It didn’t take long for Jago to survey the contents of her bed-sitting room. A single divan with a pink candlewick bedspread was ranged along one wall, with a wardrobe at its foot. On the opposite side of the room stood a chest of drawers, a small table with two chairs, and an easy chair with threadbare arms. The fireplace housed an antique-looking gas fire, and on the floor beside it a dented aluminium kettle was perched on a gas ring.
‘Welcome to my home,’ said Beryl with a sweep of her arm. ‘One room, comfortably furnished, shared bathroom, use of kitchen by arrangement, eight shillings a week. And, as you’ve just heard, no gentlemen visitors.’
Her voice sounded frail, and Jago spoke quickly, worried that the sight of this miserable room might send her into tears again.
‘I’m grateful to you for coming to the mortuary with us, and I’m very sorry to have to put you through something like that. It can’t have been easy for you.’
‘You’re right, it wasn’t. But at least it meant I could say goodbye to poor Joan – not everyone gets that chance these days, do they?’
Jago nodded.
‘It all seems a bit unreal,’ she continued. ‘I mean, you think about your sister maybe dying some day, but we always think it’ll be when we’re old and grey, not when we’re still in the prime of life. I can’t quite get it into my head that she’s really passed away. And to go in such a terrible way – why would anyone want to strangle Joan? And in her own home, too. We weren’t the closest of sisters, but we were sisters all the same. It’s just awful, shocking.’
‘It is a shock, yes. Perhaps you should sit down and have a good hot cup of tea with plenty of sugar. Peter, would you mind?’
‘Thank you,’ said Beryl slowly, as if her thoughts were wandering elsewhere. ‘There’s water in the kettle, and a teapot in the cupboard behind you.’
Cradock found a box of matches and lit the gas under the kettle.
‘Tell me about Joan,’ said Jago.
‘What’s there to say?’ Beryl replied. ‘None of it seems very important, now she’s gone. She was my big sister, two years older than me. I suppose that makes her the only person I’ve known for my whole life.’
‘And what kind of person was she?’
‘Just an ordinary girl. You know, normal. She didn’t have any peculiar hobbies or habits. She liked a bit of fun from time to time, but nothing outrageous. She wasn’t unkind to people.’
‘Was she religious?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘It’s just that we found a crucifix on the wall in her flat.’
‘Oh, that. She was raised a Catholic, same as me, but neither of us are what people call devout. I think that crucifix was something our dad gave her years ago – she probably kept it to remind her of him.’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘No, he died a few years back. He was Irish. He grew up in the slums in Dublin, then joined the army in the Great War – it was still the British Army in those days, of course – and spent three years in the Royal Dublin Fusiliers. But when it was all over and he came home everything in Ireland had changed, and men who’d fought for the king weren’t welcome. He decided to move to England – to get work, but also to get away from all that. He met our mum over here, and they got married. Joan came along pretty quickly, and then me a couple of years later. She was named after Joan of Arc. That was Dad’s choice – not because she fought against the English, but because she stood up for what she believed in. It was a good Catholic name.’
‘But I don’t think Beryl’s a Catholic name, is it?’
‘No, I don’t think it is. Mum and Dad had an agreement that he’d choose the name of their first child and she could choose the second. She named me Beryl after her mother.’ Beryl’s voice caught, and she wiped her eyes with her finger.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jago. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘No, it’s all right,’ said Beryl. ‘It just reminded me of when I was little and we were all together, a family.’
‘Is your mother still alive?’
‘No, she died before Dad. He was working, of course, so Joan had to take over running the house – he expected her to do all the chores. Then he died when Joan was seventeen. I think by then she felt he’d stolen her childhood, forcing her to be an adult when she wasn’t.’
‘And do you have any other family?’
‘No, it was just us. Now with her gone it means I’ve got no family at all in the world. It’s like being orphaned twice – I don’t feel connected to anything or anyone.’
‘You said you weren’t the closest of sisters. What did you mean?’
‘Well, I suppose I meant we were close, but not very. She was my only family, so we were close in that sense, but once we’d grown up I think we didn’t need each other so much. And then she got married, of course, and her life was very different to mine. She still looked out for me, though – she got me my first job. That’s how we both ended up in the same line of work.’
‘Yes, her mother-in-law Mrs Lewis mentioned that you both worked at the cinema. That’s how we found you.’
‘Ah, yes, Audrey.’
‘You know her, presumably?’
‘No, I’ve never met the woman. Joan used to say she was a funny old stick. Those weren’t the precise words she used, but I could tell she thought Audrey was a bit odd. When a girl marries a bloke, his parents are supposed to say they welcome her into the family like an extra daughter, aren’t they? From
