previous encounter, in the police station. ‘I rang 999!’
‘Did you touch the body? Check it for a pulse maybe?’
Geraldine Payne looked across as her questioner, with a look which made it clear that she thought the woman must be out of her head. ‘It was patently obvious he was dead. I didn’t need to check for a bloody pulse.’
‘Quite,’ Holden agreed. There was nothing more she was going to gain by prolonging the interview. ‘Do you know his wife?’ she said as she stood up.
‘His wife?’ There was a pause, then a short incredulous laugh. ‘Why? Do you think she did it?’
Holden didn’t answer the question at the time, but later, as Lawson drove her across town to Jack Smith’s house, to break the news to his wife, she tossed the question around in her head. Her first assumption was that his death must be connected to the missing painting, but on the other hand Maria and Jack had had an affair, even if it had been the one-off fling which Jack Smith had claimed. But suppose his wife had found out, then that sure as hell gave her a motive to have killed them both. It would be interesting to see how she reacted to the news.
Dinah Smith was a big woman. When she opened the front door, her body filled its frame, blocking much of the light from within so that Holden and Lawson both stood in her shadow, briefly nonplussed . Everything about her was big, from her broad shouldersand her voluminous breasts to her bulbous hands and tree-trunk legs. She was a woman whom you could imagine mud wrestling or playing in the scrum in a woman’s rugby team in her spare time, while in working life she was built for the role of prison warder, one who could control the most troublesome of female prisoners – or male ones too, come to think of it – with a single terrorizing glance. Which was why it seemed so incongruous to Holden that she took the news of her husband’s death so badly. It wasn’t that Holden expected her to react with indifference, but the wailing she emitted when she was told that her husband had been murdered was of extraordinary intensity. Holden felt herself almost physically engulfed by the blizzard of her grief. There was nothing to do except wait for the storm to pass. Eventually it did, but when Lawson offered Dinah Smith a handkerchief, she waved it away.
‘Who on earth would have wanted to kill him?’ she said, in an incredulous tone of voice. ‘Do you think it was a thief?’
Holden’s first thought was that this was a curious thing to say. She had told Dinah that her husband had been stabbed with a knife, but she had deliberately given no more detail. So why didn’t Dinah ask more about how he died? That’s what she would have expected someone in her position to ask, normally. Except, she told herself, this wasn’t a normal situation. Being told that your husband has been murdered is in no sense normal. Holden knew that really, but even so she logged the woman’s response away in her head for future consideration, and then answered her question. ‘There’s no sign of anything having been stolen. And to be honest, there’s not much in the house worth stealing. A few pieces of furniture, but nothing in the way of ornaments or silver or electronic devices.’
‘But who would have wanted to kill him?’ She repeated the question in a voice that implied absolute incomprehension. ‘Who?’
Holden cleared her throat. She ought to leave this till the next day, till the woman had had a chance to get over her shock, assuming it was shock, but this was a second death and there were no prizes to be won by being nice, or skipping awkward questions. ‘We understand your husband had an affair with Maria Tull.’
Dinah looked at her, her mouth half-open in astonishment. Then, as if in slow motion, it began to close until the upper and lower lips met, compressing against each other until they had twisted into a snarl. At the same time, the wide-open eyes narrowed into the darkest of
‘Did you touch the body? Check it for a pulse maybe?’
Geraldine Payne looked across as her questioner, with a look which made it clear that she thought the woman must be out of her head. ‘It was patently obvious he was dead. I didn’t need to check for a bloody pulse.’
‘Quite,’ Holden agreed. There was nothing more she was going to gain by prolonging the interview. ‘Do you know his wife?’ she said as she stood up.
‘His wife?’ There was a pause, then a short incredulous laugh. ‘Why? Do you think she did it?’
Holden didn’t answer the question at the time, but later, as Lawson drove her across town to Jack Smith’s house, to break the news to his wife, she tossed the question around in her head. Her first assumption was that his death must be connected to the missing painting, but on the other hand Maria and Jack had had an affair, even if it had been the one-off fling which Jack Smith had claimed. But suppose his wife had found out, then that sure as hell gave her a motive to have killed them both. It would be interesting to see how she reacted to the news.
Dinah Smith was a big woman. When she opened the front door, her body filled its frame, blocking much of the light from within so that Holden and Lawson both stood in her shadow, briefly nonplussed . Everything about her was big, from her broad shouldersand her voluminous breasts to her bulbous hands and tree-trunk legs. She was a woman whom you could imagine mud wrestling or playing in the scrum in a woman’s rugby team in her spare time, while in working life she was built for the role of prison warder, one who could control the most troublesome of female prisoners – or male ones too, come to think of it – with a single terrorizing glance. Which was why it seemed so incongruous to Holden that she took the news of her husband’s death so badly. It wasn’t that Holden expected her to react with indifference, but the wailing she emitted when she was told that her husband had been murdered was of extraordinary intensity. Holden felt herself almost physically engulfed by the blizzard of her grief. There was nothing to do except wait for the storm to pass. Eventually it did, but when Lawson offered Dinah Smith a handkerchief, she waved it away.
‘Who on earth would have wanted to kill him?’ she said, in an incredulous tone of voice. ‘Do you think it was a thief?’
Holden’s first thought was that this was a curious thing to say. She had told Dinah that her husband had been stabbed with a knife, but she had deliberately given no more detail. So why didn’t Dinah ask more about how he died? That’s what she would have expected someone in her position to ask, normally. Except, she told herself, this wasn’t a normal situation. Being told that your husband has been murdered is in no sense normal. Holden knew that really, but even so she logged the woman’s response away in her head for future consideration, and then answered her question. ‘There’s no sign of anything having been stolen. And to be honest, there’s not much in the house worth stealing. A few pieces of furniture, but nothing in the way of ornaments or silver or electronic devices.’
‘But who would have wanted to kill him?’ She repeated the question in a voice that implied absolute incomprehension. ‘Who?’
Holden cleared her throat. She ought to leave this till the next day, till the woman had had a chance to get over her shock, assuming it was shock, but this was a second death and there were no prizes to be won by being nice, or skipping awkward questions. ‘We understand your husband had an affair with Maria Tull.’
Dinah looked at her, her mouth half-open in astonishment. Then, as if in slow motion, it began to close until the upper and lower lips met, compressing against each other until they had twisted into a snarl. At the same time, the wide-open eyes narrowed into the darkest of
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