forty years they’d had together. Never too late to learn, his old dad had been fond of saying.
It was never too late for some other things, either, he thought with a sly smile. A clean shirt after his bath, a liberal splash of aftershave on his newly shaven neck and jaw—he was undoubtedly as irresistible as one of those young studs on the telly, although when he’d been that age he’d have thought it daft to bathe more than once a week.
When he was a lad, before the war, the Saturday bath had been an occasion. They’d heated water for the big, old tin tub in the scullery, and they’d each had their bit of Sunlight soap. And on fine days, they’d taken their bit of soap down to the river. The water had been clean, then, and the great ships had been as familiar to them as the furniture in their parlors.
The thought of the war reminded him that he’d meant to listen to that program on the wireless again, the one about the Blitz he’d heard on Radio Four the other evening. The events of the previous day had driven it from his mind—that and his daughter Brenda’s fussing, which had only served to remind him of the dead girl every time he turned round. He’d even seen her face in his dreams.
In an effort to put it out of his mind, George imagined Mrs. Singh on the other side of the small table, her knees touching his under the cloth. And the little table did look inviting with two places set on the oilcloth and the jug of bright flowers he’d picked from the garden—a perfect setting for a bit of romance.
As he peeked at the potatoes in the oven and turned the chops over in the pan, the doorbell rang. He glanced at the clock. Mrs. Singh was early, but he liked promptness in a woman. Wiping his hand on the tea towel, he went into the hall.
Janice Coppin stood in his open doorway. “Hullo, George. Surprised to see me?”
“What do you want?” He scowled at her, but she smiled back at him, unfazed.
“Just a word. Can I come in?”
“I’m expecting someone.”
“It won’t take long.”
“All right, then,” he said grudgingly, and led the way back to the kitchen, where he turned off the fire under the pan.
“A lady friend?” inquired Janice, taking in the jug of flowers and the carefully laid plates as she sat in one of the kitchen chairs. “George Brent, you old goat.”
“None of your business, miss,” he growled, but he could’ve sworn he heard admiration in her tone. She wore shorts and a tee shirt rather than her stiff police-lady suit, and looked, George decided, altogether more human.
“It’s about the dead woman, George,” she said. “The one you found in—”
“I know which one. How many dead women do you think I’ve run across lately?”
“Then you remember the sergeant who came to see you?”
He glared at Janice, not bothering to answer. He’d liked the kind-voiced policewoman, a nice-looking lass with her pretty red hair—but that brought to mind the other one, lying so still in the grass.…
“Sergeant James said you didn’t seem quite sure about where you’d seen the dead woman, George. I thought you might have remembered something else.”
George didn’t like to admit how much it had been bothering him, especially to Janice Coppin. “I’m not senile, you know,” he said, but he heard the hesitation in his voice.
“No, of course you’re not,” Janice agreed. “And I’ve not given you credit, have I? For noticing things, and remembering things.”
“Would you like a cuppa, lass?” he asked, thinking that maybe Janice Coppin wasn’t so bad after all.
“That’d be lovely.”
He put the kettle on, and opened the package of Hobnobs he’d bought specially for Mrs. Singh.
When he’d given Janice her tea and biscuit, she said, “I’ve been thinking, George, that if you didn’t want to say where you’d seen the woman, maybe it was because she was with someone you knew, and you didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. But if we’re to catch her killer, we have to know everything we can about her.”
George met her eyes, then looked away, fidgeting with the tea towel he’d used to wipe the sloshed tea from her saucer. “You’re an Islander, lass. You know what it’s like, though you won’t remember the best days, before the war.”
“My mum says she knew everyone when she was a girl, all the neighbors—”
“Hard to get into trouble in those days,” George agreed with a smile. “Someone would rat on you for certain. We played in the street on fine days, hoops and marbles, not like the things kids do today.”
Closing his eyes, he could see it all as clearly as if it were yesterday. “The girls had tops with colored paper stuck on them and they looked so lovely when they spun.… And we all played cricket together, girls and boys, while the grown-ups stood round chatting.…” He opened his eyes and found Janice watching him intently. “I knew him then. Just a little lad, and I was already in my teens. Who’d have thought things would turn out the way they did?”
“What things?”
“The war, his family …” George sighed and shook his head. “But he came back, and I’ve always admired him for that. He never forgot where he came from or what he owed. And he always had a kind word for me and a pint at the pub.”
Janice held her teacup motionless, balanced in both hands. “Who, George?”
“Lewis Finch,” he admitted reluctantly.
“You saw Annabelle Hammond with Lewis Finch?”
