and beginning an elaborate dance with teacups and saucers. “The flapjack’s homemade.”
McAvoy is feeling more comfortable than he has in some time. Mrs. George had welcomed him like a favorite nephew. Had already known what he wanted before he got to the end of his explanation for being here. She lives alone and doesn’t get many visitors. A chance to chat to a nice young detective represents a good day.
“Horrid day again,” says Audrey, nodding at the window. “I know they say us old buggers always look at the past through rose-tinted glasses, but it seems like it’s been miserable forever, doesn’t it? I try to keep the gardens nice, but my son plays merry hell with me for it. My back, you see. Aches if I do too much bending. And he won’t come and do the weeding, will he? He’s a busy man. The grandchildren could do it, but it’s a bugger to get to Winestead if you haven’t got a car. That used to be its biggest asset, of course. Out-of-the-way kind of place. Just seems a bit lonely now. There’s only a dozen or so houses and I don’t know half the people other than to say hello. Shame, really. Still, there’s the senior center in Patrington, and I still get days out now and again. Life’s what you make it, isn’t it? That’s what I always say.”
McAvoy is coming to the conclusion that Audrey always says a lot of things. She has barely stopped talking since he arrived.
“That’s wonderful flapjack,” says McAvoy, after demolishing a slice in two bites. “My son would love it.”
“Oh, you take some with you,” says Mrs. George enthusiastically. “Will just go to waste if not.”
McAvoy is about to outline which part of the ACPO guide prohibits him from accepting gratuities. Then he realizes it’s just a flapjack and tells his conscience to grow up.
“I would have called first,” says McAvoy apologetically. “But I was in the area and the computer said you were still local.”
“Don’t you worry,” says Audrey, brushing crumbs from her neatly seamed navy blue trousers. “I don’t get scared answering my own doorbell. We don’t get many door-to-door salesmen up here. And the Jehovah’s Witnesses haven’t found me yet.”
McAvoy drains his tea. He pulls his notepad from his pocket. Audrey exclaims as she sees the shorthand squiggles that line each page.
“Ooh, that’s fancy! I always wanted to be a secretary. No opportunity for it up here, though. You didn’t get the same chances then as now. Never known a man who could do it, though.” She claps her hands, delighted. “Aren’t you a man of many talents!”
McAvoy doesn’t quite know what to say. Just smiles and tells her it’s a useful skill. Then he reads through his notes.
“Mrs. George, I understand—”
“It’s Audrey, Sergeant, please.”
“Audrey,” says McAvoy a little more firmly. “As I explained, we’re making a general review of a sample of old cases, and as part of that review, we’re examining the deaths of the Winn family in 1966. I have a witness statement you gave the police at that time. Now, I appreciate it’s a long time ago, but I just wondered if you could recall precisely what you told the police on that day.”
The old lady gives a conspiratorial little snigger. “You mean, you want to see if I’m some crazy old bat who will look silly giving evidence if Peter Coles ever comes to trial?”
McAvoy colors. He’d been quite pleased with his cover story. Hadn’t expected to be shown up by his sweet companion.
“I’m sure nobody could doubt your faculties, Audrey,” says McAvoy with a dusting of charm. “It’s just that anybody’s memory would be questioned after all this time.”
Audrey sits forward and puts her cup down. “I don’t think I’d be your star witness,” she says thoughtfully. “But I can tell you what I said. And as much gossip as you fancy!”
“Please do,” says McAvoy. “If my math is correct, you’ll have been around thirty years old at the
McAvoy is feeling more comfortable than he has in some time. Mrs. George had welcomed him like a favorite nephew. Had already known what he wanted before he got to the end of his explanation for being here. She lives alone and doesn’t get many visitors. A chance to chat to a nice young detective represents a good day.
“Horrid day again,” says Audrey, nodding at the window. “I know they say us old buggers always look at the past through rose-tinted glasses, but it seems like it’s been miserable forever, doesn’t it? I try to keep the gardens nice, but my son plays merry hell with me for it. My back, you see. Aches if I do too much bending. And he won’t come and do the weeding, will he? He’s a busy man. The grandchildren could do it, but it’s a bugger to get to Winestead if you haven’t got a car. That used to be its biggest asset, of course. Out-of-the-way kind of place. Just seems a bit lonely now. There’s only a dozen or so houses and I don’t know half the people other than to say hello. Shame, really. Still, there’s the senior center in Patrington, and I still get days out now and again. Life’s what you make it, isn’t it? That’s what I always say.”
McAvoy is coming to the conclusion that Audrey always says a lot of things. She has barely stopped talking since he arrived.
“That’s wonderful flapjack,” says McAvoy, after demolishing a slice in two bites. “My son would love it.”
“Oh, you take some with you,” says Mrs. George enthusiastically. “Will just go to waste if not.”
McAvoy is about to outline which part of the ACPO guide prohibits him from accepting gratuities. Then he realizes it’s just a flapjack and tells his conscience to grow up.
“I would have called first,” says McAvoy apologetically. “But I was in the area and the computer said you were still local.”
“Don’t you worry,” says Audrey, brushing crumbs from her neatly seamed navy blue trousers. “I don’t get scared answering my own doorbell. We don’t get many door-to-door salesmen up here. And the Jehovah’s Witnesses haven’t found me yet.”
McAvoy drains his tea. He pulls his notepad from his pocket. Audrey exclaims as she sees the shorthand squiggles that line each page.
“Ooh, that’s fancy! I always wanted to be a secretary. No opportunity for it up here, though. You didn’t get the same chances then as now. Never known a man who could do it, though.” She claps her hands, delighted. “Aren’t you a man of many talents!”
McAvoy doesn’t quite know what to say. Just smiles and tells her it’s a useful skill. Then he reads through his notes.
“Mrs. George, I understand—”
“It’s Audrey, Sergeant, please.”
“Audrey,” says McAvoy a little more firmly. “As I explained, we’re making a general review of a sample of old cases, and as part of that review, we’re examining the deaths of the Winn family in 1966. I have a witness statement you gave the police at that time. Now, I appreciate it’s a long time ago, but I just wondered if you could recall precisely what you told the police on that day.”
The old lady gives a conspiratorial little snigger. “You mean, you want to see if I’m some crazy old bat who will look silly giving evidence if Peter Coles ever comes to trial?”
McAvoy colors. He’d been quite pleased with his cover story. Hadn’t expected to be shown up by his sweet companion.
“I’m sure nobody could doubt your faculties, Audrey,” says McAvoy with a dusting of charm. “It’s just that anybody’s memory would be questioned after all this time.”
Audrey sits forward and puts her cup down. “I don’t think I’d be your star witness,” she says thoughtfully. “But I can tell you what I said. And as much gossip as you fancy!”
“Please do,” says McAvoy. “If my math is correct, you’ll have been around thirty years old at the
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