something of a lad. Fancied himself a bit. Bit of a bully, was he?’ Frank asked, smiling and putting on the all-lad’s-together attitude. As he’d expected it worked, and Marty Warrender relaxed a little bit and ran a hand through his hair.
‘Well, yeah, he was a bit of a bother,’ he gave a rueful laugh. ‘But he never bothered me, mind,’ he added quickly, opened his mouth to say something else, then quickly shut it again. No, he thought silently, best not. Least said, soonest mended. It was one of his mother’s favourite sayings, and Marty could truly appreciate it at that moment. Besides, he didn’t know anything, not really, not for sure, and he didn’t want to get mixed up in police business. They’d be bound to find out anyway from someone else. Best just to keep his head down.
Frank Ross smiled some more and made a strong note in his book. The bugger was hiding something. Or knew something he didn’t want to cough up. Well, he’d pass his thoughts along to the girl wonder and she could do the secondary interview. See if she could wangle it out of him.
‘Well, thanks for your time, Mr Warrender. If you think of anything else, give me a call, yeah?’ He handed over one of his cards, then stepped back outside. June Warrender, he knew, worked in a cake shop in the centre of town. After her he just had two more to go.
A flotilla of ducks, passing by on the Oxford canal a few yards opposite, quacked a noisy demand for bread. A child, strolling alongside his mother, laughed with delight and duly obliged.
Frank ignored it all and climbed back into his car, checking the paper on the front seat which was folded back at the sports section. In the 3.30 at Chepstow there was a nag running called ‘Billy Blunder’. Now that had to be worth a tenner of anybody’s money, right? Especially at 12-1.
Hillary knocked on the Davies’ side door and waited. The bungalow, even in bright sunlight, seemed to ooze a dull unhappiness, as if the very building had somehow absorbed the misery of the family living within it. Even a colourful cluster of ladies’ bonnets and aromatic wallflowers just under the kitchen window failed to relieve the atmosphere.
After a moment the door was opened by George Davies. He hadn’t shaved, and obviously hadn’t slept. He blinked at her for a moment, then absently reached down to button up the shirt that was currently undone, and exposing his flabby, white belly. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said vaguely. ‘Come on in. I’ll put the kettle on.’
Hillary accepted, and wondered for how much longer she’d be a welcome visitor in this house. Not long, perhaps, after talking to Celia.
‘Milk and sugar? Marilyn’s in the living room, pretending to sleep on the sofa. Doc left her some pills, but I don’t reckon she’s taken them. We’ve got to talk about arrangements, she said. You know. For burying and suchlike.’
Hillary nodded, noting that George Davies hadn’t been able to say his son’s name yet. ‘The coroner will let you know when Billy’s body can be released, Mr Davies,’ she said gently. ‘So there’s no rush.’ Although there was a school of thought that said having to cope with funeral arrangements was a good way of making the mind accept the finality of death.
‘Oh. Right. Didn’t think of that. He’ll have been … cut about, I suppose?’
Hillary shrugged helplessly. ‘The coroner’s office treats every body with the utmost respect, Mr Davies,’ she assured him gently.
George Davies said nothing.
‘So, how’s Celia doing?’ Hillary asked brightly. Perhaps now was as good a time as any to remind this grieving man that he still had one child living. And his favourite, too, by all accounts.
‘Oh she’s much better,’ George said, his face brightening up for a moment. ‘She slept the night through – me and Marilyn kept checking on her. The pills the doc gave her I suppose. And she was up this morning, and had some breakfast. She’s in her room
‘Well, yeah, he was a bit of a bother,’ he gave a rueful laugh. ‘But he never bothered me, mind,’ he added quickly, opened his mouth to say something else, then quickly shut it again. No, he thought silently, best not. Least said, soonest mended. It was one of his mother’s favourite sayings, and Marty could truly appreciate it at that moment. Besides, he didn’t know anything, not really, not for sure, and he didn’t want to get mixed up in police business. They’d be bound to find out anyway from someone else. Best just to keep his head down.
Frank Ross smiled some more and made a strong note in his book. The bugger was hiding something. Or knew something he didn’t want to cough up. Well, he’d pass his thoughts along to the girl wonder and she could do the secondary interview. See if she could wangle it out of him.
‘Well, thanks for your time, Mr Warrender. If you think of anything else, give me a call, yeah?’ He handed over one of his cards, then stepped back outside. June Warrender, he knew, worked in a cake shop in the centre of town. After her he just had two more to go.
A flotilla of ducks, passing by on the Oxford canal a few yards opposite, quacked a noisy demand for bread. A child, strolling alongside his mother, laughed with delight and duly obliged.
Frank ignored it all and climbed back into his car, checking the paper on the front seat which was folded back at the sports section. In the 3.30 at Chepstow there was a nag running called ‘Billy Blunder’. Now that had to be worth a tenner of anybody’s money, right? Especially at 12-1.
Hillary knocked on the Davies’ side door and waited. The bungalow, even in bright sunlight, seemed to ooze a dull unhappiness, as if the very building had somehow absorbed the misery of the family living within it. Even a colourful cluster of ladies’ bonnets and aromatic wallflowers just under the kitchen window failed to relieve the atmosphere.
After a moment the door was opened by George Davies. He hadn’t shaved, and obviously hadn’t slept. He blinked at her for a moment, then absently reached down to button up the shirt that was currently undone, and exposing his flabby, white belly. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said vaguely. ‘Come on in. I’ll put the kettle on.’
Hillary accepted, and wondered for how much longer she’d be a welcome visitor in this house. Not long, perhaps, after talking to Celia.
‘Milk and sugar? Marilyn’s in the living room, pretending to sleep on the sofa. Doc left her some pills, but I don’t reckon she’s taken them. We’ve got to talk about arrangements, she said. You know. For burying and suchlike.’
Hillary nodded, noting that George Davies hadn’t been able to say his son’s name yet. ‘The coroner will let you know when Billy’s body can be released, Mr Davies,’ she said gently. ‘So there’s no rush.’ Although there was a school of thought that said having to cope with funeral arrangements was a good way of making the mind accept the finality of death.
‘Oh. Right. Didn’t think of that. He’ll have been … cut about, I suppose?’
Hillary shrugged helplessly. ‘The coroner’s office treats every body with the utmost respect, Mr Davies,’ she assured him gently.
George Davies said nothing.
‘So, how’s Celia doing?’ Hillary asked brightly. Perhaps now was as good a time as any to remind this grieving man that he still had one child living. And his favourite, too, by all accounts.
‘Oh she’s much better,’ George said, his face brightening up for a moment. ‘She slept the night through – me and Marilyn kept checking on her. The pills the doc gave her I suppose. And she was up this morning, and had some breakfast. She’s in her room
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