyes and Tom scowled.

Charlotte, aged four, clapped her hands.

‘That really isn’t helping,’ Janine said to Charlotte.

Janine seemed to spend half her life as a referee. Eleanor at fifteen was prickly and volatile and dripped misery like every other teenager while Tom, five years her junior, was either winding his sister up or bearing the brunt of her crushing putdowns.

‘I want pudding,’ Charlotte said.

‘Please,’ Janine prompted.

‘Please.’ Charlotte beamed. Happy little soul. Who knows where she’d found that equilibrium. Her life had been the most unsettled to date, born into the immediate aftermath of the marriage break-up, her dad Pete living elsewhere with Tina and now their new baby. Charlotte had been looked after by a succession of nannies with the help of Janine’s eldest child Michael while Janine worked. Now Michael had left home, a man of the world, and Janine was still adjusting to the change.

Janine got the ice cream out of the freezer. Running the hot water over a spoon, she caught Eleanor’s reflection in the window, mouthing something at Tom. Nothing pleasant, Janine was sure.

‘I can see you, Eleanor,’ Janine said.

‘Well, he’s a saddo. I’m sick of it. Loser.’ Eleanor lunged forward towards her brother.

‘What did I say?’ Janine turned round.

I don’t want any, anyway,’ Eleanor said, ‘I hate manky ice cream.’ She shoved back her chair and thundered out of the room.

‘Hah!’ Charlotte said.

‘Indeed,’ Janine said.

Tom was still brooding, mouth set, brow furrowed.

‘You want a flake in it?’ Janine said.

‘Have we got some?’ Tom said.

‘We just might have.’

‘I couldn’t see any,’ Tom said.

‘Because I have got a new hiding place,’ Janine said. If she didn’t stash the sweets away the kids attacked them like a plague of locusts.

‘You dish this up.’ She put the tub of ice cream and the spoon on the table near to Tom.

Out in the hallway, once the door had swung shut behind her, she got the old shopping bag down from the coat rack and picked out three flakes.

She was just helping Charlotte stick one into her ice cream when her phone rang. Richard Mayne, her Detective Inspector.