Kind of Cruel by Sophie Hannah Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sophie Hannah
still unresolved.
I give her a hug and promise that as soon as she’s old enough, I will find the most amazing, handsome, clever, kind, rich, wonderful man for her to marry. She looks delighted for a second, then worried. ‘Dinah’ll need one too,’ she says. Nonie’s obsessed with fairness. I restrain myself from voicing my sudden strong hunch that Dinah will need at least three, as I hang up coats, arrange discarded shoes in pairs and pick up the envelopes that are scattered on the floor. One is from Social Services. I wish I could tear it up and not have to read what’s inside.
I’m about to close and lock the outer door when I hear a voice say, ‘Amber Hewerdine?’ I look outside and see a short, wiry man with black hair, dark brown bloodshot eyes and sallow skin. He looks as if he’s been doing too much or too little of something. Automatically, I wonder if he sleeps well. ‘DC Gibbs,’ he says, producing a card from his pocket that he holds in front of my face.
That was quick. Aren’t mistakes meant to take a while to catch up with you? Obviously the in-denial period of imagining I might get away with it has given its appointment to the horrible retribution that was booked in for a later slot.
‘Put that thing away,’ I tell him, looking over my shoulder into the house. Thankfully, we seem to be alone; he missed Nonie by a few seconds. ‘Listen, because this is important – more important than me looking at that woman’s stupid notebook,’ I hiss at him. ‘I’ve got two girls inside who cannot find out that you’re a cop. Okay? If they see you, you’re selling something: double-glazing, feather dusters, take your pick.’
‘Kind, Cruel, Kind of Cruel,’ he says, and I have that unnerving feeling again, the same one I had outside Ginny’s house, when I was caught in the act: this is wrong . His reaction is off by a few degrees. Why isn’t he telling me that helping oneself to the contents of someone else’s car is a serious offence? Why is he quoting those strange words at me? Then it hits me, what the problem is: this is like something that would only happen in a dream – a stranger accosts you outside your house and says the very words that have been going round and round in your mind.
‘What does it mean?’ he asks. In a dream, neither of you would know what the words meant .
‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ I say.
‘Amber?’ I look over the DC’s shoulder and see Luke walking towards us fast. He must sense that something’s wrong. I feel irrationally encouraged by the idea that there are three of us now, and two of us are on my side. Luke smells of sweat, and of the dust that’s coating his skin and clothes; he’s been at the quarry all day.
‘This guy’s police,’ I tell him, mouthing the last word. ‘Go in and keep an eye on the girls, tell them I’m talking to someone from work.’
‘What’s going on?’ he asks us both, as if we’re conspiring to exclude him.
‘I need to talk to your wife,’ DC Gibbs tells him. To me, he says, ‘You can agree to come in or I can arrest you – your choice.’
‘Arrest me?’ I laugh. ‘So that you can ask me why I looked at some woman’s notebook?’
‘So that I can ask you what you know about the murder of Katharine Allen,’ he says.
What is the difference between a story and a legend? In which category does Little Orchard belong? I’d say it falls squarely into the ‘legend’ category. It has a name, for one thing: Little Orchard. Those two words suggest more than a house in Surrey. They’re enough to call to mind a complex sequence of events and an even more multi-layered collection of opinions and emotions. Wherever we have a mental shortcut phrase for a story from our past, that provides a clue that the story has become a legend.
Does it matter that, apart from one Italian nanny, the only people who know it are all members of the same extended family? I don’t think so. For all those people, it
I give her a hug and promise that as soon as she’s old enough, I will find the most amazing, handsome, clever, kind, rich, wonderful man for her to marry. She looks delighted for a second, then worried. ‘Dinah’ll need one too,’ she says. Nonie’s obsessed with fairness. I restrain myself from voicing my sudden strong hunch that Dinah will need at least three, as I hang up coats, arrange discarded shoes in pairs and pick up the envelopes that are scattered on the floor. One is from Social Services. I wish I could tear it up and not have to read what’s inside.
I’m about to close and lock the outer door when I hear a voice say, ‘Amber Hewerdine?’ I look outside and see a short, wiry man with black hair, dark brown bloodshot eyes and sallow skin. He looks as if he’s been doing too much or too little of something. Automatically, I wonder if he sleeps well. ‘DC Gibbs,’ he says, producing a card from his pocket that he holds in front of my face.
That was quick. Aren’t mistakes meant to take a while to catch up with you? Obviously the in-denial period of imagining I might get away with it has given its appointment to the horrible retribution that was booked in for a later slot.
‘Put that thing away,’ I tell him, looking over my shoulder into the house. Thankfully, we seem to be alone; he missed Nonie by a few seconds. ‘Listen, because this is important – more important than me looking at that woman’s stupid notebook,’ I hiss at him. ‘I’ve got two girls inside who cannot find out that you’re a cop. Okay? If they see you, you’re selling something: double-glazing, feather dusters, take your pick.’
‘Kind, Cruel, Kind of Cruel,’ he says, and I have that unnerving feeling again, the same one I had outside Ginny’s house, when I was caught in the act: this is wrong . His reaction is off by a few degrees. Why isn’t he telling me that helping oneself to the contents of someone else’s car is a serious offence? Why is he quoting those strange words at me? Then it hits me, what the problem is: this is like something that would only happen in a dream – a stranger accosts you outside your house and says the very words that have been going round and round in your mind.
‘What does it mean?’ he asks. In a dream, neither of you would know what the words meant .
‘You’re asking the wrong person,’ I say.
‘Amber?’ I look over the DC’s shoulder and see Luke walking towards us fast. He must sense that something’s wrong. I feel irrationally encouraged by the idea that there are three of us now, and two of us are on my side. Luke smells of sweat, and of the dust that’s coating his skin and clothes; he’s been at the quarry all day.
‘This guy’s police,’ I tell him, mouthing the last word. ‘Go in and keep an eye on the girls, tell them I’m talking to someone from work.’
‘What’s going on?’ he asks us both, as if we’re conspiring to exclude him.
‘I need to talk to your wife,’ DC Gibbs tells him. To me, he says, ‘You can agree to come in or I can arrest you – your choice.’
‘Arrest me?’ I laugh. ‘So that you can ask me why I looked at some woman’s notebook?’
‘So that I can ask you what you know about the murder of Katharine Allen,’ he says.
What is the difference between a story and a legend? In which category does Little Orchard belong? I’d say it falls squarely into the ‘legend’ category. It has a name, for one thing: Little Orchard. Those two words suggest more than a house in Surrey. They’re enough to call to mind a complex sequence of events and an even more multi-layered collection of opinions and emotions. Wherever we have a mental shortcut phrase for a story from our past, that provides a clue that the story has become a legend.
Does it matter that, apart from one Italian nanny, the only people who know it are all members of the same extended family? I don’t think so. For all those people, it