Hit and Run Maria Frankland (general ebook reader .txt) 📖

are you OK? or How are you? is surely a basic kindness when someone’s husband has just died. I give her DI Green’s number and she rings off. I save her number into my phone, knowing I won’t be answering my phone again if I know it is her.

I have no idea about Rob’s will. And I don’t want to think about it yet. However, I’m going to have to deal with some practicalities. Beginning with formally letting Rob’s work know. They could have heard something through the media, but I should speak to them. He might be owed some money, which is a consideration. I don’t know what is going to happen on that front. All I know is that my own funds are seriously depleted after my recent investment. Which is another matter I need to get onto.

“Good morning, Bracken Furniture, Yorkshire, Katie speaking.”

“Can I speak to Mr Bracken please?”

“Who’s calling?” she asks in her sing-song voice.

“It’s Robert Matherson’s wife, Fiona.” I won’t be able to say this for much longer. Not now he’s gone.

Her voice changes. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Matherson. I know there’s been problems here but, even so…” Her voice trails off.

“What do you mean, problems?” God, how much more can I cope with today?

“I’m not sure. I’m sorry. I’ll pass you through to Mr Bracken. One moment, please.”

I stand and pace the length of the lounge, catching sight of myself in the large mirror above the fireplace. My hair looks like I haven’t brushed it for days and the roots badly need doing. I’ve got a hair appointment booked later today but I can hardly go getting my hair done. It’s not exactly the behaviour of a grieving widow. I don’t think I could sit still for that long, anyway.

“Phil Bracken speaking.” His voice is even more curt than Denise’s was. What is wrong with everyone? Am I so goddam awful that no one can be half decent towards me? Maybe Mum is right about me.

“Erm, Mr Bracken. This is Fiona, Robert Matherson’s wife. We’ve met a few times.”

“Yes, I recall.” His voice is stone cold. With free bars on offer, I’ve occasionally indulged in too much seasonal cheer when I’ve accompanied Rob to his works’ Christmas parties. But this is not the time to recall that.

“Have you heard what’s happened to Rob?” I’m taken aback at having to be the first one to mention it. If the receptionist knows, so must he.

“Yes.” He still sounds guarded. “What a shock it must have been for you.”

“I know you were expecting him in yesterday afternoon so thought I should get in touch.”

“Yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes. Obviously, his accident was in the morning, but I know he’d planned to be in the office in the afternoon.”

There’s a pause. “Actually, we weren’t expecting him.”

“Oh. Well, this morning then.” Bryony enters my head again. Perhaps he had intended to meet her, and that’s why he told me he was going to work. My heart is thumping.

“Mrs Matherson,” Phil Bracken begins. “Robert hasn’t worked here for the last month.”

“What? No. There must be some mistake.” I think of him, showering, dressing, shaving, grabbing his wallet and coffee, and setting off at twenty past eight. Every morning without fail. “For the last month? Why? He hasn’t said anything to me.”

“I can’t go into it with you,” he replies. “There’s an investigation in progress.”

“What do you mean – an investigation? Into what?”

“I’m sorry Mrs Matherson. I’m not prepared to discuss this with you.”

“But I’m his wife. And Rob is dead. I don’t see why you can’t tell me why he hasn’t been in work for a month.” If he hasn’t been going to work, where has he been going. It must involve Bryony. I remember the brandy in the cupboard.

“I’m going to have to go. Katie is trying to put another call through to me.”

“Mr Bracken. My husband was Director of Finance within your company. He worked damn hard for you for many years. If you won’t tell me what’s happened, then I’ll have to let the police know about your investigation. You’ll have to tell them what’s been going on if you won’t tell me.”

The line goes dead.

All the calm I professed to feel whilst speaking to Denise has evaporated. My breath is coming fast. Investigation?

Just as I’m looking for DI Green’s card in my handbag again, the doorbell goes. Not wanting to speak to anyone, I feel like ignoring it. Then I notice Dad peering through the bay window. Shit.

I slide the latch to the door, and he strides in. “My poor girl. I’ve just heard. An hour ago. I got straight in the car.” He steps towards me and envelops me in a hug, his beard tickling my forehead. His smell, a cross between Imperial Leather soap and musk comforts me. Suddenly I’m ten again and he’s trying to make it all better. “Why the hell didn’t you let me know?”

I sob into his shoulder. “I was going to. But I’ve been trying to get my head around things myself.” I step back and look at him, assessing his possible fragility. Any minute now, he is going to ask me where Mum is. I can’t think straight enough to come up with a plausible reason for her not being here.

It’s as though he reads my mind. “Where’s your mother? Her car’s not here.”

“She had to go, Dad.”

“Go? Go where?”

“I’ll put the kettle on.” I turn from him and head for the kitchen.

He follows me, the heels of his shoes clip-clopping across the tiles. “I want to know where your mother is, Fiona. How on earth could she leave you at a time like this?”

“She set off before it all happened.” I flick the kettle on and take two cups from the cupboard. “She needed to see a friend in Devon.”

“A friend? Devon?”

Apart from parroting me, he seems to take this in his stride, better than I could have expected. “I don’t know who the