CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
Detective Inspector Ian Cardhew kept a wary eye on the saucepan as he put bread in the toaster. The eggs had been placed in cold water and as soon as it came to the boil, he would give them exactly two minutes. His mother liked her boiled eggs on the hard side of soft.
The house he had grown up in had been substantially altered since he married and moved away eighteen years ago. An extension on the back provided another bedroom and quadrupled the size of the kitchen, which now incorporated a dining area. He laid for two on the table, deliberately avoiding the place usually occupied by his father. Burying him yesterday had been a sad business. There had been some jollity at the wake, as was usually the case, but now his mother had to face the reality of life on her own. He was staying with her for the weekend, hoping to persuade her not to be too hasty. She wanted to sell the house and move to Hamsworth, which was not a good idea. All her friends lived in, or close, to Ruislip and if she moved to Hamsworth she would be relying on him for company and his job demanded long, irregular hours. Apart from that, he had been thinking of applying for a move. Nothing much happened in Hamsworth and although he liked that when he first arrived from the Met, now he wanted more action. You could only investigate so many stolen tractor cases without losing your edge.
The first bubble broke the surface. He glanced at his watch and turned the gas down to maintain a steady boil. He looked at the framed photographs on the sideboard, one of the few pieces of furniture to have survived the 1990’s modernisation programme, pursued with his mother’s usual vigour. His father had been more pragmatic, a trait which probably saved the sideboard and made him such a good copper. He picked up the small photograph of him in uniform. He would have been about his age when the picture was taken, proudly wearing sergeant stripes. He never progress any further, refusing to take exams which his superiors urged him to take and he could easily have passed. The truth was he was happy with his lot and got a great deal of satisfaction in helping young constables who came through his station. He had the happy knack of being able to spot talent. The chapel at the crematorium was packed to overflowing with people who had benefited from his helping hand; many of them high ranking officers.
He looked at his watch. Fifteen seconds to go. He put the picture down, walked over to the gas cooker and stood over the boiling pan. As the second hand swept up to the two minute mark, he took the pan off the heat and ran cold water into it to halt the cooking process. As he took the eggs to the table, the toast popped up and his mother walked into the kitchen.
‘Perfect timing mum.’
His mother smiled. Yesterday she had looked drawn and tired. Now, with the ordeal of the funeral over, she looked young for her 64 years. He put the hot toast in the basket, covering it with a cotton napkin.
‘Thank you Ian. It’s good of you to stay on, but you won’t talk me out of selling this house you know.’
Ian gave her a rueful smile. ‘I never really supposed I would, I’m just hoping to persuade you to not to rush into something you could regret later.
‘Which means not selling up?’
‘No. It means not selling until you’re sure. Most of your friends are in this area. Moving to Hamsworth would mean not seeing them, and I’m not sure I want to spend the rest of my time in the force at Hamsworth.
‘It’s time you married again and put down some roots.’
‘Yes mum. Good idea, but just one snag. I’ve yet to find the right person.’
‘Dad thought Sally was right for you.’
‘So did I, but she couldn’t hack being married to a copper.
‘I never had that problem with your father.’
‘Dad was always uniform mum. He worked shifts; you always knew when he would be home.’
A silence settle between them as his mother tapped the top of her first egg and carefully removed enough shell to dip a teaspoon in. He sliced the top of his with a knife, before pouring her a coffee. They both liked it black. At least they had that in common.
The telephone rang. She held put a hand up to indicate he should stay where he was and went into the living room. A few seconds later she returned with the phone.
‘It’s Hamsworth police.’
He took the phone, walked over to the French windows and looked out into the garden. ‘Hi Jennie, what’s the problem?’
His mother studied his body language as he spoke and picked up on the gist of the conversation. There was a suspected murder and the woman thought he should visit the scene of the crime before they removed the body. He obviously trusted her as he immediately agreed, telling her that she should keep Kimberley out of it. Then he assured her that she had done the right thing in phoning his mother’s number. He would leave right away. He switched off the phone. ‘Sorry about that, but my mobile was switched off from yesterday.’
‘Finish your breakfast before you go Ian.’ There was no hint of disappointment although he knew she had been hoping he would stay another night.
He sat down and buttered a piece of toast. ‘Sorry mum, the one weekend I’m away and we have a suspected murder.’
‘It’s your work dear. Your father was always proud of the way you went about it. But tell me, who is Jennie? She sounds very nice.’
‘She’s on my team – Detective Constable.’
‘Are you on first name terms with all the people on your team?’
He smiled at her, knowing full well where she was coming from. ‘Not all, but I treat the best of them as equals, outside work.’
She shuffled forward in her seat. ‘So what is she like?’
He laughed. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree mum. Jennie Leadbetter is very bright and very attractive. She is also twelve years younger than me.’
‘Not married then?’
‘No, but I think she was in a long term relationship when she was a teacher.’
‘What did she teach?’
‘Physical Education and Biology.’
‘You seem to know a great deal about her. You obviously fancy her.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You pulled your stomach in when you talked to her.’
‘I don’t have a stomach.’
‘Yes you do. You’re getting a paunch; if you don’t do something about it, no self respecting girl will look at you. Don’t worry about clearing the table, I can manage, you mustn’t keep Jennie waiting.’
He laughed. ‘Mum, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I told you.’
‘Yes, and I know you fancy that girl, so do something about it.’
‘I’m too old for her, she’d never be interested in me. Besides, I would never make a pass at someone who works for me.’
His mother got up and collected the plates. ‘In that case, you’ll either have to encourage her to go back to teaching, or hope she makes a pass at you.’
Ian Cardhew's mother waved goodbye as he drove off but before the car had turned out onto the main road, she had dialled 1471, connecting back to the last call.
‘Hello, is that Jennie? This is Mary, Ian’s mother. He has just left: Now dear, don’t tell him I called but there’s something you should know…’
Peter Bunford was propped up in bed with a mug of tea. What a night! When they left the hospital, they took a taxi back to his house; as expected, Julie was not there. He collected a few clothes and toiletries and the taxi took them on to Lydia’s place. It was a two bedroom flat, in a block built on the old cinema site, close to the town centre. Peter could remember them being built and thinking how out of place they looked, but after eight years, the modern design had somehow blended in. Her flat was on the top floor, the fifth. They took the lift, dropped off his bag and set off for something to eat. They settled on a small bistro which was dimly lit and quiet. They had both
