Holly thought Vera had never been over-concerned about budget, but she just nodded. Charlie was already at the front door, with the key in his hand. He turned back. ‘Where did you get the key? Was it on the body?’
‘There was a key in the victim’s jeans pocket but that’s still with her. We got this spare from a woman who lived over the road.’ The CSI nodded towards Connie Browne’s bungalow, then pulled up the collar of his jacket. ‘Bloody freezing out here in the hills, isn’t it? I’m off back to civilization.’
It was cold in the house too. The front door led straight into the compact living room, where a small sofa, covered with a fleece blanket, faced an armchair that must have come from a charity shop. A plastic box of toys sat under the stairs, which led to the first floor. Through an open door in the far wall, Holly saw a kitchen large enough to contain a table, a couple of stools and a plastic high chair. The living space was similar in size to Dorothy and Karan’s cottage, but she thought the place felt very different. Less warm in terms of decor and furnishing as well as temperature. Tidy and clean enough but utilitarian. Perhaps Lorna had inherited her taste in interior design from her parents. An electric storage heater stood against one wall. Holly reached out to touch it: switched on but tepid. She imagined Lorna curled up on the sofa, wrapped in the fleece.
‘No telly or radio,’ Charlie said. ‘Isn’t that a bit odd?’
‘She probably accessed media through her laptop.’ Holly paused. ‘Did the CSIs take that?’
‘I guess so.’ Charlie shivered. ‘Do you want to look upstairs? I’ll do down here.’
Holly nodded. There were two bedrooms but Thomas had obviously shared the bigger room with his mother. There was a cot under the window, a pretty duvet with an elephant print, a mobile hanging from the ceiling. Lorna had slept next to it. She’d had a double bed but there was only one pillow. If she’d still had a secret boyfriend, it seemed unlikely that he stayed here very often. Methodically, Holly went through the drawers in the pine chest. The top two contained the toddler’s clothes. Brightly coloured dungarees and jackets, woolly jumpers.
Again, Lorna’s clothes seemed purely functional; there was little pretty or indulgent. Holly wondered about that. Had Lorna been so confident that she hadn’t felt the need to dress up to impress? Or had she believed she didn’t deserve anything beautiful or glamorous? Holly thought this wasn’t a theory she should share with Vera, who had very definite views about psychological guesswork. Holly looked at the labels of the underwear, T-shirts and jerseys and all came from bargain chains or supermarkets. Perhaps the explanation was simple: this was a household where money was tight and any spare cash was spent on the son. Lorna had given up her job in the pub once the baby was born, so presumably she’d been living on benefits and handouts from her mother.
On top of the chest of drawers there was a wooden box with a mother-of-pearl pattern on the lid. Holly opened it to a scent of sandalwood and laid out the contents in order on the bed. Lorna’s birth certificate and GCSE certificates. A passport, medical card and details of the baby’s inoculations. And Thomas’s birth certificate. Holly flattened it out. No father’s name. She’d bag them all up, but she couldn’t see that they’d help find the man who’d made Lorna pregnant, unless the GP could give them any information.
Holly moved on to the bathroom. An avocado suite that must have been installed in the eighties. Along the edge of the tub, a row of plastic toys, a bottle of bubble bath, a supermarket brand of shampoo and a cake of soap. Nothing to help Lorna relax at the end of a busy, child-centred day. Holly looked in the cabinet over the sink, hoping to find scented bath oil or body lotion, but all she saw was spare toothpaste and a packet of ibuprofen.
The smaller bedroom was at the back of the house and Holly was expecting a storeroom containing the hoarded detritus of family life: sleeping bags, suitcases, Christmas decorations waiting to be hung out. Because surely Lorna would have planned to celebrate Christmas for the sake of the toddler. Holly thought there’d be nothing useful to the investigation. The door opened towards her, she reached in and felt for the light switch. It was scarcely bigger than a box room, but there was a desk under the window, stretching across the whole width of the space. On it, a jam jar containing various thicknesses of paintbrush, and a pile of good-quality watercolour paper. This was Lorna’s treat to herself. This was where she escaped. There was a single bookshelf fixed to a wall. A few paperbacks offering self-help and instruction in mindfulness and a couple of novels, which Holly had read and enjoyed. One volume had been left on the desk: the collected works of the poet Robert Frost. It seemed an odd choice for a farmer’s daughter, who’d left school before taking A levels. Holly looked inside. There was a note in beautiful handwriting: To Lorna. Happy Christmas 2017. Love from Connie. This wasn’t new so it must be a favourite. Holly had studied Frost for GCSE and had the same book at home.
Lorna’s art was displayed on the walls here. Downstairs the only painting on show had been created by Thomas, obviously with help from his mother: a collage made up mostly of
