Written in Blood(23)

‘What sort of thing?’

Well, if we knew that ducky, Troy muttered in his head, we wouldn’t be asking, would we? They were going to be here all day at this pussyfooting rate. He leered hungrily at the shiny packet of twenty minus seven and decided he could murder the rest.

‘Well, the gate was wide open. That means the postman’s been. He won’t shut it, even after Mr Hadleigh went and put a sign on. So I closed it behind me and walked up the path and - you talking about anything out of the ordinary - I couldn’t help noticing the curtains were still closed. Downstairs in the lounge and in Mr Hadleigh’s bedroom. And then I go to let meself in—’

‘You have your own key?’

‘Oh yes.’ She added, with rather touching pride, ‘All the people I clean for have given me a key. But the door’s bolted on the inside. I stood there for a minute not knowing quite what to do, then I went round the back. I tried the kitchen door but not with what you’d call high hopes. It doesn’t have a proper Yale but it’s got a dead bolt top and bottom. Anyway, I lift the latch and walk right in.’

‘It opened straight away?’

‘Yes. I went in the hall and shouted “hello”—’

‘Did you see any post there, Mrs Bundy?’

‘No, I didn’t, now you come to mention it.’

‘Carry on.’

‘I put me apron on—’

‘Do you bring it with you?’

‘No. That hangs on a peg in the broom cupboard together with a scarf against the dust.’ She patted her hair - a straw-coloured airy confection; teased, sprayed, moussed and bleached beyond redemption.

‘Then I notice not just that he hadn’t had his breakfast, but the table wasn’t even laid. So, what with that and the curtains and everything, I wondered if he might’ve been took bad. I felt a bit embarrassed, to tell you the truth. I didn’t like to go upstairs in case he was still in bed - me husband’s a bit funny over things like that - on the other hand I couldn’t settle down to work not knowing if the house was empty or not. If you get my meaning.’

‘I do,’ said Barnaby. ‘Absolutely.’

‘So . . .’ Here it was. The dark heart of the tale. She braced herself, incising half moons once more in her arms. ‘I went to his room—’

‘The door was open?’

‘Yes.’

‘Light on?’

‘Yes,’ Mrs Bundy shouted, and struck her forehead with her fists, compelled by a fierce hatred of the memory. ‘Oh! I could curse myself for going in there. The smell . . . the smell . . . that should have told me. Why didn’t I just go back downstairs and call somebody? But you don’t think, do you?’

‘’Course you don’t, love,’ said the policewoman.

‘I shall never stop seeing him. I know I shan’t. Never. Till the end of my days.’

Barnaby thought that this was probably true. The image would change, of course, but would inevitably re-create itself a thousand times. A bad day indeed for Mrs Bundy.

She had already mentally fled back to the kitchen. Barnaby, reluctantly but necessarily, took her back upstairs. ‘Did you touch anything in the room?’

‘Christ! Are you kidding?’ For the first time vitality flared. She sounded outraged. ‘I come down that bloody fast me feet didn’t touch the carpet.’

‘Did you see—?’

‘I saw him. That’s all I saw. One look and I scarpered. All right?’ She pushed her face across the table until it was inches from his own. Barnaby could see she was either going to strike out or burst into tears.

‘Fine. That’s fine, Mrs Bundy. Thank you.’ His voice was excessively calm. He looked at the young policewoman. ‘I think we could all . . . ?’

While tea was being made Mrs Bundy extended her acquaintance with the Bensons. There were now nine lipsticked butts in the ashtray. Troy looked elsewhere.

The sergeant was a deeply frustrated man. He couldn’t smoke in the office. He couldn’t smoke in the car. He couldn’t smoke on the job. (Not his day job anyway.) And, now that the dangers of passive smoking had been provably demonstrated, he had to be bloody careful when and where he smoked at home. For Talisa Leanne, his heart’s delight and the best reason for living a man could ever hope to come across, was only two, and two-year-old lungs were obviously extremely vulnerable. Troy had found himself, only that very morning, not only enjoying his post-breakfast ciggie in the toilet but blowing the smoke out of the window. I’m an endangered species I am, he reflected bitterly now, accepting, in poor substitute, a cup of strong Breakfast Blend.