minutes, then went out and added to his grief. He's easily offended ... but it doesn't stop him looking down his nose at proles. He's treating poor old George like something the cat brought in.'
'I watched her go after him. She'd have licked his black arse if he'd given her half a chance.'
Roy gave a contemptuous snort. 'You might ... she wouldn't.'
'He's not bad looking.'
'Looks like a woofter to me,' said Roy, wiping his hand on his trousers as if it had been contaminated. 'It won't cut any ice with George. She's only interested in what he can do for Howard.'
'You sure she doesn't know anything?'
Roy shrugged as he reached for the Gevrey-Chambertin. 'What's to know? If it wasn't Howard who killed Grace, then it was some other kid with ginger hair. The best either of them can do is clear the little sod's name.' He placed the bottle on the tray with a corkscrew. 'But there isn't a chance in hell they'll put anyone else in the frame-' he flicked her a speculative glance-'unless you know something I don't, Cill.'
'Don't call me that,' she snarled. 'What about DNA? He mentions it in the book.'
He could feel the heat of her impatience. 'There's nothing to test it against,' he said calmly. 'All the evidence was destroyed after Howard died. George pestered the police for years until they told her it was incinerated.' He hefted the tray and pushed past her. 'Now get lost before someone sees you.'
'I suppose you heard that,' said George with a sigh as the door closed behind Roy.
Jonathan nodded.
'Oh, well.' She tugged off her hat and sent her stubbly gray hair shooting skyward with static electricity. 'I had an argument with the hairdresser,' she explained apologetically, before discarding her coat to reveal an old yellow jumper with car oil down the front and a pair of equally grubby gray leggings tucked into her boots. 'And I'm on nights at the moment so I didn't wake up till eleven. I thought I'd check the car before I put on my glad rags and, when it wouldn't start...' She gave a self-deprecating shrug. 'I agree with you about it being courteous to dress up, Dr. Hughes, but I ran out of time to change. I rather hoped you'd be an elderly, short-sighted professor ... and wouldn't notice.'
Her hair looked more like the aftereffects of chemotherapy, and he wondered if the glad rags included a wig. He rose to his feet and pulled the other chair forward. 'The only reason I'm wearing a suit, Miss Gardener, is because I'm going to Verdi's
Her enthusiasm returned immediately. 'Oh, thank goodness,' she said with feeling, dropping into the other chair. 'I was beginning to wonder how we'd get through this meal if I had to watch my p's and q's for hours. Putting on airs isn't my strong point-as you've probably noticed.' Her voice had no accent until her pitch rose and the vowels betrayed London roots. 'My poor mother despaired of me. She wanted a dainty, well-behaved daughter and she got a bull in a china shop.'
'Is she still alive?'
'No. Died of breast cancer when I was fourteen.' She pulled another face as if screwing her eyes and lips into gargoyle twists was a nervous mannerism, and Jonathan thought how astonishingly ugly she was. 'She was ill for a long time before that so I was effectively brought up by my father. He had no airs and graces either, which is why I never learned them.'
'What did he do?'
She smiled affectionately, bobbing forward to sit on the edge of her seat. 'He was a postman.'
Jonathan stretched his feet toward the fire and leaned back to put distance between them. 'Is he still alive?'
She shook her head. 'Heart attack fifteen years ago. That's when I upped stumps and came to Bournemouth. I'm afraid the genes aren't healthy on either side. If I make old bones it'll be a miracle, though it won't upset me hugely if I don't,' she said matter-of-factly. 'There's a lot of misery in old age.'
'Jim being the perfect example,' Jonathan said dryly.
Her eyes twinkled mischievously. 'You can't blame old age for that. According to Roy, he's always been miserable. Did he tell you about his medals?'
Jonathan nodded.
'You have to feel sorry for him. He has flat feet so he spent the war emptying dustbins. He's told the medal story so often that I think he believes it now, but it's sad when someone has to invent a history because their lives have been such a disappointment.' The eyes, a bright blue, examined him closely. 'My father always said the hardest cross to bear was a chip on the shoulder. The more you resent it, the heavier it gets.'
He wondered if she was having a dig at him. 'How come the night shifts? What do you do?'
'Nothing very grand. I work in a nursing home.'
'As a nurse?'
'Just a care assistant. I used to be a tax inspector when I lived in London.' She smiled at his expression. 'We don't all have horns, you know. Some of us are quite nice.'
'Why give up? Couldn't you have transferred to a tax office down here?'
'It seemed like the right time to reassess priorities. In any case, I enjoy working with dementia. All my patients have amazing imaginations, none of which bears any relation to logic or reality. I have one old lady who's convinced her husband was murdered. She tells everyone he was bludgeoned to death by angry neighbors.'
Jonathan looked doubtful. 'Doesn't it upset her?'
'Only when she's told it's not true. It's her fifteen minutes of fame to produce a conversation stopper while a naive young nurse is trying to feed her. She sulks if people point out that her memory's at fault. It's like telling Michael Jackson he's black.' She squeezed her eyes shut. 'Oh lord! Foot in mouth. Didn't mean to use the b-word. Sorry!'
