go for that sort of thing; he always thought flowers didn’t quite work when suspended. Weren’t they meant to be rooted in the earth? But at least it looked as if somebody had tried to make the best of their home. Somebody cared even if they couldn’t afford to have their pathway resurfaced or their gate fixed.
Tom pressed the doorbell and waited. He was glad there was a bell because the paint on the front door looked as if ithad acute eczema. He didn’t have to wait long until the door was opened by a young woman.
‘Mrs Bailey?’
‘Mr Mackenzie?’
Tom nodded and extended his hand towards her, noticing how pretty her hazel eyes were but also how red they looked, as if she’d been crying.
‘Come in,’ she said somewhat formally, leading him through a grim-looking hallway which looked as if it hadn’t seen a lick of paint for a good few years.
‘I’m afraid my husband isn’t able to see you,’ she said, her eyes fixed to the floor and her cheeks seeming to flush red. ‘He’s unwell.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Mrs Bailey looked up at him, and Tom almost felt his eyes watering in response to hers. She looked so sad.
‘Can I—?’ He moved a step towards her but she held up a hand and waved him away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not been an easy day. I’ll make us some tea, OK?’
Tom nodded and watched as she disappeared into the kitchen. It was a pattern he was used to. During his early days as a reporter, Tom had paid numerous house visits in order to interview people and no sooner would he get through the door than the kettle would go on. He liked that because it gave him a few valuable moments to absorb the atmosphere of the house and get a feel of the people who lived there. He’d soon got the art of dissecting a room down to two minutes flat: staring at photographs, looking for papers and magazines, and reading the spines of any books, CDs or films on show. You could tell a lot about people before asking anyquestions. But this lady didn’t know he was a reporter so wasn’t it a bit odd that she should offer to make him a cup of tea before finding out what it was he wanted? Or had it been to allow herself a few moments to regain her composure?
When she came back through to the living room with two mugs of tea, Tom noticed that her face wasn’t quite so flushed.
‘Oh, please sit down,’ she said. Tom sat down on the sofa, his bottom immediately sucked in so deep that he almost hit the floor.
Mrs Bailey gave a nervous little laugh. ‘I’m sorry about that. It’s rather old. We keep meaning to replace it but just haven’t got round to it. Please, why don’t you sit on that chair?’ She motioned to a wooden chair in the corner of the room, a blush of embarrassment colouring her face.
‘No, no!’ Tom said quickly. ‘I’m very comfortable here, thank you.’
‘I rather doubt that,’ Mrs Bailey said brightly, her face lighting up at last.
There was a couple of seconds’ awkward silence. Tom was the first to speak.
‘I’d better tell you why I’m here,’ he said, attempting to sit forward in the sofa but finding it an impossibility.
‘You said something about Molly.’
‘Yes. I’m a journalist,’ he said, deciding to be absolutely honest, ‘and I think Molly might have a rather interesting story to tell.’
‘Story? Is Molly in some sort of trouble?’
‘No, no!’ Tom said quickly, knowing that people always jumped to the worst possible conclusion as soon as the media started to show an interest. ‘But I think she might haverecently…’ Tom paused. How much information was he going to have to give away in order to be able to get in touch with this Molly Bailey? ‘Mrs Bailey,’ he began again, ‘do you know where I can find Molly?’
Mrs Bailey’s pretty hazel eyes crinkled at the edges as if she was trying to weigh him up. He waited a moment without pressing her further.
‘She’s on holiday,’ she said at last, ‘but why should I
Tom pressed the doorbell and waited. He was glad there was a bell because the paint on the front door looked as if ithad acute eczema. He didn’t have to wait long until the door was opened by a young woman.
‘Mrs Bailey?’
‘Mr Mackenzie?’
Tom nodded and extended his hand towards her, noticing how pretty her hazel eyes were but also how red they looked, as if she’d been crying.
‘Come in,’ she said somewhat formally, leading him through a grim-looking hallway which looked as if it hadn’t seen a lick of paint for a good few years.
‘I’m afraid my husband isn’t able to see you,’ she said, her eyes fixed to the floor and her cheeks seeming to flush red. ‘He’s unwell.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
Mrs Bailey looked up at him, and Tom almost felt his eyes watering in response to hers. She looked so sad.
‘Can I—?’ He moved a step towards her but she held up a hand and waved him away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not been an easy day. I’ll make us some tea, OK?’
Tom nodded and watched as she disappeared into the kitchen. It was a pattern he was used to. During his early days as a reporter, Tom had paid numerous house visits in order to interview people and no sooner would he get through the door than the kettle would go on. He liked that because it gave him a few valuable moments to absorb the atmosphere of the house and get a feel of the people who lived there. He’d soon got the art of dissecting a room down to two minutes flat: staring at photographs, looking for papers and magazines, and reading the spines of any books, CDs or films on show. You could tell a lot about people before asking anyquestions. But this lady didn’t know he was a reporter so wasn’t it a bit odd that she should offer to make him a cup of tea before finding out what it was he wanted? Or had it been to allow herself a few moments to regain her composure?
When she came back through to the living room with two mugs of tea, Tom noticed that her face wasn’t quite so flushed.
‘Oh, please sit down,’ she said. Tom sat down on the sofa, his bottom immediately sucked in so deep that he almost hit the floor.
Mrs Bailey gave a nervous little laugh. ‘I’m sorry about that. It’s rather old. We keep meaning to replace it but just haven’t got round to it. Please, why don’t you sit on that chair?’ She motioned to a wooden chair in the corner of the room, a blush of embarrassment colouring her face.
‘No, no!’ Tom said quickly. ‘I’m very comfortable here, thank you.’
‘I rather doubt that,’ Mrs Bailey said brightly, her face lighting up at last.
There was a couple of seconds’ awkward silence. Tom was the first to speak.
‘I’d better tell you why I’m here,’ he said, attempting to sit forward in the sofa but finding it an impossibility.
‘You said something about Molly.’
‘Yes. I’m a journalist,’ he said, deciding to be absolutely honest, ‘and I think Molly might have a rather interesting story to tell.’
‘Story? Is Molly in some sort of trouble?’
‘No, no!’ Tom said quickly, knowing that people always jumped to the worst possible conclusion as soon as the media started to show an interest. ‘But I think she might haverecently…’ Tom paused. How much information was he going to have to give away in order to be able to get in touch with this Molly Bailey? ‘Mrs Bailey,’ he began again, ‘do you know where I can find Molly?’
Mrs Bailey’s pretty hazel eyes crinkled at the edges as if she was trying to weigh him up. He waited a moment without pressing her further.
‘She’s on holiday,’ she said at last, ‘but why should I
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