murders and Olive was so besotted with him that she took the rap on his behalf?”
“It doesn’t sound very plausible, does it?”
“About as plausible as little green men on Mars. Apart from anything else, Gary is scared of his own shadow. He was challenged once during a burglary he didn’t think anyone was in the house and he burst into tears. He could no more have cut Gwen’s throat while she was struggling with him than you or I could. Or for that matter, than his brothers could. They’re skinny little foxes, not ravening wolves. Who on earth have you been talking to? Someone with a sense of humour, obviously.”
She shrugged, suddenly out of patience with him.
“It’s not important. Offhand, do you know the O’Briens’ address? It would save me having to look it up.”
He grinned.
“You’re not planning on going there?”
“Of course I am,” she said, annoyed by his amusement.
“It’s the most promising lead I’ve had. And now that I know they’re not axe-wielding Hell’s Angels, I’m not so worried about it. So what’s their address?”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Think again, sunshine,” she said roundly.
“I don’t want you queering my pitch. Are you going to give me the address or must I look it up?”
“Number seven, Baytree Avenue. You can’t miss it. It’s the only house in that road with a satellite dish. Nicked for sure.”
“Thank you.” She reached for her handbag.
“Now, if we can just settle my bill, I’ll leave you in peace.”
He unfolded himself from his chair and walked round to draw hers back.
“On the house,” he said.
She stood up and regarded him gravely.
“But I’d like to pay. I didn’t come here at lunchtime just to scrounge off you and, anyway’ she smiled ‘how else can I show my appreciation of your cooking? Money always speaks louder than words. I can say it was fabulous, like the last time, but I might just be being polite.”
He raised a hand as if he was going to touch her, then dropped it abruptly.
“I’ll see you out,” was all he said.
TEN
Roz drove past the house three times before she could pluck up enough courage to get out and try the door. n the end it was pride that led her up the path. Hal’s amusement had goaded her. A tarpaulined motorbike was parked neatly on a patch of grass beside the fence.
The door was opened by a bony little woman with a sharp, scowling face, her thin lips drawn down in a permanently dissatisfied bow.
“Yes?” she snapped.
“Mrs. O’Brien?”
“Oo’s asking?”
Roz produced a card.
“My name’s Rosalind Leigh.” The sound of a television blared out from an inner room.
The woman glanced at the card but didn’t take it.
“Well, what do you want? If it’s the rent, I put it in the post yesterday.” She folded her arms across her thin chest and dared Roz to dispute this piece of information.
“I’m not from the council, Mrs. O’Brien.” It occurred to her that the woman couldn’t read. Apart from her telephone number and address, Roz’s card had only her name and her profession on it. Author, it stated clearly. She took a flyer.
“I work for a small independent television company,” she said brightly, her mind searching rapidly for some plausible but tempting bait.
“I’m researching the difficulties faced by single parents with large families. We are particularly interested in talking to a mother who has problems keeping her sons out of trouble.
Society is very quick to point the finger in these situations and we feel it’s time to redress the balance.” She saw the lack of comprehension on the woman’s face.
“We’d like to give the mother a chance to give her side of the story,” she explained.
“There seems to be a common pattern of continual harassment and interference from people in authority - social services, the council, the police. Most mothers we’ve spoken to feel that if they’d been left alone they wouldn’t have had the problems.”
A gleam of interest lit the other’s eyes.
“That’s true enough.”
