When his telephone rang, he thought it was Ruth’s boss calling him back, but it was the other phone call he’d been waiting for, Burgess’s the one that gave a green light for the second interview with Barry Clough. And not before time, too; they could only hang on to him for another couple of hours at most.
It seemed a pleasant enough neighborhood, Annie thought, standing by the side of the road looking at the houses. Not at all the sort of place you would expect in Salford, though if she was honest she would have to admit she had never been to Salford before and had no idea what to expect. Semi-detached houses lined both sides of the quiet road, each with a fair-sized front lawn tucked away behind a privet hedge. The cars parked in the street were not ostentatious, but they weren’t rusted and clapped-out ten-year-old Fiestas, either. Most of them were imported Japanese or Korean models, and Annie’s Astra didn’t look too out of place. Crime-wise, she guessed, the biggest problems would be the occasional break-in and car theft.
Number 39 was much like the other houses. As Whitmore had said, there was no indication whatsoever of the tragedy that had taken place there. Annie tried to imagine the flames, the smoke, the screams and neighbors standing out in their slippers and dressing gowns watching, helpless, as Ruth jumped from the upstairs window and her parents suffocated, unable even to get out of their beds.
“Help you, dearie?”
Annie turned and saw an elderly woman clutching a shopping bag with arthritis-crippled fingers.
“Only you look like you’re lost or something.”
“No,” said Annie, smiling to reassure the woman she wasn’t crazy or anything. “Just lost in thought, maybe.”
“Did you know the Walkers?”
“No.”
“Only you were looking at their house.”
“Yes. I’m a policewoman.” Annie introduced herself.
“Tattersall. Gladys Tattersall,” the woman said. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. Don’t tell me you’re opening an investigation into the fire after all this time?”
“No. Do you think we should be?”
“Why don’t you come inside. I’ll put the kettle on. I’m at number thirty-seven here.”
It was the semi adjoining the Walker house. “It must have been frightening for you,” Annie said as she followed Mrs. Tattersall down the path and into the hall.
“I was more frightened during the bombing in the war. Mind you, I was just a lass then. Come in. Sit down.”
Annie entered the living room and sat on a plum velour armchair. A gilt-framed mirror hung over the fireplace and the inevitable television set sat on its stand in the corner. At the far end of the room was a dining table with four chairs arranged around it. Mrs. Tattersall went into the kitchen and came back. “Won’t be long,” she said, sitting on the sofa. “You’re right, though. It was a frightening night.”
“Was it you who called the fire brigade?”
“No. That was the Hennessy lad over the road. He was coming home late from a club and he saw the flames and smoke. It was him came knocking on our door and told us to get out fast. That’s me and my husband, Bernard. He passed away last winter.
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Oh, it’s all right, lass. It was a blessing, really. It was in his lungs, though he was never a smoker. The painkillers weren’t doing him much good toward the end.”
Annie paused for a moment. It seemed appropriate after the mention of the late Mr. Tattersall. “Was your house damaged?”
Mrs. Tattersall shook her head. “We were lucky. The walls got a bit warm, I can tell you, but the fire brigade sprayed the exterior with enough water to start a swimming pool. It was August, you see, warm weather, and we’d left a window open, so a bit of it got inside and did some damage to the walls – peeling paper, stains, that sort of thing. But nothing serious. The insurance paid for it. Perhaps the worst that came out of it for us was having to live here while the people that bought the house after the fire hammered and banged away all hours of the day and night.”
“The renovators?”
“Yes.” The kettle boiled. Mrs. Tattersall disappeared for a few minutes and returned with the tea service on a tray, which she set down on the low table in front of the electric fire. “You haven’t told me why you’re asking,” she said.
“It’s just a routine check. Nothing to do with the fire, really. It just seemed like an easy place to start.”
“Routine? That’s what you always say on telly.”
Annie laughed. “It’s probably about the only realistic thing about TV coppers, then. It’s Ruth we’re interested in. The daughter.”
“Is she in any trouble?”
“Not as far as I know. Why do you ask?”
Mrs. Tattersall leaned forward and poured. “Milk and sugar?”
“Just milk, please.”
“You wouldn’t be asking about her for the good of your health, would you?”
“It’s to do with a friend of hers,” Annie said. Like most police, she was loath to give away the slightest scrap of information.
“I suppose that’ll have to do, then,” said Mrs. Tattersall, handing Annie the cup and saucer.
“Thank you. Did you know the Walkers well?”
“Pretty well. I mean, as well as you could do.”
“What do you mean?”
“They weren’t the most sociable types, weren’t the Walkers.”
“Standoffish? Snobbish?”
“No, not really. I mean, they were polite enough. Polite to a tee. And helpful if you needed anything. Lord knows they didn’t have much themselves, but they’d give you the shirt off their backs. They just didn’t mix.” She paused, then whispered, “
“More than most?”
“I’d say so. Oh, it was nothing strange. None of those weird cults or churches where you can’t have blood transfusions or anything. Straight Methodist. But strict observers. Against Sunday shopping, drinking, pop music, that sort of thing.”
“What was Mr. Walker’s occupation?”
“Wages clerk.”
“Did his wife work?”
“Pauline? Good heavens, no. They were as traditional as you get. She was a housewife.”
“You don’t get many of those in this day and age.”
Mrs. Tattersall laughed. “You’re telling me you don’t, lass. Me, half the time I couldn’t wait to get out of the house and to work. Not that I had such a wonderful job, myself, I was only a receptionist at the medical center down the road. But you get to meet people, chat, find out what’s going on in the world. I’d go barmy if I was stuck between four walls day in, day out. Wouldn’t you?”
“I would,” said Annie. “But Mrs. Walker didn’t seem to mind?”
“She never complained. But it’s against their religion, isn’t it, complaining?”
“I didn’t know that.” Annie would have been the first to admit that she didn’t know much about religion except what she had read, and she had read mostly about Buddhism and Taoism. Her father was an atheist, so he hadn’t subjected her to Sunday school or any of the usual childhood indoctrination, and the people who came and went in the commune carried with them a variety of ideas about religion and philosophy. Everything was always up for debate, up in the air.
“I mean, if whatever happens to you is God’s will, good or bad, then you’ve no call to be complaining to God about God, if you see what I mean.”
“I think I do.”
