Taking Pity by David Mark Page A

time of the shooting.”
    “And quite the looker,” says Audrey happily. Then her face falls a little as she looks inside herself and begins to remember the night of the killings. “We lived in one of the farm cottages at the manor house. My dad had worked for Winslow Royce, you see. His family had farmed the land for nigh on a hundred years before he sold it to Mr. Winn. We were all a bit concerned that when Mr. Winn bought it, he’d boot out all the men and women who had worked there before, but he barely got rid of a soul. Kept everybody on. We kept the house.”
    “And you lived there with your mother, father, and husband, yes?”
    Audrey nods. “Cozy rather than cramped. Anton was away quite a lot. Worked on the barges, you see. Was a sod for him to get home. Had to cycle as far as Hedon, then get two trains just to get to work. Amazing we had time to start a family. But he got on well with my dad and there wasn’t as much fuss then about needing your own space. I was happy enough, and Anton was happy if I was.”
    McAvoy enjoys the look on Audrey’s face as it fills with pleasure at the recollection of her husband. He wants to ask her what happened to him but fancies it will take him an age to steer her back to answering his questions.
    “You knew the Winn family?”
    “Well enough,” says Audrey. “Nice lot, for incomers.”
    “How old were you when they bought the house and farm?”
    “Maybe ten,” she says. “War hadn’t long finished. Mr. Royce was no spring chicken anymore. Mr. Winn had made some money making things for the army. Don’t ask me what. Could be bullets or Spitfires for all I know. His wife, Evelyn, was a Hull woman, as far as I can remember. You know how badly Hull got it during the war, don’t you? Second most bombed city in the UK behind London. Knocked the stuffing out of the place. You can still see the scars. I think it affected Mrs. Winn’s nerves. Word was that Mr. Winn bought the farm to give her somewhere peaceful to lay her head and start a family. I didn’t get the impression he had much desire to be a farmer and landlord.”
    McAvoy’s pen scratches at the page. He finds himself recalling black-and-white photographs of Hull during the Blitz. Crumpled homes and blackened beams. Fallen stones and smoking craters. Finds himself suddenly hot beneath his clothes as the images merge with his own more recent memories. Digs his fingernails into his legs and tries to concentrate.
    “How well did you know the family?”
    “You get to know most people around here pretty quickly,” she says. “Was a small place. Didn’t look like it does now, neither. The copse of trees at the back of the church was bigger. The manor house and the cottages were all still there. Did you know there used to be another manor house on that spot, centuries ago? Belonged to the Hildyard family, if you’ve ever heard of them. Great old sprawl of a place. Medieval times. Lord of the manor had the place demolished after his son died in the moat. Sad, really. Sometimes it seems like even the prettiest places have seen too much tragedy. Didn’t stop us playing there, mind. If you look at the back of the church you can still see the moat. Cross over that and you’re in the woods. Beautiful, it was, when we were kids. Used to be some rough lads from Patrington and Withernsea would cycle there now and again, but my little gang loved it. And when we were a bit older, it was a popular place for courting couples, if you know what I mean.”
    McAvoy returns Audrey’s happy, wide grin. Makes a note.
    “The night of the killings, Audrey. Please, tell me what you remember.”
    Audrey looks down at her feet. She is wearing slippers and begins pressing one toe into the carpet, as though digging for something troublesome.
    “It was never any surprise to hear shots,” she says. “This is a farming community. Was then, anyways. The sound of a shot just meant a rabbit for the pot or somebody practicing for a