Several puzzle magazines lay open on the small table next to the sofa, alongside a dictionary, a Daily Express and two paperback thrillers with bookmarks inside. Helen was pleased to see that her father was keeping busy, though part of her suspected he laid it all out on display when he knew she was coming round. He came through from the kitchen with two mugs of tea on a tray, and a plate of muffins he’d made that morning. ‘Date and pecan,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some cranberry ones in the freezer if you’d prefer.’ She started eating. ‘This is gorgeous, Dad.’ ‘They’re dead easy,’ he said. Whether he was putting on a show or not, Helen was pleased that he was looking after himself so nicely. She polished off her muffin and reached for another. Better than I am, she thought. Her father had moved down to Sydenham five years earlier with his second wife, as many years again after Helen’s mother had died. Robert Weeks had been understandably devastated when breast cancer had taken his childhood sweetheart at forty-nine; and, among a slew of mixed feelings, both Helen and her sister had been amazed when he had appeared to find happiness a second time.
