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forcing herself to sit calmly at the kitchen counter, but she gulped her red wine rather than sipping it. A fat lot of use she’d be if Ben did stab his hand. How would she get him to A&E? – pissed Police Support Officer and bleedin’ kid … ha ha…. 
    But Ben wasn’t a child any more, and the tomatoes slipped into neat rings. He was laughing, knowing she was nervous.
    ‘Hey, Mum, what did the man say when he walked into the bar?’
    ‘I don’t know, what did the man say when he walked into the bar?’
    ‘Ouch!’ Ben gurgled with laughter. It wasn’t that the joke was funny; it was that he could tell it and cut tomatoes at the same time. ‘Hey, Mum, what’s the difference between a bad marksman and a constipated owl? The bad marksman shoots but can’t hit, and the owl hoots but can’t …’
    ‘Enough!’ Ro said, and Ben snorted with laughter again. It was a joy and a blessing that he had such an easygoing nature. It was as if he saw his life as one long triumph over adversity. Where did he get it from? His father had been a dour young man reading history at university, where they had met. Their relationship had been a lukewarm sort of thing, on and off for a few years, and she had been four months pregnant before she had realized. They had married in haste. It was as if there had always been something odd about Ben from the start – his conception unnoticed, his development in the womb slightly out of step. But she knew there was no real explanation for his sudden dramatic arrival at thirty weeks, and the panic that followed. Except that, from the start, the fear and misery had been hers, not his. Ben had smiled the day he came home from hospital and he’d been smiling ever since. Not like his mother.
    But she had tried. At one stage, she’d even gone back to work, hired nannies and babysitters, gone to bars and parties. But that had gone wrong too, and Ro had gone back to her mother’s smart little semi in the posher part of Liverpool – yes, there were posh parts. She and her mum had supported each other, and Ben, until he was seven. That year Mrs Lloyd suddenly announced that she had fallen in love with her next-door neighbour, and now she wanted to move away. Ro had been devastated and it had taken her at least a week to see the funny side. Her mother and new boyfriend, aged seventy-six , had wanted to sell up and move to a seaside flat in Llandudno, and Ro had given them her blessing. The proceeds from the family house sale had funded her move to Cumbria at precisely the time when Ben was ready to change schools. And it was Ro’s in-laws’ turn to help, something they’d done gladly, to Ro’s relief. Ben had survived the move with a mixture of sunny fortitude and a sensitivity which more mature people might have envied.
    We’ve managed all right, Ro thought. Even though we’re pretty much on our own now. Her PCSO’s uniform was hanging on the back of the kitchen door. It looked sort of comforting. Protecting. But whether it was to protect the community or to protect Ro herself, she wasn’t quite sure. She wondered what this weekend would bring. Not as much drama as the last one, she hoped. 

    *
    Friday night meant family night in for a lot of people. A few miles away, the phone rang at The Briars in Tarnfield. Suzy Spencer recognized her estranged husband’s number on the display again. Nigel Spencer had called fifteen minutes earlier and they had argued about Molly. Suzy had slammed the phone down on him in anger. She regretted it now, and was glad Nigel had rung back, but she couldn’t resist poking fun.
    ‘Patronizing old gits’ helpline. How may I help you?’
    Nigel sighed noisily at the other end of the phone. ‘I don’t know why you say these things, Suzy. I was only trying to offer some advice.’
    ‘And I was only trying to be funny.’
    ‘It didn’t work. I just called back to suggest that maybe Molly come and visit again.’ It was an olive branch which he immediately