Homicide in Herne Hill by Alice Castle

Author:Alice Castle [Castle, Alice]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Crooked Cat Books
Published: 2018-10-02T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Paul Potter opened the front door and ushered his wife in. To his relief, she seemed to have calmed a little on the journey, and by the time they’d crunched to a halt on the gravel drive in front of the house, she was quiet, a tiny sniff the only sign anything was out of the ordinary. He turned to her and tenderly undid her seatbelt, noting the delicate pinkness of the tip of her nose where she’d rubbed it with his tissue. He couldn’t help it, he slid a hand possessively down her cashmere arm, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. She moved away, imperceptibly, and he straightened up.

‘You’re right; no point putting it off. The kids have got to be told.’

‘I wish you’d call them children, kids are baby goats,’ said Letty grumpily, but the reprimand was automatic.

The poor woman was distraught, he thought, stepping out of the car and slamming the door. Normally, he’d listen to that satisfyingly heavy clunk with an almost paternal pride, he loved this car, but now there were more important things to think about. He scrabbled to open the door before Letty did, and held it open for her courteously.

‘No, no, you go in first. I just can’t face them,’ she said tremulously.

He stepped forward, blind for once to the stunning décor that took most people aback. The house, from the outside, was not exceptional; large and imposing, yes, but architecturally without enormous merit. Inside, though, Letty – and an extremely expensive interior designer, who never got a shred of credit for the hardest project of her working life – had created a massive open white space, dominated by a glass staircase soaring up to the next level, juxtaposed against a silvery two-metre-wide mural of trees in a forest. A spectacular pendant light fell twenty feet from the ceiling, shards of brightness splintering from its custom-made, Nordic-inspired shade. It was this house, as much as her dead-straight blonde hair, that made people think Letty must have Scandiwegian blood. The truth was more prosaic – she was from Dalston, but she hadn’t watched three seasons of Borgen and four of The Bridge for nothing.

Hearing their parents clattering around below, the three little Potters ran forward and pressed their dear tiny noses against the glass balustrade, to their mother’s audible distress. Paul, imagining it was the prospect of breaking the dreadful news about Lancelot, immediately wrapped a protective arm around Letty’s slim shoulders and hugged her tight. She gave an infinitesimal smile and shrugged him off, announcing loudly to the children, ‘Come down here, Daddy’s got something to tell you.’

Then she strode rapidly into the kitchen, where Potter could hear her opening the fridge, unscrewing a bottle, and glugging its contents into one of their enormous crystal glasses, big as a goldfish bowl.

The children scampered downstairs stairs, happy to see their daddy so early in the day, and clustered around him. He hugged them into his waist, pressing a kiss onto each blonde head.

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