As he and Shepherd crossed to the Greenhills’ house, Cotton reckoned, on balance, his family’s deaths were trumped by a child raped and murdered. If that happened to June, it would slay him.
‘What’s Maple done now?’ Vernon Greenhill’s forearms were streaked with grease and this reminded Cotton that Maple’s twenty-one-year-old brother worked as a mechanic. Seeing biceps bulging beneath his shirtsleeves, Cotton knew that, on hearing bad news, family could go for the messenger.
‘Mother and father indoors, son?’ Cotton clasped his hat.
‘If she’s got herself arrested, tell me. Mum’s got a weak heart.’ Vernon Greenhill barred the way.
‘She will have to hear this, Vernon.’
Perhaps cowed by the use of his name, Vernon Greenhill retreated into a hallway, gleaming parquet giving off a scent of beeswax. Pausing to drop his hat onto an antler stand beside an aspidistra on a tall spindly table, Cotton stepped into what Agnes called her parlour. A fire crackled in a grate. On the mantelpiece Maple and Vernon’s framed faces beamed, kids’ shiny complexions flannelled clean.
‘It’s the police about Maple.’ Staying by the door, Vernon wasn’t beaming now.
Keith and Evelyn Greenhill, in their early forties, but, dressed in what for Cotton would be his Sunday best, seemed older. Seated on a green velvet sofa they stared out of the window to the graves. Cotton had the uneasy impression they had got ready for the news he was about to give them.
‘What’s she done now?’ Keith Greenhill was a masculine version of his daughter, the same wide mouth, hazel eyes, but with a short back and sides, combed and oiled. On Maple the looks were pleasant, augmented, Cotton guessed, by a lively character. On Greenhill they were handsome. Cotton caught himself wondering if Greenhill was faithful. These days too many crimes involved adultery.
‘Who says she’s in trouble, Keith?’ From her expression, Cotton saw that Evelyn Greenhill was frightened of what her husband might let slip. Perhaps they hadn’t reported that their daughter had failed to come home last night because they had not expected her. Her lips were pale, her eyes glassy. Tipping his head, Cotton told Shepherd to get Mrs Greenhill a glass of water.
During his long career, Cotton had told many a relative that their son, daughter, loved ones were dead. Seeking to reassure the Greenhills that Maple had done nothing wrong, he had to say what had been done to her.
‘How?’ Vernon was the first to speak.
‘She was strangled.’ Cotton didn’t believe in mincing words.
‘Who on earth would…?’ Evelyn Cotton took the glass from Shepherd, but didn’t drink from it. ‘Everyone loved her.’
‘That’s what we will find out.’ Burning up, Cotton stepped away from the fire and nearly trod on a boy sprawled on his front on a rug near the window. The face considering him was what Cotton’s mum would have called a proper little cherub. Rosy-cheeked, sandy curls. Cotton knew instantly he was the boy in the photograph that Maple had carried in her handbag. Her son.
Awkwardly, the boy clambered up onto sturdy legs, reaching up to Cotton, a lead soldier in his fist. Cotton stared down. Then, God love him, Shepherd stepped in and, taking the soldier, aimed the tiny musket at Cotton and said, ‘Bang bang.’ This set off peals of laughter.
‘More,’ the boy squealed.
Cotton expected someone in the room to get the boy to be quiet, but no one moved. Instead, kneeling down to the toddler’s height, Shepherd told him, ‘I’ve got a soldier just like this in my toy box.’
‘Have you caught him?’ Vernon Greenhill asked.
‘No. Not yet.’ Cotton felt perspiration trickle down his brow and he dashed at it with a sleeve. He said, ‘Someone will hang for this.’ And there was him not holding with capital punishment.
‘You’d better mean that,’ Vernon said.
‘Don’t be rude, Vernon,’ his mother scolded. ‘The police will do their best.’
‘I’m afraid we do need to ask you some questions about Maple. Anything you can tell us to identify this man. Like was she seeing someone regular or—’
‘Or what?’ Vernon Greenhill squared up to Cotton. ‘You saying Maple was a, was a… prostitute?’ He reddened.
‘Take it easy, sir.’ Shepherd touted the lead soldier.
‘She didn’t go with men,’ Vernon Greenhill spluttered.
The boy, making choo-choo noises, pushed a tin engine over Shepherd’s boot. Incontrovertible proof that, some four years ago, Maple had gone with at least one man.
‘I have to ask… could Maple have been working in the evenings?’
‘You wash your mouth out.’ Vernon stepped up to Cotton. Although much shorter, his biceps would carry the day. Cotton was out of shape. Maybe Shepherd reckoned the same: he was on his feet in a jiffy.
‘Steady, son.’ Cotton braced himself. ‘It’s a capital offence to threaten a police officer.’
‘Vernon, enough.’ Evelyn Greenhill reminded Cotton of his own mother. A small, slight woman who demonstrated that size is no indicator of strength. Maisie Cotton had kept her two boys in order with just such a look. Evelyn looked at William tootling his engine over the braid rug. ‘Maple put everything into her baby.’
‘She wasn’t a prostitute,’ Vernon said.
‘Was there a regular chap? Someone she had a shine for?’ Cotton was kindly.
‘Not that we knew.’ Evelyn was on the edge of the settee, hugging herself close to the fire. It needed more coal, but no one had seen. She told him that they’d said goodbye to Maple on the doorstep, she was seeing her friend Ida.
‘Mummy didn’t bring Plaay-yer’s,’ the boy piped up. Agnes used to warn him about children’s big ears, and not to mention any horrible things from work with them there.
‘Maple told William she was just getting fags.’ Keith shook his head. ‘He’s got the memory of an elephant.’
‘You knew that was… not the case.’ Cotton guessed young William understood the word ‘lie’. ‘Did Maple tell you where she was actually going?’
‘Down the Palais,’ Vernon mumbled.
