Tom locked the car and made his way to the end terrace house in front of him. Reaching the door, he could hear the television on inside. Checking the time, it was nearly ten o'clock. He pressed the doorbell, hearing it chime inside, and waited. A group of teenagers cycled by on the path, one of them pulling a wheelie, encouraged by his friends. The door opened and a woman peered out at him. She was blonde, her hair tied back and away from her face. She eyed him warily.
"Mrs Tilson?"
She nodded. Tom reached into his pocket for his ID.
"I'd like to have a word with you about your husband—"
"I've told you before, I've got nothing to say."
She made to close the door and Tom hurriedly tried to prevent her doing so, but she was too quick and he found it slammed in his face. The light was on in the hall and he could see her shadow. She hadn't gone anywhere. He pressed the bell again. After a few seconds, he saw the shadow move and the door was yanked open. This time she scowled at him.
"Look! I've told you people I have nothing to say—"
Tom raised his warrant card, cutting her off.
"I think we're at cross purposes, Mrs Tilson. Detective Inspector Janssen, Norfolk Police. I'd like a word."
Tom followed her into the house, walking straight into the living room. A teenage boy was lying on the sofa. Tom guessed he was sixteen, maybe a little older. The boy's mother picked up the remote and switched the television off, much to her son's irritation.
"Give us a minute, would you, Ollie?" she said. It wasn't a request. The boy hoisted his legs off the sofa and eyed Tom suspiciously. "He just wants to talk to me."
The boy edged past Tom, who turned side on to give the boy room. He left without another word.
"And close the door behind you please."
He did so and then she looked at Tom, her arms folded defensively across her chest.
"You said this was about my husband? What do you want to know?"
He took her measure. Despite the apparent attitude, she wasn't quite as self-assured as she was trying to make out.
"Your husband was William Tilson," Tom asked.
"Billy, yes."
"And he used to work for Prometheus Energy, is that right?"
"For a subcontractor, contracted by them, yes. I'm sure you didn't need to knock on my door at this time of the night to find that out."
Tom ignored her hostility. He wasn't sure where it was coming from.
"Your husband passed away in an accident, on site."
The stare she had fixed on him softened slightly, replaced by a nervous expression. He'd seen so many people do that in the past, usually during an interview. The confidence wavering as details were extracted but he hadn't asked her anything particularly searching, but now he wanted to.
"So? What of it? It was two years ago and we're trying to move on. Why are you people dragging it all up again?"
He found that a telling comment.
"I read a piece in the regional paper where you made numerous allegations about safety practices on the site, claiming your late husband deemed it unsafe to work at."
"I was angry, upset," she said, avoiding his gaze. "I'd just lost my husband. My son his father, and I was lashing out. Billy was the earner in our house. I've been on the sick for the past couple of years. Depression and anxiety. Billy's death knocked me for six. Understandable."
"True," Tom said, smiling politely and trying to put her at ease a little. "The thing is, you made that claim to several newspapers and the Health and Safety Executive only to offer alternative testimony when called to give evidence before the coroner. Why was that?"
She shook her head, still avoiding eye contact. "I remembered differently, that's all. Once I'd got over the grief and that."
Tom looked around the room. The television was massive, with a screen equal to or more than sixty-five inches. It was easily twice the size it should be for a room of this size and shape. The sofas looked new, as were the windows and doors. He looked beyond her into the kitchen, seeing a modern handle-less theme to the cabinets.
"And how's your health now? Any better?"
She shrugged. "Up and down, you know. It is what it is. What's this all about anyway?"
"I'm investigating another case," Tom said, crossing towards her and taking out his mobile. He began scrolling through the gallery feature, opening up a photograph he'd sent to his phone before he left the station. "You said someone else had been here asking questions."
She remained tight-lipped, but her expression changed again. She was scared. It was obvious. Tom held the screen up to her face so she could see the image.
"Was it this man by any chance?"
Her eyes flickered with recognition but she didn't reply, staring at the image of a smiling Adrian Gage that Tom had downloaded, taken at an awards dinner three years previously.
"Mrs Tilson, was this him?"
She looked over the screen, directly into his eyes, nodding almost imperceptibly.
"And what did he want from you?"
"I can't remember."
She was lying.
"You should know this man, Adrian Gage, has been murdered," Tom said flatly. She gasped. He took a step closer, keeping the phone where it was. Her eyes drifted to it once more. "And I need to know what he wanted from you. And I'm not leaving here until I get it."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tamara Greave entered ops. Tom glanced up from his desk and then rose, hurriedly coming to meet her. Her eyes narrowed as he came before her.
"Are you okay?" she asked. He nodded, momentarily confused as to why she would ask. He was feeling the most positive he'd been in days. With that said, he hadn't slept much overnight. The excitement that came from having spoken to Billy Tilson's wife ensured sleep
