1983

both up.

Mrs Marsh closes her front door. Minute later there’s a shadow behind the nets in the front room.

I say: ‘What you reckon?’

Bill shrugs. He looks at the end of his cigarette.

I say: ‘Not adding up, is it?’

‘Could be owt; another woman, horses, owt,’ he says.

I nod.

Another car pulls up. It is a big black Morris Oxford. A man gets out. He puts on his hat. He’s in black too -

A priest.

He looks at us. He touches the brim of his hat. He heads up the garden path to number 16. He rings the doorbell.

Bill raises his eyes: ‘But we best make sure.’

We open the gate to the field behind the bungalows and walk up the dry tractor path towards the row of sheds at the top of the hill. The sky is blue and cloudless above us, the field full of insects and butterflies.

Bill takes off his jacket: ‘Should have brought a bloody picnic with us.’

I turn around and look back down the hill at the little white van next to the two parked cars in front of their little brown bungalow and their little green garden, next to all the other little brown bungalows and their little green gardens.

I take off my glasses. I wipe them on my handkerchief. I put them back on.

I can see Mrs Marsh at the kitchen window of their little bungalow. She is watching us -

A shadow behind her.

I turn back.

Bill is up by the sheds. He shouts: ‘Hurry up, Maurice.’

I start walking again.

A man comes out of the end shed in a cap and shirtsleeves, blue overalls and Wellington boots.

‘Mr Marsh?’ Bill is asking him as I get up to them.

‘That’d be me,’ nods George Marsh. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name is Bill Molloy and this is Maurice Jobson. We’re police officers.’

‘Thought you might be,’ nods Marsh.

‘Why’s that then?’ asks Bill.

‘Be about lass who’s gone missing in Castleford, won’t it?’

Bill nods. Bill waits.

Marsh says nothing.

Bill keeps waiting.

Marsh looks at him. Marsh still says nothing.

Bill says: ‘What about her?’

Marsh takes off his cap. He wipes his forehead on his forearm. He puts his cap back on. He says: ‘You tell me.’

‘No,’ says Bill -

– the Badger: ‘You tell me about Jeanette Garland.’

‘What about her?’

‘Working across road from her house, aren’t you?’

‘Aye.’

‘Been working there a while?’

‘Aye.’

‘Must have seen a fair bit of her.’

‘Coming and going, aye.’

‘You remember her then?’

‘Aye.’

‘Notice owt peculiar, did you?’

‘About her?’

Bill nods.

‘She was slow, late in head,’ he smiles. ‘But I suppose you know that, being policemen.’

‘Was?’ I ask him. ‘Why did you say was?’

‘What?’

‘You said she was slow; you’re talking like she’s dead, Mr Marsh.’

‘Isn’t she?’

Bill looks up from the hard ground: ‘Not unless you know something we don’t.’

George Marsh shakes his head: ‘Slip of the tongue, that’s all.’

I want to push him. I want to keep on -

But Bill just says: ‘Remember anything else about her, do you, Mr Marsh?’

‘Not that springs to mind, no.’

‘What about Saturday?’

‘What about it?’

‘Notice owt peculiar on Saturday?’

Marsh takes off his cap. He wipes his forehead with his forearm again. He puts his cap back on. He says: ‘Wasn’t there, was I?’

‘Where were you?’

‘Sick.’

‘Not what the wife says.’

‘What does she know,’ shrugs Marsh.

Bill smiles: ‘That you weren’t where you say you were.’

‘Look, lads,’ Marsh smiles back for the second time. ‘Set off for work and I felt bloody rotten, but I didn’t want her staying in and fussing. So I waited for her to take kids round to her mam’s, then I came home, got some decent kip, watched a bit of sport. Not a crime, is it, lying to your missus?’

‘So did you get to work?’ asks Bill, not smiling -

Neither is George Marsh now: ‘No.’

‘So where were you exactly when you decided to turn around and come home?’

George Marsh takes off his cap again. He wipes his forehead on his forearm. He puts his cap back on. He shrugs his shoulders. He says: ‘Maybe halfway.’

‘Halfway where?’

‘Work.’

‘Where?’

‘Castleford.’

‘Castleford,’ repeats Bill.

‘Aye,’ says Marsh. ‘Castleford.’

Bill turns to me: ‘I think that’s everything, don’t you?’

I nod.

Bill turns back to Mr Marsh: ‘Thank you, Mr Marsh.’

Marsh nods: ‘Need anything else, know where I am.’

‘Aye,’ smiles Bill. ‘At work?’

Marsh stares at Bill. Then Marsh nods: ‘That’d be right.’

Bill nods back. He turns and starts down the hill, me behind him.

Halfway down, Bill says: ‘Give Mrs Marsh a wave, Maurice.’

And we both wave at the woman in the kitchen window of her little brown bungalow with its little green garden, next to all the other little brown bungalows with their little green gardens, only our car parked next to their little white van, the priest and his car gone.

Still waving at Mrs Marsh, I say to Bill: ‘He’s lying.’

‘He is that.’