her.
She held out the pipe and lighter. He took them, put the pipe in his mouth and lit it. A sweet burning in his throat and lungs, pressure and heat building as he held his breath. He exhaled. An immediate bolt to his brain made his eyes widen. He repeated the process, more ready for it this time, breathing out evenly. He handed the pipe and lighter back. She held his gaze as she took them.
‘I didn’t get your name earlier.’ Her voice was soft and syrupy.
‘Billy Blackmore.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Nice to meet you, Billy Blackmore. Do you want to tell me why you’re creeping around my garden?’
Billy stared at her. She was maybe early thirties but looked younger, faint lines around the eyes the only giveaway. She still wore the black polo neck and skirt, her bare knees exposed.
‘I came to see you.’
She raised her palms. ‘Well, here I am.’
She reached for a tin sitting on the arm of the sofa. It was full of skunk. She crumbled some into the bowl of the pipe and took another hit, breathing out through her nose.
‘And why did you want to see me, Billy Blackmore? To get your story? The grieving widow and all that?’
‘What happened to your eye?’
Adele raised a hand to it, turned her face away from him a little. She pulled a scrunchie out and let her hair fall free, brushing it forwards to partially cover the eye. She laughed as she did it.
‘You know how to make a girl self-conscious, don’t you?’
‘Sorry.’
He was staring at the tender skin around her bruised eye.
She smiled. ‘I walked into a door.’
He smiled too. ‘Can I quote you on that?’
‘Is this an interview?’
‘We’re just talking.’
‘We are, aren’t we?’
Billy nodded at her eye. ‘Did Frank do that?’
Adele frowned and looked away.
‘Sorry, none of my business.’
She turned back, offered him the hash pipe.
‘Of course it is, you’re a newspaper reporter, aren’t you? Everything’s your business.’
He took a hit and sank further into the sofa. Her bare feet were six inches away from his hands. He noticed that his leg twitch of earlier had stopped. Adele’s feet were small, carefully manicured, crimson varnish on the nails. He imagined reaching out and stroking her feet, massaging them and moving his hand up her tanned, bare legs. His brain felt soupy with the skunk and the painkillers and everything else. He handed the pipe back.
‘I’m sorry about your husband.’
‘You don’t have anything to be sorry about. You didn’t kill him.’
Billy watched her suck on the pipe as silence cloaked them. He noticed her lips were sticky and sparkly with gloss. He wondered what they would feel like against his.
‘So you think he was killed?’
‘I expect so. People were queuing up.’
‘Which people?’
A sound came from his bag on the floor. His mobile. He stared at the bag but didn’t move. His arms felt heavy.
Adele nodded at the bag. ‘You’d better answer that. Probably your boss lady, wanting to know if you’ve got the scoop.’
He took the phone out of his bag. The screen said ‘Zoe’. He switched it off and put it back. He spotted his digital recorder and pulled it out.
‘Would you mind if I got a couple of quotes?’
Adele laughed. ‘So you really are here to interview me? Here’s me thinking you were just worried about my welfare.’
He looked at her, didn’t speak, the recorder still in his hands.
She gave him a sly look.
‘Are you going to mention in your article that we shared a skunk pipe?’
‘I think we can leave that detail out.’
She pointed at the machine. ‘How do I know you’ve not had that on the whole time?’
‘You don’t.’
She sighed and filled the pipe with more skunk. The air between them was a swirling green haze.
‘Go on then, switch it on.’
He fumbled with the buttons till a red light appeared, then held it close to her. It felt intimate, shared.
‘OK, how did it feel to find out that your husband was dead?’
She gave him a flat look. ‘Devastating.’
‘If you’ll excuse me for saying so, you don’t sound particularly devastated.’
She lit the skunk pipe and took another hit. Held it in her lungs. Billy held his breath too, watching her. She breathed out, wet smoke billowing into his face. She nodded at the recorder as if it was an eavesdropper.
‘Of course I’m devastated, what are you trying to suggest, that I didn’t love my husband? Frank Whitehouse was a caring, devoted and loving father and husband, that’s the appropriate thing to say at a time like this, isn’t it?’
‘Have you told your son yet?’
A cloud came over her face and she looked down. ‘No.’
‘What are you going to tell him?’
‘Good question.’
‘What about you, how do you feel about it?’
‘You’ve already asked me that.’
‘I don’t think you were being entirely honest with me.’
She fixed him with a gaze. ‘Have you ever seen a dead body, Billy Blackmore?’
‘I’m asking the questions.’
‘Let’s do a trade, I ask one, then you.’
Billy thought about it. ‘OK.’
Adele passed him the pipe. He had to put the recorder down to take it. He placed it on the sofa, almost touching her bare leg.
‘So, have you ever seen a dead body?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘And how did it affect you?’
‘It’s my turn to ask a question.’ Billy breathed smoke into the thick air.
Adele made an acquiescent movement of her hand.
‘How did it really feel to find out your husband was dead?’
‘Terrible. My turn. What was it like when you saw the dead body?’
‘Shocking. It was your husband.’ Billy thought of the crash last night. ‘At the crime scene. This morning. I vomited.’
Adele shook her head. ‘At least I didn’t do that at the mortuary.’
‘My turn,’ he said. ‘Do you think your husband committed suicide?’
‘Not in a million years. He could no more kill himself than spread wings and fly off Salisbury Crags. My turn. Do you always flirt with recently bereaved widows?’
‘You’re the first. Do you always flirt with journalists right after your husband’s death?’
‘You’re the first. How long have you been a reporter?’
‘Almost a month.’
Adele laughed at that. ‘Wow, they sent the hardened pro to get the scoop, eh?’
