‘She’d have asked the chef to choose for her,’ I say.
‘She was an adventurer,’ says Dad.
They order beer and I order water. We eat noodle dishes and the food is incredible. Fresh herbs. Deep, rich stock. Velvety noodles.
‘Are you going to be OK tomorrow at the service?’ asks Mum. ‘It’s not the way we wanted, not really, but we get to fly back together and that’s the main thing.’
‘She loved this country,’ says Dad. ‘I don’t think she would have minded. In a strange kind of way I think she’d have approved.’ He smiles and then laughs. ‘She’d have thought a funeral in our sleepy little village would be too boring for her.’
‘True,’ I say. ‘This is more KT.’
‘She always asked about you,’ says Mum. ‘Even when you weren’t talking properly these past months, she asked about you every day. Wanted to know about your job and how you were doing in London.’
‘I know, Mum.’
‘Until you were both about four I couldn’t tell you apart,’ says Dad. ‘Most of the time I just guessed.’
We all smile and Dad sips his beer to hide the emotion on his face. This is one of the things he always says, one of his stories.
‘Remember that time, just after your grandma died, when Grandad bought you a pair of ice-skates to use in Nottingham ice-rink, one pair between you. Do you remember that, Moll?’
I smile and nod. ‘I remember, Dad. I was seven.’
‘You two were both so angry. It was the first time you’d both realised there was a down side to being an identical twin.’
‘He never made that mistake again,’ says Mum.
We finish our noodles. The broth is spicy and my tongue is tingling but it’s a pleasant sensation.
‘Are you all packed yet, sweetie?’ asks Mum. ‘I’ve got some space if you need to put anything in my case. You can borrow Dad’s case scales if you need to weigh.’
‘I’ll pack later,’ I say. ‘I need to research more.’
‘You should rest as well, Moll,’ says Dad. ‘Big day tomorrow. Think we’ll all need our strength. Need to be at the chapel by two-thirty sharp. And then we fly just after nine.’
‘I know, Dad.’
‘Your mum thinks we should take a cab to the crematorium with our luggage and ask them to store it there, and then go straight on to JFK airport.’
‘It makes sense,’ says Mum. ‘We’ll already be halfway there.’
‘I say we leave our bags at the hotel.’ He still calls it a hotel. ‘And then come back and pick them up. Yellow cabs aren’t too expensive, fixed price to JFK, and I don’t want to arrive at Katie’s . . . you know, I don’t want to turn up with all our suitcases. It doesn’t seem proper.’
‘Saves money, though. I don’t see how we can afford . . .’
‘We can manage it,’ says Dad, sternly. ‘For God’s sake, I’ll work three jobs when we get back if I need to. Tomorrow has to be done right.’
‘And the storm won’t affect things?’
‘No,’ says Dad, softening. ‘You should see the crematorium, Moll. It’s beautiful, like a cathedral – rock-solid. It has a chapel and everything.’
‘It’s dignified,’ says Mum.
‘You said you were researching tonight,’ says Dad. ‘Researching the storm? The flight path? What?’
‘The case,’ I say. ‘Suspects.’
Dad’s brow furrows. ‘Leave that to the cops, Moll. They know what they’re doing.’
‘Nobody knew KT like I did. I can add value.’
Mum puts her hand on mine. ‘Your father means you need to take a break from it. Don’t stay up too late, OK?’
We battle through the storm, the cab’s wipers moving as fast as they’ll go. Mum and Dad walk to their room to pack while I head back to the diner. It’s open 24/7, says so on the window, and it is my favourite place in this intimidating city. It’s warm and consistent and it manages to feel safe, somehow. Like the staff understand some of my worries and anxieties, and act accordingly.
I’m halfway through my first coffee, researching the Connecticut boarding school Scott Sbarra attended, scanning his Facebook friends for people I can make contact with, when my phone rings.
‘Hey, Molly, it’s Detective Martinez. Now a good time to talk?’
‘Sure,’ I say, placing down my cup. ‘Thanks for calling back.’