I can practically see him debating whether there is a safe answer to that.
Apparently deciding there isn’t, he says, “A few.”
Mum leans closer to the screen.
“Anyone I’d know?”
Philip names two people I vaguely recognise and Mum nods politely but without much spark.
Then Philip adds, “John Brooks is one of my regular clients.”
There is a full second of silence.
Mum gasps.
Actually gasps.
Dad lowers the newspaper completely.
“No,” Mum says.
Philip blinks.
“Yes?”
“Not John Brooks.”
Philip looks briefly alarmed, as though he may have accidentally disclosed state secrets.
“Yes?”
Mum clutches a hand dramatically to her chest.
“I love The Ashmoor Murders.”
Dad snorts. “You love all of them.”
“I do,” she says, not taking her eyes off Philip. “I have read every single John Brooks book.”
Philip laughs nervously.
Mum points at the screen.
“You are coming to Sunday lunch.”
Philip chokes.
Beside me, I feel the jolt run through him.
“Oh,” he says. “That’s very kind but—”
“No, no, absolutely,” Mum says. “I insist. Anyone who knows John Brooks and can explain to me whether he’s really killing off Detective Marsh in the next one is welcome in my house.”
“Mum,” I mutter.
“What? This is important.”
Philip is laughing now, faintly pink around the ears, but I can feel the hesitation returning under it.
