Guv? Really? She rolls her eyes. DS Barnes notices because he says, deadpan, ‘He’s new. I think he’s watched too many episodes of The Sweeney.’
Her lips twitch but she refuses to laugh. He’s not getting off that lightly.
She shuffles her feet. One of her sandals is rubbing her recent blister. ‘So what happens next?’
He gives her a long look that she can’t read. She wonders if it’s pity. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
14
Saffy
When we get back Tom is still at work so Mum says she’ll start on dinner and I take Snowy for a walk. It’s still warm, the sun flickering through the trees. As I stroll past number eight Brenda Morrison comes scurrying out, still in her sheepskin slippers. ‘Oi, I want a word with you!’ she says, scowling.
I stop and try to smile politely, turning towards her. I’ve never taken to Brenda, or her husband, Jack. Neither made us feel particularly welcome when we moved in. Not to mention them opposing the build. They’re always complaining about something: the position of our rubbish bin, the sound of the builders drilling, Snowy barking in the garden.
‘How are you, Brenda?’ I ask.
‘Not good. I’m fed up with those journalists coming over all the time. Last week there was one in our back garden, taking photos over our fence. It’s just not on. It’s making my Jack’s acid reflux play up.’
‘I’m really sorry – I hate them being here too.’
‘We’ve lived here nigh on thirty year and have never known the like.’
‘I don’t know what they’re hoping to achieve. There’s no new information and there might not be for some time,’ I say. DS Barnes said earlier about trawling through missing persons between 1970 and 1990 to try to identify the bodies. It could take months.
‘And I’ve also had the police here last week asking questions,’ she bulldozes on, as though I haven’t spoken. ‘And I can tell you what I told them – we’ve been living here over thirty year, and if two people had been murdered and buried in the garden next door, well,’ she folds her arms across her chest, ‘we’d have seen. Nothing gets past me.’
That doesn’t surprise me.
‘Thirty years? So you arrived here in …’
‘1986. Bought it from a lovely old couple. They wanted to move to a bungalow near their son.’
‘You didn’t know my gran? Rose Grey? She wasn’t living here then, but she was the landlord. I don’t know if she ever came over or …？’
But she shakes her head. ‘Nope. When we moved in a Beryl and Colin Jenkins lived in your house and I don’t remember meeting any Rose Grey.’
Snowy pulls at the lead and I bend down to stroke him. ‘And after them was it Mr and Mrs Turner?’ I ask, recalling Mrs McNulty’s conversation in the corner shop.
Brenda glares at me, and just when I think she’ll refuse to say, she leans towards me, and I can tell, despite her prickliness, she’s enjoying having a gossip. She pulls her cream cardigan further around her skinny body. ‘The Turners – Valerie and Stan – moved in around 1988 or 1989. Had a dodgy son. Always getting into trouble.’
‘Do you remember the son’s name?’
‘Harrison. Yes, that’s it, I remember because of George Harrison. He was a wild one. Felt sorry for his mum and dad. They were older. Stan had very bad arthritis.’
‘Have you told the police this?’
‘Of course I have. I told them last week.’
I hope they’ve looked into the son. I make a mental note to ask DS Barnes.