‘Someone will come along tomorrow from our scene-of-crime department to collect the stuff,’ he was explaining now. ‘Just point it all out to them. Don’t handle anything yourself - all right? There’s one more thing . . .’
Troy took down a detailed description of Max Jennings’ Mercedes and the registration number.
Stavros saw them off the premises, perspiring with relief. As they climbed into the car he rose on the balls of his feet as if preparing for flight.
‘Imagine living in that.’ Barnaby, looking back at the house, spoke with a certain scorn. He wound the window down slightly, letting in a rush of pneumonia-bearing night air. ‘Talk about medallion man writ large.’
Not knowing what to say, for he had loved the house and everything in it, Troy shivered and kept silent.
At roughly the time that Barnaby and Troy were speeding towards Warren d’Evercy, Sue Clapton, having washed up and cleared away, was preparing the next day’s lunch boxes. Chopping celery and red cabbage for fibre, adding raisins for energy before mixing in walnuts (lineolic acid and vitamin B). Adding her own special lemon dressing in a little glass jar. Taking endless trouble as always, quite unaware that Mandy swapped the fresh salad and home-made bap each day for crisps, Coke and a Mars bar.
Sue’s husband and daughter had both been late home. Brian had been whisked off by two of his colleagues for a drink after school where, quite misunderstanding their requests that he should tell them all about the drama, he had bored them both rigid with a mercilessly detailed update of Slangwhang For Five Mute Voices.
Amanda, casually mentioning that she’d only been fast asleep while a murder was going on next door, that’s all, found her company, for the first time in her life, in great demand. The absolute superlative was when Haze Stitchley, who was well wicked and had her own gang, asked Mandy round after school for a takeaway and video (Vampire Sex Slaves).
Neither of them thought to ring Sue who, by the time they finally did arrive home, was frantic with worry. Mandy, smelling strongly of wine, was unrepentant. Brian, perhaps recalling his own moment of fear in the head’s office, felt guilty. Guilt made him bluster and shout. Neither wanted any supper, a delicious steamed onion pudding with ginger sauce, so Sue ate alone, forcing food down a throat closed tight with anger. Now she added a Cox’s pippin to Brian’s box and fitted a ripe banana around Mandy’s salad bowl.
Next door the television blared. Brian was laughing in the enforced, unnaturally loud way he had when he was not at all amused but desperate to take part in whatever Mandy was enjoying. Sue listened to them chortling away. Daddy and his little girl. She didn’t understand how they could. Not when someone living so close had just died. And in such a terrible manner.
With so much noise her head was splitting. Funny how the children at play school never affected her like this, no matter how much racket they kicked up. Sue wrapped herself in a shawl, stepped outside into the back yard and closed the door behind her. In the windless dark a blackbird chirruped, sounding as if he were in the old apple tree. The contrast between the sweetness of his song and the ugly cacophony in her sitting room made her want to weep.
Eventually it was turned off and Mandy came into the bathroom to clean her teeth. Sue could see her formless shape behind the thick, wavy glass. After she had spat her final spit Mandy slammed off and, moments later, Nirvana came blasting through her bedroom window. The blackbird gave up. Brian came out.
He said sternly, ‘We have to talk,’ and held the kitchen door open for her to enter. Feeling like a child reporting for punishment Sue went back inside.
Once there and seated Brian, wound up like a spring, seemed unable to get going. He drummed a little on the edge of the fridge and fiddled with the plastic letters, turning ‘Hello’ into ‘Holel’. Then he sucked the insides of his cheeks and played with his beard. Sue was familiar with this mood of evasive punchiness. It meant he was going to attack her but was not sure where best to begin. She began her calming routine. Inhale to a count of ten, exhale twelve, hands linked loosely in lap. Visualise landscape of tranquil beauty, e.g. the Bounty Bar island.
‘I couldn’t believe it. Just Simply Could Not Believe It.’
‘What’s that, Brian?’
‘Gerald was discovered first thing this morning? Correct me if I’m wrong.’
‘Yes. Poor Mrs Bundy found him.’ One of these days I will correct you and you’ll die of shock.
‘Something like ten o’clock?’
‘Around then.’ And so shall I, probably.
‘And . . . And . . .’ But it was no good, disbelief had become too much for Brian. He had to break off and wag his head about before being able to continue. ‘You actually let me know at three.’