4.00pm the Kitchen of Birdwatcher Towers on Sunday afternoon. The Weasel leans against the wall, twisting her hands and biting her lower lip. She is pale, and looks very tired. Mrs BW stands by the sink arms folded across her chest staring intently at the Weasel. I just stand there trying to look like the past eight hours have all been just part of a normal Sunday.
“You could have left a note” I say gently.
The Weasel looks at me and a slight smile crosses her face. She dares to believe that she might not be told off.
“I’m sorry ” she says simply. I think she means it. She doesn’t always. Sometimes she says sorry and injects a slight Amercian twang into the pronunciation. But not this time.
“Why the confusing texts? We thought you might be in trouble?”
She looks at me and then her mum and shrugs her shoulders. “No! Why would you think that?”
I start to explain, but feel to weary.
“Well you’re home now and safe. You must be hungry?” The Weasel nods. “I’ll make you some toast and then you can go and have a bath and a sleep before tea.” Mrs BW pops a couple of slices of bread in the toaster and starts to make cups of tea. The inquest can wait.