“Let’s get back to Herbert Plum. Where did he shop?”
“He wasn’t very well organized. Never did a weekly shop, just picked stuff up when he needed it. He always used the Co-op, round the corner. And I’ve often seen those takeaway delivery vehicles in and out of here.”
“Did he walk, or did he have a car?”
“No car. Walked most places.”
“What about employment? Any idea where he worked?”
“Couldn’t tell you. He was usually up early and out the door, so he must have had a job of some description.”
“You never thought to ask?”
“It’s not my business. So long as he pays his way.”
“And did he?”
Gardener caught a slight hesitation before she answered.
“Well, he wasn’t always on time with his rent. I often had to give him a polite reminder. Maybe he didn’t earn much, but...”
“But what?” Reilly asked.
“I’ve caught him down the bookies a few times. I have the odd flutter myself. You know, the Grand National, the Derby. That sort of thing.”
“Do you think his money went on the horses before anything else?”
“It’s not for me to say, but he did lead a frugal life.”
“It’s one explanation for overdue rent. Was it a regular occurrence?”
Again, she hesitated. “At first, he never missed. But of late, I had to remind him every week. I don’t particularly like chasing my tenants. Still, I won’t have to do it much longer.”
“Which betting shop did he use?”
“The only one I know about was William Hill on Dewsbury Road.”
“Any family, visitors, phone calls?”
“No family that I know of, and in the two years he’d been here I never saw one visitor. I felt sorry for him. I don’t like to see nice people on their own. I had one a few years ago. Dead a week before I found out.” She placed a hand on her chest. “Such a shock. I only found out then because he was late with his rent, first time ever. Come to think of it, he lived in Herbert’s flat. Ever since then I’ve made a point of checking my tenants regularly. I often used to go and have a cup of tea with Herbert. A gentleman. I shall quite miss him.”
Even though he was late with the rent, thought Gardener. “Which reminds me, does anyone live in the flat next door to Nicki Carter?”
“No. Someone did about six months ago,” she replied. “When he moved out, I started using it as a storeroom. Very handy if you can pack up your boxes and put them somewhere.”
Gardener studied the room. God alone knew what she had packed away because it still seemed full to him.
“Did Herbert Plum have any references when he came here?”
“I don’t ask for references, Inspector. This is Rawston. We take people as we find them. Always have.”
A small scuffle outside the front window drew their attention. A gang of youths chanted and cheered as they walked by the front of the building.
Olive Bradshaw stood up, staring out at them.
“Just listen to that one. He wants his mouth washing out with soap!”
She glanced at Gardener. “You lot should take a keener interest in him. Peter Atkins. I know his mother well. All the same, that family. Think nothing of airing their dirty washing in public. I’ve had words with her over the years, I can tell you.”
She turned to her sister. “He’s just come out of prison. Who is it that told me? Ron Franks, down the shops last week. Apparently beat his girlfriend up.”
She resumed her conversation with Gardener. “Black and blue, she was. No good will come of that one, you mark my words. He’ll be back behind bars soon, if you lot are up to it.”
She peered at Gardener’s hat. “He has a hat similar to yours, Inspector. If you don’t mind my saying, it looks unusual. What’s the story behind it?”
“A long one,” he replied. “With regards to your statement last night, there are a couple of things I want to establish. You say you went to the bingo, around six-thirty?”
“That’s right.”
“And returned when?”
“About ten-thirty, as I said.”
“Can anyone verify your movements?” He noticed her glance at Mabel. “Apart from your sister.”
“Of course, the people in the bingo hall, for a start.”
“Which is where?”
“Dewsbury Road.”
Where everything else is, thought Gardener. “Do you know the name of the ticket seller?”
Olive Bradshaw folded her arms. “Certainly do. A woman named Molly Simpson, lives on Queen Street, number twenty-three. You can check out my story with her, seeing as you think I’m guilty.”
“I didn’t say you were guilty.”
“No, but you’re thinking it.”
“Do you read the tea leaves, then, Olive?” Reilly asked. “Or is it just minds?” He could tell by her expression she wasn’t amused.
“When was the last time you saw Herbert alive?” Gardener continued.
“Friday afternoon, I think. Mabel and me were out doing a bit of shopping. He was at the Co-op.”
“How did he seem?”
“Fine.”
“Did you speak?”
“No, but he waved. We were on the opposite side of the road, about to cross. He was leaving. He had a carrier bag with him.”
“Which direction was he heading? I take it he wasn’t coming home?”
“No, he was probably going for an afternoon tipple. Looked like it, anyway. Heading toward The Black Bull.”
“Did you see anyone close to the house as you left?”
“No. Passed a few people further down the street, but we knew them all.”
Gardener made a note of their names so he could cross-check back at the station, before rising from his seat. “Well, thank you for the tea.”
He threaded his way around the antique furniture. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“Anytime, Inspector. If you could
