‘Anyway,’ I say, trying to sound cheerful, ‘there are no journalists right now. Maybe they’re having a day off.’
But she harrumphs and scurries back inside, without saying goodbye.
Later, I recount my conversation with Brenda to Tom as we stand side by side at the sink, washing up our dinner things before Mum insists on doing it. She’s already rearranged the cutlery drawer. I filled him in on our visit to Gran when we were eating.
Mum’s gone up to her room to attend to her blistered feet. I don’t know why she insists on wearing heels everywhere. A silvery salmon skin sticks to the oven dish and I take out my frustration by scrubbing hard. I’m desperate for a dishwasher but God knows when we can start the building work again. It looks like it’ll be a long time before I have my dream kitchen. Even though the garden is no longer being treated as a crime scene and the police have said we’re allowed to continue with our renovations, the builders can’t come back for a few months because they’ve now started on another job. I can’t help wondering if that’s an excuse.
‘The son could be an interesting line of enquiry for the police,’ says Tom. ‘Maybe his parents helped him cover it up.’ I notice a fleck of white paint in his hair. He came home from work and instantly changed into his decorating clothes, saying, ‘I can just get in another lick of paint before dinner.’ The banister is nearly finished and then he wants to start on the little bedroom. But something stops me … Every time I go in there I feel strange. It’s only been since the bodies were discovered and I know it’s because the back window looks onto the garden and the gigantic hole. It’s just a reminder of what happened, that’s all. I know I’ll get past it. Once all this is over.
‘Gran mentioned a Jean and Victor today,’ I say. ‘I think she’s just getting confused but,’ I sigh, ‘for the first time it made me wonder if she knows something about those bodies. Like she’s trying to remember something. But after speaking to Brenda …’ I let my words hang in the air.
DS Barnes told us as we were leaving that the woman who sold the house to Gran, back in 1977, is long dead. She had no children but a sister whom they have spoken to. He added that they were following up with the two families who rented the house from Gran in the years between 1981 and 1990 but didn’t mention the Turners’ son. He also said they will be looking into Daphne Hartall and the other lodger. It sounds like they’re working hard to identify the bodies but he did say it would be a long process due to the state of decomposition. It sounds like a mammoth task.
‘It must be so hard for your gran. And hard to know if what she’s saying actually means anything or is just ramblings due to the dementia,’ says Tom, as he dries a plate. It nearly slips from his hand.
‘Careful! That’s one of our only unchipped ones.’
He pulls a face. It’s a running joke how clumsy he is. On the night we first met at uni in Bournemouth he’d walked me back to my student digs after I’d had too much to drink. I could tell he was kind straight away: he took care of me, fetching me water and making me toast to nibble. I remember looking at him, as he’d crossed my shabby living room with a tray, and feeling a pang of fondness for him, this hot, slightly geeky guy with the floppy blond hair who was trying to impress me, when he tripped over the rug and the plate and mug went flying across the room. He froze in horror, his eyes meeting mine. Then we both cracked up and it broke the ice.
Since then he’s slipped on wet decking when we went to look around our first rental property with the estate agent, fallen over a tree stump and broken his ankle on a romantic walk in the woods, and only last year tripped over Snowy and put his back out for a week. Not to mention all the glasses and plates he’s dropped over the years. He says he’s not coordinated because he’s never got used to his long limbs and lanky frame. ‘Like a puppy German Shepherd that’s growing too fast,’ he’d joke.
Tom sets the plate carefully on the laminate work surface and picks up the oven dish from the rack with an exaggerated care that makes me laugh.