Page 38 of The Mother-in-Law

‘I know you don’t like Eamon.’ Ollie sits on the coffee table. ‘And I know I’ve joked about his business sense in the past. Obviously I’d never get on board with one of his ridiculous enterprises. I mean S’meals? Come on.’ He laughs. ‘But I know recruitment. This isn’t a bad business idea, Luce. In fact, I think Eamon and I are well suited in this venture. I have the expertise and Eamon has . . . the hustle.’

It’s hard to argue with that. The one thing Eamon is probably good at is hustling. And while no self-respecting recruiter would ever refer to themselves as such, we are, in essence, hustlers. Or at least salespeople. The candidates are the product, the client is the consumer. Ollie is dedicated to the candidate to a fault, and Eamon, on the other hand, is excessively interested in the client. Perhaps Ollie is right. Perhaps they are a match made in Heaven?

Ollie takes my feet in his lap and begins undoing the buckle of my left shoe. ‘Look, I should have had this discussion with you earlier. I’m sorry I didn’t. But if you really don’t want me to do it, I won’t.’

He takes the shoe from my foot and drops it onto the carpet. I believe him. I believe that if I told him I didn’t want him to do this, he wouldn’t do it. At the same time, I think it’s no coincidence that Ollie made the announcement before asking me this question.

Perhaps he’s not such a bad hustler after all?

Dad’s job is to look after us, our job is to look after him.

‘Of course you should do it,’ I say with a sigh. ‘I may not like him but it’s not as if Eamon is a criminal! Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?’

20

LUCY

The present . . .

‘Everything okay?’ I ask Ollie.

Ollie and I sit in the reception area of police headquarters, holding white plastic cups of water. Dad is babysitting, though the poor man was out of his mind with worry when I explained we had to go to talk to homicide detectives. But Dad is the least of my worries right now, and by the look of it, the least of Ollie’s. His eyes dart around and he can’t seem to sit still. I am caught between a feeling of dread and a feeling that I’m in a TV set, likeThe Truman Show, and soon someone with a clipboard is going to call ‘Cut!’

‘Lucy and Oliver Goodwin?’

A woman—who is neither Jones nor Housseini—is standing by a sliding door, looking around. Ollie and I put down our water and rise in unison.

‘This way,’ she says.

The woman smiles, but it’s the polite kind of smile rather than the friendly kind. She is young, late twenties, but hard-faced, like she’s seen some stuff.

We take a lift to the third floor in silence, then exit down a corridor with doors along the left, narrow enough that we fall into single file. As we pass room after room, I can’t help but wonder about the people who have walked this path before us. Guilty people, presumably. And innocent, I guess. I notice Patrick in one of the rooms and am momentarily surprised, but then I remember . . . Jones mentioned on the phone that both he and Nettie were coming in.

The woman leading us stops about halfway down the corridor. ‘Mr Goodwin, you’re in here.’

Ollie frowns. ‘Lucy and I aren’t together?’

‘It’s standard procedure.’

‘Why is that standard procedure?’ Ollie’s voice sounds different, more clipped than usual. ‘We’re not under arrest, are we? We’re here to get the autopsy results for my mother’s death.’

The woman is unflustered. She smiles again. ‘It’s just the way we do it.’

Ollie glances at me and I shrug like it’s no big deal. I know this type of woman. She’s the type who doesn’t deviate from standard practice. The type that makes a great debt collector, because they stay on message even in the face of terrible extenuating circumstances (I’m sorry your wife just died and your house has been repossessed, sir . . . You owe eight hundred and fifty-eight dollars, we take cheque or EFT.). So I recognise immediately that any resistance to the separate room situation is likely to be futile.

‘We can go separately,’ I say. ‘It’s fine, isn’t it, Ollie?’

‘What’s fine?’

I turn. Detectives Jones and Housseini are ambling toward us down the narrow corridor. It’s Jones doing the speaking, as usual. She’s carrying a bright green KeepCup, and she takes a sip.

‘I was just explaining that they are being set up in separate rooms,’ the lady says.

‘Yes, sorry, I should have mentioned that,’ Jones says, though she doesn’t sound sorry. ‘It’s standard practice. Is there a problem?’

She shoots a glance at Housseini. Housseini is wearing a suit today, with tie and all. It looks good on him. Something subtle about the body language between him and Jones makes me think that Jones has noticed this too.

‘No,’ I say, even though Jones is looking at Ollie, whose face is saying the opposite. I wonder what’s up with him. Usually Ollie is the calm, unflappable one. Usually he is the one calmingmedown.