the mother?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’
He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He’s not ducking the question. He’s trying to find the answer.
‘Nan don’t like me c-c-coming over here.’
The words are hesitant yet overly articulated as though he’s trying to disguise a lisp or cure a stammer. He swaps kittens, letting each of them become accustomed to being handled. I get a better look at him now. Built large in the hips and thighs, he has acne scars on his cheeks and scruffy hair spotted with paint that looks like bird-shit. His jeans are stained with grease and oil and the dark hollow of his right eye turns out to be a bruise.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘Rugby.’
‘It’s not rugby season.’
He cups a kitten in both his hands, holding it against his cheek. For a fleeting moment I recognise a boy rather than a man, lonely, isolated, lacking in confidence, but then I see something else spark in his irises – not intelligence so much as a certain animalistic cunning.
‘You found Mrs Crowe and Harper.’
He nods.
‘Why did you come here that Sunday morning?’
‘I ’eard the alarm.’
‘Were you friends with Harper?’
He doesn’t answer, but I can see him struggle with the question. I pull up an empty old drum and take a seat, holding my left arm to stop it trembling.
‘How long have you lived next door?’
‘All me life.’
‘You did work around the place – looking after the garden?’
He nods.
‘Where were you that Saturday night? You know the one I mean.’
‘H-h-home.’
‘All night?’
‘Aye.’
‘When did you last see Harper?’
‘Saturday.’
‘What time?’
‘Early evening.’
‘You saw her go out?’
‘Saw her car.’
‘What time?’
‘Must have been about eight.’
‘Where were you when you saw her?’
‘With the cows.’
‘Was Harper alone?’
He nods.
‘What about Mrs Crowe – did you see her go out that night?’
‘I were watching TV.’
‘What were you watching?’
‘Don’t remember.’
‘Did you see her come home?’
He shakes his head. Dropping to his haunches, he opens the tin of cat food with his penknife, scooping out the contents with the blade. The tabby rises from her bed and kittens tumble in her wake, blindly kneading and suckling at the air. She eats hungrily and cleans herself.
Tommy wipes his hands on his jeans.
I pick up a kitten. Its eyes open, bluer than blue.
‘They’re lovely.’
He nods.
‘What are you going to do with them?’
‘Drown ’em most likely.’
‘Why?’
‘Nan won’t let me keep ’em. We got too many animals to feed.’
‘I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll help you find homes for them, but first you have to tell me the truth. Did you see Mrs Crowe come home that night?’
Tommy seems to contemplate lying, but then looks at the kittens. ‘I saw her.’
‘What time was that?’
‘It were dark.’
Sunset on that Saturday was at 9.30 p.m.
‘You were outside?’
Another nod.
‘Show me.’
Tommy puts the penknife in his jeans and tosses the empty can of cat food in an old water trough. He leads me across the yard and shows me a spot near the water tank where the grass is worn away and earth compacted. Facing the house, I scan the windows. I can see Elizabeth’s bedroom. Her curtains are open. I can also see Harper’s room and the broken pane of glass.
‘When did you first find this spot?’
He shrugs.
‘Did you ever watch Mrs Crowe get undressed?’
‘N-n-n-no.’
‘What about Harper?’
He shakes his head more strenuously. I probe him gently, using a tone that carries no hint of censure or criticism. ‘I’m not the police, Tommy. I can’t get you into trouble. I’m just trying to understand what happened.’
He picks at a patch of flaking paint on his thumbnail. ‘It were h-h-her fault.’
‘Mrs Crowe?’
‘She d-d-d-don’t…’ He stops. Starts again. ‘She d-d-d-don’t close her curtains.’
His stutter gets
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’
He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He’s not ducking the question. He’s trying to find the answer.
‘Nan don’t like me c-c-coming over here.’
The words are hesitant yet overly articulated as though he’s trying to disguise a lisp or cure a stammer. He swaps kittens, letting each of them become accustomed to being handled. I get a better look at him now. Built large in the hips and thighs, he has acne scars on his cheeks and scruffy hair spotted with paint that looks like bird-shit. His jeans are stained with grease and oil and the dark hollow of his right eye turns out to be a bruise.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘Rugby.’
‘It’s not rugby season.’
He cups a kitten in both his hands, holding it against his cheek. For a fleeting moment I recognise a boy rather than a man, lonely, isolated, lacking in confidence, but then I see something else spark in his irises – not intelligence so much as a certain animalistic cunning.
‘You found Mrs Crowe and Harper.’
He nods.
‘Why did you come here that Sunday morning?’
‘I ’eard the alarm.’
‘Were you friends with Harper?’
He doesn’t answer, but I can see him struggle with the question. I pull up an empty old drum and take a seat, holding my left arm to stop it trembling.
‘How long have you lived next door?’
‘All me life.’
‘You did work around the place – looking after the garden?’
He nods.
‘Where were you that Saturday night? You know the one I mean.’
‘H-h-home.’
‘All night?’
‘Aye.’
‘When did you last see Harper?’
‘Saturday.’
‘What time?’
‘Early evening.’
‘You saw her go out?’
‘Saw her car.’
‘What time?’
‘Must have been about eight.’
‘Where were you when you saw her?’
‘With the cows.’
‘Was Harper alone?’
He nods.
‘What about Mrs Crowe – did you see her go out that night?’
‘I were watching TV.’
‘What were you watching?’
‘Don’t remember.’
‘Did you see her come home?’
He shakes his head. Dropping to his haunches, he opens the tin of cat food with his penknife, scooping out the contents with the blade. The tabby rises from her bed and kittens tumble in her wake, blindly kneading and suckling at the air. She eats hungrily and cleans herself.
Tommy wipes his hands on his jeans.
I pick up a kitten. Its eyes open, bluer than blue.
‘They’re lovely.’
He nods.
‘What are you going to do with them?’
‘Drown ’em most likely.’
‘Why?’
‘Nan won’t let me keep ’em. We got too many animals to feed.’
‘I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll help you find homes for them, but first you have to tell me the truth. Did you see Mrs Crowe come home that night?’
Tommy seems to contemplate lying, but then looks at the kittens. ‘I saw her.’
‘What time was that?’
‘It were dark.’
Sunset on that Saturday was at 9.30 p.m.
‘You were outside?’
Another nod.
‘Show me.’
Tommy puts the penknife in his jeans and tosses the empty can of cat food in an old water trough. He leads me across the yard and shows me a spot near the water tank where the grass is worn away and earth compacted. Facing the house, I scan the windows. I can see Elizabeth’s bedroom. Her curtains are open. I can also see Harper’s room and the broken pane of glass.
‘When did you first find this spot?’
He shrugs.
‘Did you ever watch Mrs Crowe get undressed?’
‘N-n-n-no.’
‘What about Harper?’
He shakes his head more strenuously. I probe him gently, using a tone that carries no hint of censure or criticism. ‘I’m not the police, Tommy. I can’t get you into trouble. I’m just trying to understand what happened.’
He picks at a patch of flaking paint on his thumbnail. ‘It were h-h-her fault.’
‘Mrs Crowe?’
‘She d-d-d-don’t…’ He stops. Starts again. ‘She d-d-d-don’t close her curtains.’
His stutter gets
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