The Trawlerman, стр. 63

‘You think she did, don’t you?’

‘Killed him,’ the woman said. ‘Yeah.’

‘Can I ask something? How do you know that?’

The woman leaned in a little again. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked again.

‘How do you know she killed your son, Mrs Hogben?’

‘Stands to reason.’

Alex nodded. This woman had dementia, but she was right. It stood to reason. Alex looked around. ‘Has anybody else been here?’

The woman took her hands out of her pockets, looked down at them for a little while, and put them back again. ‘Apart from that boy?’

The wind blew rubbish up into the air behind the houses. A yellow sweet wrapper floated in the air for a second, then sank back down. ‘What boy?’

‘Hangs round with Tina and that lesbo. I told them it’s my Max’s car. They’ve no right to it.’

‘A friend of Stella’s?’

‘Her brother, I think. Looks like her. I don’t know. Sometimes at night, he comes here. I can see him.’ She pointed to a window at the back of the house.

‘Do they ever take the car out?’

‘You smoke?’

‘No.’

The woman looked disappointed. ‘Who are you, anyway, snooping around here?’

‘What’s he look like, Stella’s brother?’ asked Alex.

The woman sniffed the air. ‘You smell like a copper. You’re a copper, aren’t you?’

The back door to the Hogbens’ house opened and a young woman with a cheery smile came out dressed in a blue nylon top; a carer on a home visit.

‘Is she bothering you?’

‘Not at all,’ answered Alex.

‘Well, she’s bothering me,’ muttered Mandy Hogben, and turned away, leaving Alex on her own.

Alex didn’t need an answer, anyway. She had a pretty good idea of what Stella’s brother looked like; she was pretty sure it was him she had seen up at the memorial.

She had plenty of time to get back to the station and wait on the bench, eating sandwiches from the newsagent, before Jill’s mint-green Fiat pulled up outside.

Alex folded herself into the passenger seat for the first question. ‘How was your mum?’

‘Drinking and smoking like a good ’un. Tell me. Have you made any progress on who the con man was at the golf club?’

‘Jesus. You don’t bloody give it a rest, do you? Not our department any more, but no. We’ve passed that one on to another team now. Good luck to them with that.’

The traffic was heavy going through Hythe. The queue of cars waiting to get into Waitrose had backed out into the main road.

‘We’re used to winning,’ Alex said.

‘What?’

‘Murder’s simple most of the time. We’re used to getting convictions. Financial fraud is so much more complex. People get away with absolute murder there.’

Jill scowled. ‘What if I come round tonight? Stay over, drink some pink wine, and you tell me about your love life and talk about nothing else to do with murder or money. ’Cause there’s nothing going on in mine.’

‘Not tonight, Jill. I’m too tired.’

Jill indicated and pulled out, past the queue of cars, foot working the accelerator hard. They drove past Bill South’s little house; a For Sale sign had gone up. There was an estate agent’s Mini outside, and a new Audi. The only people who could afford to live around here these days were the ones rich enough to have two homes. ‘Is he selling?’

‘He says he needs the money.’

‘That’s bloody awful. Oh, Jesus.’

‘I know.’

When Jill dropped her outside her house, she said, ‘Sorry. You know. I just need a little more time to myself.’

‘Fine,’ said Jill, though Alex could tell she was hurt.

And it wasn’t true either. Because that evening, instead of going to bed early like she should have done, she put on a little make-up, a nice black shirt and trousers, did her hair, and booked an Uber.