A Secret Rebellion

Pulling the keys out of the ignition, he thrust open his door and got out of the car. He was still wearing the dark suit and black tie he had worn to the funeral, and his sombre clothes stood out in the quiet street, where most men were in their shirt-sleeves. The warm day had given way to an even warmer evening, and the usual activities of trimming hedges and mowing lawns were much in evidence here.

But not at Number Seventeen, he noticed, locking the car, and approaching the gate. Apart from an upstairs window being open, and a curtain billowing in the gap, the house looked deserted. They were probably all in the back, he decided. Linda, her parents, and—Elizabeth Ryan.

There was no bell, so he knocked on the panels, which were interleaved with strips of fluted glass. An encouragement for thieves, he thought, imagining how easy it would be to break the glass and unlock the door. Would he go that far, if they refused to speak to him?

Deciding his mind was wandering again, he rested one hand against the wall beside the door and knocked again. He should have let Spiro come with him, as George had wanted him to do, he thought. His burly chauffeur could be relied upon to handle most situations. It was only because he hadn’t wanted to intimidate the girl that he had insisted on coming here alone.

At last, when he was seriously considering all alternatives, he heard someone coming along the hall to the door. He could see a shadow through the glass panels, and his stomach clenched in sudden anticipation. What if it was Elizabeth Ryan? he thought, aware that he was not as in control as he’d imagined. God, why did the woman do this to him? He was as apprehensive now as he had been on his first date.

A key turned, the door opened—and his daughter-in-law was standing there, looking at him. ‘Why—Mr Thiarchos!’ she exclaimed, briefly too shocked to show any hostility. And then, less hospitably, ‘What do you want?’

She had been crying, Alex noticed. Her eyes were red, the lids white and puffy. In normal circumstances, he supposed she was a pretty girl. Attractive, anyway, with her wide, mobile mouth, and short brown curly hair. She wasn’t tall, and she was inclined to carry a little weight, but in something other than an oversized T-shirt and worn jeans he guessed she could look quite presentable.

‘I—we need to talk,’ Alex replied at last, looking beyond her into the narrow hall of the house. ‘May I come in?’

Her breath escaped in a rush. ‘Why?’

‘Because I’d prefer not to discuss my private affairs on the doorstep,’ declared Alex evenly, and she raised a protesting hand.

‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean—why do you want to talk to me? I—I don’t think we have anything to say to one another.’

‘Don’t you?’ Alex endeavoured to hold on to his patience. He had to remember that this had to have been almost as hard for her as it had been for him, and he couldn’t rush her. ‘Well, trust me, we do.’