Olive passed them both a cup of tea using a Chinese bone tea service.
“Biscuit?” She pushed a plate towards him.
“No, thank you.” Eager to move on, Gardener decided to open the investigation with an apology, suspecting it would appeal to her better nature. If she had one. “I’ll have the mess upstairs cleaned up as soon as possible.”
Olive nodded her approval, rubbing the jug vigorously. Gardener noticed the brassware in the room outnumbered every other trinket. The collection included plates, jugs, bowls, candleholders, and pine surround mirrors, all of which sparkled.
“So, how can I help you, Inspector?”
“You can start by telling me a little about yourself and the setup here.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Just some general information, etcetera. How old are you?”
“I’m in my golden years, Inspector.”
“You mean diamond, don’t you, Olive, love?” offered Reilly.
She narrowed her eyes, shooting him a withering stare.
“Married?” asked Gardener, quickly.
“No.” She paused, before adding, “I’m saving myself.”
Gardener’s eyes met Reilly’s, pleading silently with him not to follow that comment.
The Irishman smirked and continued with his notes.
“How long have you lived here?”
“About five years. It was my brother’s house to start with. He’d always suffered with asthma, and as he got older, it got worse; didn’t it, Mabel?” She nodded to her sister. “Anyway, he asked me if I’d like to come and live here. In return for doing a bit of caretaking and looking after his affairs, I was allowed to live rent-free.”
“Is he still alive?”
“No, Inspector,” said Mabel. “Our Maurice died a year back now. Poor love had a stroke.”
“I’m afraid I’ve let the place fall into rack and ruin,” continued Olive. “Grief is a funny thing. Anyway, we’re selling up now, aren’t we, Mabel?”
Her sister nodded.
“She’s just sold her house in Burley-in-Wharfedale,” Olive informed Gardener. “We’re both living here temporarily until the sale goes through.” By the time she finished, Gardener’s cup sat empty. Mabel cleared all the dishes, washed, and replaced them at the table.
“And Herbert Plum?”
“I’m not sure I know that much.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Reilly.
“Anything would be useful,” Gardener added.
“He was about sixty. A big man, not very house-proud. His clothes were clean enough, always washed them at the launderette.” She glanced at her sister. “You know the one, Mabel, on Dewsbury Road. Small shop, mucky windows, smells. Her who always takes her dog to bingo runs it. Don’t like her myself. Too secretive.” She turned back to Gardener. “Anyway, he washed his clothes there. Never ironed ’em, mind. Well, what man can?”
She smiled at Gardener before continuing.
“He was always polite, always said ‘Good morning, my dear.’ Knew his manners, he did. Brought up properly. Not like kids these days. I blame the parents, myself. They’re always hanging about on street corners now, up to no good. It’s about time your lot brought the bobby on the beat back.” To Mabel she said, “Mrs Watson’s eldest is in trouble again.”
“Craig? He’s never been any good, that one. Never amount to anything,” Mabel replied.
“Can we stick to the point, please?” Gardener asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Inspector. Where was I?”
“Trying to establish some facts about Herbert Plum. What did he look like, Miss Bradshaw?”
“I’ve got a picture somewhere.”
She left the table and went into another room. Gardener studied the impressive range of oil paintings. Little could be seen of the wallpaper. Each wall had a theme: country scenes, stormy seascapes, old world inns, and animals and children.
“Here we go,” Olive said as she returned. She sat and passed him a photo. Four people posed at a seaside resort. Olive and Mabel, each holding candy floss, stood between two men.
“That’s our brother on the left. Herbert is on the far right.”
“When was this taken?”
“A few weeks before our brother died. He’d taken us all to Scarborough for the day.”
Gardener stared at the photo. Portly, Plum stood at around sixteen stone. His brown hair was combed from left to right across his head, streaked with flecks of grey. His small brown eyes stood out in a fat, round face.
“I’d like to take this with me.”
“It’s the only one I have, Inspector.”
“All I want is a copy, you can have it back.”
Olive nodded. Gardener passed it to Reilly, then pressed on.
“How was he with the other tenants?”
“As I said, always pleasant.”
Gardener noticed her glazed expression. “You weren’t aware of any disagreements, then?”
“None that I know of. Why? Has someone said something?”
“I spoke to one of your other tenants earlier, Nicki…”
The snapping alligator reared its ugly head, cutting him off. “You don’t want to listen to her! She’s got too much to say for herself, that one! I don’t know who she thinks she is. Barely sixteen with a baby, on the social. Pinching everything she can get from the state. Visitors at all hours! I’ve heard ’em, creeping down the stairs. You don’t want to go listening to her, she’s no manners. She’s no example for that baby. She takes drugs!”
“Do you know that for certain? Have you actually seen her taking them?”
“I don’t have to. I’ve seen her arms.”
Gardener was beginning to build a picture of contradiction, something he didn’t relish, despite it happening with almost every case.
She continued her tirade. “It’s shocking the way they take these drugs nowadays. No respect for their bodies, or anyone else. It wouldn’t have happened in our day. We’d have had it knocked out of us, and no mistake. I think I’ll have words with her.” She glanced at her sister. “When I think of the problems that filth causes, it makes my blood boil. It really does. Mrs O’Connor’s daughter’s into drugs, you know? Still, she’s going to pay the price. Used a dirty needle last
