‘You’re right, I haven’t.’
Kate had heard there were some roads of detached houses on the estate but this wasn’t one of them. St Petroc’s Road consisted of a row of unlovely porridge-coloured pebble-dashed council semis. Maureen’s house had a green-painted door and a well-polished brass knob and letter box. There was a plain strip of lawn to the front and a bicycle leaning against the wall.
‘Is it OK to bring the dog inside?’ Kate asked as Maureen unlocked the door. ‘We won’t stay long but I would love a cup of tea.’
Maureen directed Kate into what was plainly an unused sitting room and indicated, tight-lipped, that she should sit down on the uncomfortable-looking dark green leather sofa. Kate looked around. There was a wall of photographs: Lucy as a baby, as a toddler, on her first day of school, on the beach in a pink swimsuit, at some fancy-dress event where she was presumably a cat, clad in a furry suit with whiskers painted on her cheeks. The room was ice-cold.
Kate remained standing. ‘I’m not some sort of honoured guest,’ she said.
‘That’s right, you’re not,’ Maureen agreed.
‘So I’m quite happy to join you in the kitchen or wherever you normally sit. And Barney certainly shouldn’t be in here.’
Maureen didn’t argue, just shrugged and said, ‘OK, come through.’ Maureen did a lot of shrugging. ‘Through’ led to a messy kitchen-cum-living room with a couple of sagging armchairs positioned on either side of a plain wooden fireplace containing an old two-bar electric fire. There was what looked like a half-knitted red jumper on one of the chairs. Kate noted there were no radiators so, presumably, there was no central heating. She couldn’t imagine there was anything as up-to-date as underfloor heating.
Maureen bent down and switched on the fire, which began to warm up slowly, accompanied by the smell of burning dust. When had that fire last been on? Barney, who was no fool, immediately plonked himself down in front of this only source of heat, head on paws, whilst keeping a watchful eye on Kate.
As she watched Maureen fill the kettle, she said, ‘I was going to make you a cup of tea.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because I don’t suppose you get many cups of tea made for you,’ Kate replied honestly.
‘I go in to Brenda’s next door sometimes,’ Maureen said as she placed the kettle on the gas hob. ‘I’m not a great socialiser.’ She paused. ‘No doubt you’ve heard that.’
‘I don’t pay a lot of attention to gossip,’ Kate said. ‘I like to make up my own mind.’
Maureen was dropping teabags into two mugs, then adding the boiling water. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘Just milk, please,’ Kate replied, lowering herself into one of the armchairs and hoping Maureen wouldn’t suggest she take off her coat.
Maureen handed her the mug of tea, sat down opposite and picked up her knitting. ‘So, what are we supposed to talk about?’
‘You’re not supposed to talk about anything. I just thought you might like a chat. What was all that rumpus in the graveyard about? I mean, I know Kevin Barry killed your daughter but––’
‘He says he didn’t,’ Maureen interrupted. ‘He wrote me a letter while he was in jail telling me it was really Fenella who was driving. Now he says he’s got proof. Like some sort of recording, he says. He says he’s keeping it because he can use it against Seymour. He says he knows who killed Fenella, so I reckon he probably means Seymour.’
‘Well, if he says he’s got proof, shouldn’t you let him show it to you?’
Maureen took a gulp of tea. ‘You know what? I don’t care what proof he’s got because he and that bitch were in it together – always drunk and on drugs, no thought for anyone else.’
Kate felt desperately sorry for her. ‘Don’t you have anybody you can turn to, Maureen?’
‘Not unless you count my so-called husband who’s suddenly reappeared from nowhere! Came knocking on the door last Sunday, he did.’
Kate took a moment to digest this. ‘Why would he come back now?’
‘It was ten years to the day that Lucy had died and he said he’d been away too long. He asked me to forgive him – huh! Seems he got a letter from Kevin Barry too. Talking of which, if he hadn’t sent Lucy down to post his bloody football coupon, she’d still be with us. He was wittering on about having some sort of breakdown but, apparently, he’s all right now and wants to sort everything out. I didn’t wait to hear more; I shut the door in his face, that’s what I did.’
‘Oh, Maureen, how upsetting.’ Kate sipped her tea. ‘How do you feel about Fenella’s death?’ She wondered if Maureen felt justice had been done by somebody? Had she been shocked? Relieved? Worried?
Another shrug. ‘No idea. She’s no great loss anyway.’
Kate had never seen anyone knit so fast or so furiously. Click, click, click. She hoped she wasn’t pushing Maureen into places she didn’t want to go. She had coped for years on pills that had suffocated her feelings, and Kate knew from experience where that could lead. Now, more than ever, she was determined to help Maureen if she could.
Maureen, who’d suddenly stopped knitting and spent a moment staring at the fire, looked up at Kate and asked, ‘Do you think Kevin Barry killed Fenella?’
‘It seems Kevin Barry had an alibi, drinking in The Tinners with Seymour, according to the police. And so Fenella’s husband had an alibi too. Now where does that leave us?’
Maureen sniffed. ‘You saw her first after she was killed. Do you think she suffered?’
Kate wondered from Maureen’s fierce expression if she was hoping the answer would be yes. ‘It’s you that suffered most, Maureen. You need to get answers to a lot of questions,
