My Husband's Son: A dark and gripping psychological thriller by Deborah O'Connor Page B

tried to tend to the barbecue. Taking turns to run up and steal the tongs he was using to dish out the sausages and burgers, they would strut around the garden, brandishing them in the air like castanets, briefly returning them to Jason’s grasp, only to steal them again the second he wasn’t looking.
    In the early days, when we’d first got together, normal stuff like inviting our friends round for a barbecue had never felt right. We’d both agreed it felt like some kind of admission. That it was as though we were saying that we accepted what had happened. But, back then, participating in anything more than the bare essentials of breathing, eating and sleeping had felt wrong.
    Lately though, I’d started to realise that remembering our children and carrying on with our lives didn’t have to be mutually exclusive. That we didn’t have to live in self-enforced purgatory. Still, despite that, I couldn’t get away from the feeling that taking part in these ordinary things felt fake. Like we were playing dressing up with a cardboard sword and a curtain for a cape.
    Jason had set up his iPod and speakers on the wall near the raised beds and I noticed someone squatting down in front of them, fiddling with the buttons. He was finding it difficult to balance, with his knees veering so far out to the side that he looked like he might topple to the floor at any moment. Even from behind I recognised who it was instantly: Martin. Or, to use his proper title, DS Martin Gooder.
    Jason and Vicky’s family liaison officer (FLO) since the day Barney went missing, the detective had been the main point of contact between them, the investigation and the media. Supposed to remain objective and professional at all times, he’d inevitably become very close to them as the years had gone by. Protocols and guidelines aside, I knew that Jason now considered him a dear friend first and a police officer second. I imagined Vicky felt the same way.
    Before long the music changed and, satisfied with his choice, Martin tried to stand up. He made it up to his knees but then he wobbled and staggered backwards. It looked as though he was going to fall over but then, pushing his upper body forward with a kind of awkward, Cossack-style jump, he managed to right himself. Retrieving his drink from the wall, he ran his hand through his reddish-brown hair. Clipped short and parted in the middle, it resembled the part of a donkey’s mane that sprouts up between its ears.
    I headed outside and made my way around the garden, greeting everyone I had yet to say hello to. I noticed that Carla had detached herself from Mark for the first time since she’d arrived. Sitting on the bench, she was watching him acquire another plate of sausages from the barbecue. Finally – my chance to talk to her about this afternoon. I was about to make my way over to where she sat when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mark gesturing to the high fences that corralled our garden.
    ‘What’s with Fort Knox?’ he asked Jason, laughing at his own joke. Hearing him talk, I realised his voice had a jolting, public-school cadence I hadn’t noticed first time around.
    I saw Carla shake her head and try to throw him a not very subtle warning look. But either Mark didn’t notice or he didn’t care.
    ‘Fort Knox?’ Jason put down his tongs. ‘We got them because …’
    It was like watching an actor trying to remember his lines. I sprinted over to him as quickly as I could and nooked my head in under his arm. He looked down at me with a grateful smile.
    ‘They were quite low when we first moved in. Some might say they weren’t even proper fences at all.’ He nodded in my direction. ‘It meant that, for modesty’s sake, Heidi had to sunbathe in her swimming costume and Heidi doesn’t like tan lines. Do you, love?’
    On cue, I shook my head.
    ‘One badly timed white stripe on the shoulder or bum can lead to A. Fashion. Disaster.’ Jason spelt out the last three words