leads?’
‘Was it a random attack?’
‘Have you found the weapon?’
‘Give us something, Chief.’
Janine held up her hand. ‘There’ll be a press conference tomorrow morning, time to be announced. No comment until then.’
Lesley Tulley seemed to have shrunk in the hours since they had last seen her. Already petite, she reminded Janine of a bird, fine-boned and nervy, on the edge of flight. Must be shattered, Janine thought, the shock easing now and the burden of grief settling.
They were in Lesley’s lounge, asking about Matthew’s friends and acquaintances. And enemies.
‘Matthew didn’t have any regular social engagements,’ Janine summarised. ‘Did you have your own friends, Lesley?’
‘Had. You know how people drift apart, once you all get married, harder once people have children.’ One hand gripping the other tightly.
‘You’re right,’ Janine acknowledged. ‘And you’ve none of your own?’
Lesley hesitated, she seemed shaken by the question. ‘I can’t have children.’
Janine cheeks grew warm, she was acutely aware of her own obvious pregnancy. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She gave a pause wanting to allow Lesley to regain the fragile composure she had.
Richard spoke next. ‘What about Ferdie Gibson, Mrs Tulley?’
Lesley stared at him, her eyes wide, confusion creasing her brow. ‘Who?’
‘He attacked your husband but you didn’t say anything yesterday.’
She shook her head slowly, overwhelmed. As if she genuinely hadn’t considered the possibility, thought Janine.
‘I’m sorry. You think?’
‘We haven’t ruled him out,’ Janine said.
‘Oh, god.’ Lesley Tulley bowed her head.
Richard looked at Janine – now they needed to ask the really tricky questions. The ones that, whichever way you phrased them, questioned the potential guilt or innocence of the bereaved family. Some people accepted this easily and were too stunned by their loss even to notice much; others went ballistic, the rage that accompanied sudden bereavement finding an outlet at those making the horrendous implication.
‘If you’ll just bear with us, it is usual in cases like this to establish the movements of family members,’ Richard said.
‘I told you,’ Lesley looked at him directly. ‘I was in town.’
‘What time did you arrive?’
‘Not long after nine.’
‘You went shopping?’
She nodded.
‘You’ll have the receipts, parking ticket...’
Resentment flashed through her eyes then and she pressed her lips together. ‘I’ll see if I can find them,’ she said quietly.
Janine glanced at Richard, feeling a little tense, watched Lesley go. Poor bloody woman.
*****
When DS Butchers tried 7 Gorton Avenue for the second time that weekend, a reedy voice called to him to hang on and after a few, moments the shabby green door was open. The old man looked ill: his complexion grey, bleary eyes, smell of stale hair and unwashed skin coming off him.
‘Mr Vincent, is it?’ A nod.
‘DS Butchers.’
‘Is it about that murder? Mr Tulley?’
‘That’s right,’ said Butchers.
‘Come in. I hoped you’d call. I was going to come down to the police station tomorrow if no one had been.’
‘We called before, sir,’ Butchers muttered, anticipating a long-winded complaint.
‘Only I’ve something to tell you about it.’
The room was shabby, a layer of dust coated everything, the low winter sun streamed in through grimy windows. Faint smell of gas. The floral carpet was worn threadbare in places. Old carpet tape curled away from one patch. Three piece suite, telly and table filled the space.
The mantelpiece, beige tiles, housed a gas fire and acted as shelf to a row of framed photographs. Wedding, holiday, group of men around an enormous table. Butchers remembered replacing a fire surround like that, in his last place. Did a lovely job with Welsh slate and a copper chimney breast. He waited while Mr Vincent lowered himself into his chair. Heard him gasp.
‘You all
‘Was it a random attack?’
‘Have you found the weapon?’
‘Give us something, Chief.’
Janine held up her hand. ‘There’ll be a press conference tomorrow morning, time to be announced. No comment until then.’
Lesley Tulley seemed to have shrunk in the hours since they had last seen her. Already petite, she reminded Janine of a bird, fine-boned and nervy, on the edge of flight. Must be shattered, Janine thought, the shock easing now and the burden of grief settling.
They were in Lesley’s lounge, asking about Matthew’s friends and acquaintances. And enemies.
‘Matthew didn’t have any regular social engagements,’ Janine summarised. ‘Did you have your own friends, Lesley?’
‘Had. You know how people drift apart, once you all get married, harder once people have children.’ One hand gripping the other tightly.
‘You’re right,’ Janine acknowledged. ‘And you’ve none of your own?’
Lesley hesitated, she seemed shaken by the question. ‘I can’t have children.’
Janine cheeks grew warm, she was acutely aware of her own obvious pregnancy. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She gave a pause wanting to allow Lesley to regain the fragile composure she had.
Richard spoke next. ‘What about Ferdie Gibson, Mrs Tulley?’
Lesley stared at him, her eyes wide, confusion creasing her brow. ‘Who?’
‘He attacked your husband but you didn’t say anything yesterday.’
She shook her head slowly, overwhelmed. As if she genuinely hadn’t considered the possibility, thought Janine.
‘I’m sorry. You think?’
‘We haven’t ruled him out,’ Janine said.
‘Oh, god.’ Lesley Tulley bowed her head.
Richard looked at Janine – now they needed to ask the really tricky questions. The ones that, whichever way you phrased them, questioned the potential guilt or innocence of the bereaved family. Some people accepted this easily and were too stunned by their loss even to notice much; others went ballistic, the rage that accompanied sudden bereavement finding an outlet at those making the horrendous implication.
‘If you’ll just bear with us, it is usual in cases like this to establish the movements of family members,’ Richard said.
‘I told you,’ Lesley looked at him directly. ‘I was in town.’
‘What time did you arrive?’
‘Not long after nine.’
‘You went shopping?’
She nodded.
‘You’ll have the receipts, parking ticket...’
Resentment flashed through her eyes then and she pressed her lips together. ‘I’ll see if I can find them,’ she said quietly.
Janine glanced at Richard, feeling a little tense, watched Lesley go. Poor bloody woman.
*****
When DS Butchers tried 7 Gorton Avenue for the second time that weekend, a reedy voice called to him to hang on and after a few, moments the shabby green door was open. The old man looked ill: his complexion grey, bleary eyes, smell of stale hair and unwashed skin coming off him.
‘Mr Vincent, is it?’ A nod.
‘DS Butchers.’
‘Is it about that murder? Mr Tulley?’
‘That’s right,’ said Butchers.
‘Come in. I hoped you’d call. I was going to come down to the police station tomorrow if no one had been.’
‘We called before, sir,’ Butchers muttered, anticipating a long-winded complaint.
‘Only I’ve something to tell you about it.’
The room was shabby, a layer of dust coated everything, the low winter sun streamed in through grimy windows. Faint smell of gas. The floral carpet was worn threadbare in places. Old carpet tape curled away from one patch. Three piece suite, telly and table filled the space.
The mantelpiece, beige tiles, housed a gas fire and acted as shelf to a row of framed photographs. Wedding, holiday, group of men around an enormous table. Butchers remembered replacing a fire surround like that, in his last place. Did a lovely job with Welsh slate and a copper chimney breast. He waited while Mr Vincent lowered himself into his chair. Heard him gasp.
‘You all
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