Fury by Shirley Marr Page B

and satin stitch—is all done by hand.”
    “This is so beautiful,” said Marianne softly. She reached out to touch the front of the dress.
    Mrs Dashwood bent down behind the mannequin and fluffed up the small train.
    “I am so sorry, dear, this one has already been sold. Or else I would ask you to try it on for yourself. Oh—I am afraid Ellanoir has not yet introduced us. You must be Jane.”
    The serene look on Marianne’s face faded. She dropped her hand away from the dress.
    “Sorry, you’re mistaken. I am Marianne Jones, Mrs Dashwood.”
    “Oh, Marianne!” exclaimed Mrs Dashwood. “Silly me! How ever many new friends my little girl has! Please accept my most sincere apologies.”
    “That’s fine,” replied Marianne softly.
    I know what makes Marianne act so funny at any mention of Jane Ayres, but we never talk about it. Marianne believes some things are best left buried in the past, where they belong. My thoughts were interrupted when my phone rang.
    “Hello? What are you doing back—? Fine. Bye.”
    I tapped Ella on the shoulder.
    “I have to go.”
    “Go?” repeated Ella with a confused expression. “But we’re having so much fun!”
    “Well, what a shame. I’ll see you at school tomorrow. Say thanks to your mum for letting us come over, okay?”
    I kissed Ella on the cheek and headed quickly for the stairs.
    “But we haven’t had afternoon tea and Mum’s little cakes yet!” Ella’s voice echoed after me.
    ***
    “Thanks.”
    I make a conscious effort to be polite as the waitress plonks my burger and chips in front of me and passes Dr Fadden’s plate to him over my head.
    I pick up one of the chips and sniff it gingerly.
    “Do you think they use olive oil? It better not be animal fat. Lenworth Henry’s brother worked at a fish and chip store once, for community service— long story —anyway, overnight the frying oil would harden into this huge block oflard and the next day they would melt it and use it again.”
    I pop the chip into my mouth.
    “You sure have plenty of stories about other people. Makes me think that you’d rather not talk about yourself.”
    “I love talking about myself; it’s not like I’m not self-absorbed, is it?” I say and then I pause and nothing more comes out.
    “Come on. Tell me something about yourself that’s not on the files they’ve given me.”
    “What? Like what music I like?”
    I stiffen up because I’m scared he’s going to launch into a discussion of what is “trendy”.
    Dr Fadden swallows his glass of wine in one go.
    “Sure. I read an article recently that said people over the age of 35 don’t listen to pop music. I think I defy that stat—I mean, I watch Channel V and I like the Top 40.”
    I cringe, but I look his face up and down. “That’s definitely a lie,” I say.
    “And so you have me there. I like the old time stuff. The real rhythm and blues, not that stuff they call R&B these days with the gangstas and the homies.”
    I cringe some more.
    “In fact, I think my favourite song is Devil With the Blue Dress.”
    He looks at me when he says that. I look down at my blue trench coat.
    “They try to steer you toward doing forensic anthropologyif you choose to study it so that you can become useful as a crime scene investigator—but I find the social anthropology, the stuff that says there’s a devil inside of all of us, more interesting. Maybe more insightful.”
    He sighs wistfully. Enough of that. I reach over, take his wine glass and plonk it on the empty table behind me so he won’t be tempted by a refill.
    “So where are you going after here? Catching up with that ‘female colleague’ you mentioned earlier?”
    “I am going back to my office to type up my notes,” replies Dr Fadden. He doesn’t answer my second question.
    “Is that back in the police station?”
    “No.”
    “What about me?”
    “You’re going back to the police station.”
    “No!”
    “If the parents of the children at your school could