Entry Island(38)

‘Well, everyone knew that. When we had summer parties, or dances in the winter, he used to follow her around like a puppy dog. It might have been funny if it wasn’t so sad.’

‘Used to?’

‘Yes …’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It all seemed to stop about six months ago.’

‘How did Mrs Cowell react to him?’

‘Oh, she humoured him, I guess. There’s not a bad bone in that woman’s body. She just married the wrong man.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? He was never right for her. Or she for him. A marriage made in hell, if you ask me. Only one way it was ever going to end.’

‘In murder?’

Her eyes lifted sharply towards Sime. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘How did Cowell react to Norman Morrison’s interest in his wife?’

‘Oh, he didn’t like it, I can tell you that much. But, I mean, he wasn’t a threat to their marriage for God’s sake. Norman has the mental age of a twelve-year-old.’

Sime had decided by now that he really didn’t like Jackie Patton. ‘But you thought he was a threat to your children.’

She banged down her rolling pin on the worktop and turned to face him. ‘Do you have children, Mr Mackenzie?’

‘No, ma’am, I don’t.’

‘Then don’t judge me. The first responsibility of a parent is the protection of their children. You don’t take chances.’

But Sime was unmoved. It seemed clear to him that Mrs Patton had already made that judgement on herself. And guilt read accusation even into innocent questions.

III

The Morrisons’ living room had big windows at the front and an archway leading to a dining room at the back. Although most of the furniture in it was dark and old-fashioned, light from the windows seemed to reflect off every polished surface. The patterned wallpaper was almost totally obscured by framed photographs and paintings. Family portraits and groups, black-and-white mostly, with some coloured landscapes. More light reflecting off glass. The air was heavily perfumed, with a background hint of disinfectant. Sime could tell at a glance that Mrs Morrison was someone who had a place for everything, and liked everything in its place.

She was a woman in her sixties, big-boned and carefully dressed in a crisp white blouse beneath a knitted cardigan and a blue skirt that fell just below her knees. Her hair was still dark, with just a few strands of silver in it, drawn back severely from her face and arranged in a bun.

There was little warmth in her blue eyes, and she seemed remarkably composed given the circumstances.

‘Would you like tea, gentlemen?’ she asked.

‘No thanks,’ Sime said.

‘Well, take a seat, then.’

The three police officers perched uncomfortably on the sofa, and she resumed what Sime imagined to be her habitual seat by the fire, folding her hands in her lap.

‘He’s never done anything like this before,’ she said.

‘Done what?’ Sime asked.

‘Run away.’

‘What makes you think he’s run away?’

‘Well, of course he has. He told me he was going out to the garden. In that event he’d have been back long before I had to go looking for him. He must have lied to me.’

‘Is he in the habit of telling lies?’

Mrs Morrison looked uncomfortable, and withdrew a little further into herself. ‘He can be economical with the truth sometimes.’

Sime let that hang for a moment. ‘Was there some reason he might have run away? I mean, can you think why he would have lied to you?’

She seemed to consider her response carefully. Finally she said, ‘He was upset.’

‘Why?’

‘He heard what had happened at the Cowell place.’

‘Where did he hear that?’

‘When we went down to the Post Office to pick up the mail yesterday afternoon.’

‘So you both heard the news at the same time.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why was he upset?’

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. ‘He was very fond of Mrs Cowell. I suppose he was concerned for her well-being.’

‘What do you mean, fond of her?’ Sime said.

She bristled a little. ‘Just that. She was fond of him, too. You must understand, Mr Mackenzie, my son has a mental age of eleven or twelve. We didn’t realise that until he began to have learning difficulties at school. It came as quite a shock when the psychologists told us. And it only really became more apparent as he got older. At first I was … well, I was devastated. But over the years I’ve come to see it as a blessing. Most people lose their children, you see, when they grow up. I never lost Norman. He’s thirty-five now, but he’s still my little boy.’