He did know, turned away to refill the kettle and reach for a bottle of white wine from the fridge. She was bound to like white wine, not a whisky lady. Just a glass, come on, Amanda, won't do you any harm. What she would not like, nor would he, to ruin this budding relationship, was the sight of the bareness of his daughter's room. Pretty stingy furniture in there, disgraceful, really, when he came to think of it, rotten old desk, very small cupboard and child's bed.
Yvonne had always said that was enough for her, and after a while Evie had stopped asking for anything else. It shamed him, the poverty of it. Much less would sweet Amanda like to see, or he to show her, the rows of clothes hidden by wardrobe doors in his own room.
There were things he might have liked to do with Miss Scott in that room, but they did not include a search of coat pockets. There was not a single item of the dear deceased's clothing that was not torn to shreds. He was beginning to wonder how he was going to get the garments out of the house.
`Now listen, Amanda.' Placing a hand on hers, noting the lack of resistance. 'Why don't you tell Mr Bailey you've been through the place with a fine-tooth comb? Because I have, I can assure you, and you'd never find anything I'd missed. Turned over everything, I did. But fussy, your boss, is he?' She nodded vigorously, tut-tutting at his criticism, but smiling compliance.
`That's OK, then. What I was wondering… well, never mind. Presumptuous of me.. . I shouldn't.'
`Go on,' said Amanda.
`Well, I was wondering… It's nothing, really, but I do like to help. I'm sure we could find you a better flat than you have, you know, a good little bargain. In Branston, maybe. I always hear about them, always know when to pick 'em up, if you see what I mean. Interested? Nice girl like you, kind to an old man. Girl like you deserves to get on.'
Amanda's thoughts exactly. The rout of her distraction was complete and she beamed goodwill.
Oh, Mr Blundell, you shouldn't. I'm here on business, but how kind of you.'
`Not at all, my dear, and do call me John. It's a pleasure to help someone I like, not all these toffee-nosed solicitors, city people, think they're the bee's knees.' A quick stroke of brilliance, stroking the chip on Amanda's shoulder. 'Tell you what. Perhaps when I've marshalled a few ideas we could have dinner and chat about it when you're not on duty. Ever tried Bario's?'
O brave new world: she had never been to Bario's, had dreamed of living among the select trees of Branston instead of in the service area of Woodford.
I know a chap who does a wonderful line in discount furniture, too,' John continued, and they were off again, all thoughts of searching the house shoved downwind of his after-shave, her perfume, and the riveting discussion of bargains.
Amanda Scott left the Blundell house well pleased, sober on one glass of wine and three coffees, high as a kite otherwise, a tentative date with a rich widower and a plausible account for Bailey bubbling in the back of her mind.
J. Blundell made for the whisky and forgot his office once he closed the door on her, equally pleased.
Then Amanda made for The Crown and a rapid descent to earth.
Yes? What the hell do you want? Oh, I know you. Old Mr Bailey's sweetheart, isn't it? The unofficial one. Dear God, have you only got one suit?' Bernadette Featherstone smirked in satisfaction, quick eyes recognizing the same navy blue suit at the kitchen door she had seen weeks since, and only briefly then.
`Hello, Mrs Featherstone, sorry to trouble you.' The pleasantry was like an armour.
'Superintendent Bailey asked me to call and ask you -
`Don't hello me. There's no bloody need. And I'm busy.'
What a contrast of kitchens. Bernadette's kitchen was invisible to the downcast clients clinging to the bar outside and waiting for evening company, abused by Harold or ignored. It was as large as the Blundells', but twice as antiquated, extremely dirty, and currently full of the smell of baking bread and washing. Amanda, who had an eye for domestic detail, wondered how Bernadette could take such obvious trouble to make her sheets that dusty grey.
She also wondered if the smell of the bread was going to be the only enticing quality about it. The washing machine in the corner was churning suspicious suds. Both of them were shouting about the noise; Bernadette was used to shouting, but it was awkward for Amanda.
Oh, for God's sake, sit down. Stop gawking like a tourist at a monument. What do you want, and where's your bloody leader? Lets you out on your own, does he? In my opinion, policemen should be blokes.' Bernadette cackled. Flattery was obviously not today's menu. 'Have you come about William?
`Well, yes, in a way.'
`What do you mean, 'in a way'? Harold!' she yelled to no response. Bernadette picked up a cloth, dried dishes quickly and absently. 'Get on with it, then.'
`Well, Mrs Featherstone – '
`You're a bit worried about William, I expect,' Bernadette interrupted. 'Nicking from shops, little sod. Don't know why he did it. But you needn't worry. Harold's going to give him seven pounds a week, and we'll be keeping him busy. We've solved the problem It wasn't so much the stealing, Mrs Featherstone.'
`Well, what, then, woman? You suspect him of rape or something?' Another snort of laughter while Bernadette lit a cigarette, her instinct well informed enough to realize how much it would irritate while at the same time hiding her own jangled nerves behind the smoke. She had censured William as gently as she knew. He had erupted; she had withdrawn. He was beyond her control, but it was their battle, their very own, not for anyone else. She might have trusted Bailey with the worry of it, but not this peaches-and-cream piece of neatness who could go and boil her head for all Bernadette cared.
Amanda Scott could sense she was being intrusive. Even she could sense Bernadette's controlled rage, and she wondered if the reputed fits of William Featherstone were really an inherited mental deformity from a mother whose secret pastime was foaming at the mouth.
Bernadette was smoking at the mouth, deliberately exhaling a ragged cloud in Amanda's direction. Amanda opted for the businesslike approach. Keep this as short as possible.
`What does William do with his time, Mrs Featherstone?' The snappiness of her tone brought silence, followed by reluctant cooperation.
`Do with his time? I don't know. He's a grown man now. Everyone knows what he does with his time. I told Mr Bailey ages ago. He loves the buses. He goes shopping. London sometimes, Epping, Stratford, Waltham… well, you know about Waltham. That's where you booked him. And… ' She scratched her head and thought. 'Oh, and he sits in his room thinking about things. And I don't know what else. Apart from making things. Jewellery, as it happens.' Nothing else to be proud about.
She pulled open the drawer in the scrubbed kitchen table, a drawer full of assorted rubbish: tap washers, screwdrivers, receipts, fuse wire, wadded-up paper, and half-finished candy packets. The kind of drawer Amanda Scott itched to clear.
`Here,' Bernadette said triumphantly. 'See what I mean?' There was a rough bracelet in her hand, upheld for examination with something like pride. 'Fuse wire and glass, baked in the oven,' she said fondly. 'Don't know how he thinks of it, really I don't.'
Neither did Amanda. There was a kind of primitivism in William's artistic efforts.
Silver wire or fuse wire twisted, with small pieces of glass embedded in the twists, all melted to an uneven, unusual shine of colours, like crude enamel, the wire imperfectly smoothed by insufficient heat, the glass still uneven although no longer sharp. Rather uncomfortable Amanda thought. It might look strangely at home in some trendy fashion shop for punks where it could double up as an offensive weapon, but not on her own wrist or that of anyone she knew.
`He didn't like this one,' Bernadette remarked. 'Said it was dull. I don't think so.'
To Amanda the thing was distastefully bright; she did not like handling it, took it politely, put it down on the table with obvious distaste. 'What else does he do?'
`What else should he do? This stuff takes him hours.'
`Does he play any sport?'
`No.'
Any other hobbies?'
`No.'
