university.”
Tennison stepped inside. “Mrs. Allen?”
“. . . I tell you, them think the world is at them feet. They’ll never have to scrub floors or take out rubbish!”
The silvery-haired woman nodded. “Let’s hope them don’t come down to earth with a bump, ennit?”
“Mrs. Allen? Mrs. Esme Allen?”
Esme Allen turned to her with a bright smile. “Yes, dear?”
“I’m Jane Tennison. I’m a police officer.”
The smile faltered and her large brown eyes clouded over. “It’s not bad news? Don’t tell me someone’s been hurt . . . Sarah? Not Tony?”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Tennison said promptly, shaking her head. “I’m making some inquiries, that’s all.”
“Oh, my Lord, you gave me such a fright,” Esme Allen breathed, clutching the sweater above her heart. She patted her chest, regaining her composure. “Is it about that poor Cameron girl?”
“In a way.” Tennison glanced round. The cafe was quite small, with just two tables for those customers who wanted to eat their food on the premises. “Is there somewhere more private we could talk?”
The silvery-haired woman, a friend, it seemed, as well as a customer, put her shopping bag down and made a shooing motion. “You take the lady through to the back. I’ll look after the shop.”
Esme Allen raised the counter flap and Tennison followed her into a narrow, cramped room with a single window, part office, part storeroom, shelves to the ceiling stacked with provisions. The air was pungent with the mingled odors of herbs and spices. Esme indicated a canvas-backed folding chair and invited Tennison to sit down. She herself took the chair next to the desk, pushing aside a bundle of invoices to rest her elbow. She smiled attentively, lacing together her long, slender fingers.
“Mrs. Allen, I understand in the 1980s you and your husband owned Number fifteen, Honeyford Road.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“While you lived at Number seventeen with your family.”
“Yes.”
Without a pause, Tennison said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that a body has been found buried in the back garden of Number fifteen.”
Esme Allen sat back, her strong white teeth biting her lower lip. “My God . . . you think he killed poor Simone?” she asked in a small, shocked voice.
“We just want to eliminate him from our inquiries,” Tennison replied, giving the standard line. If Esme Allen had been friendly with the occupant of Number 15, then it was possible that she might wish to protect him, or throw the police off the scent. “What was his name, Esme?”
“David Harvey.” No hesitation. Straight out with it.
Tennison nodded. “Right.” She unscrewed the cap off her gold pen and wrote down the name on her notepad. She glanced up. “Do you know where he is now?”
“No.” Esme shook her head, blinking as she tried to think. “My husband Vernon might know, but . . . well, we tried not to have anything to do with the man. I would never let my daughter Sarah go near that house. We all knew what he was like. Particularly with young girls.”
Tennison leaned forward slightly but said nothing.
“He wasn’t always like that, but after his wife died . . . I thought they were a lovely couple, but after she’d gone . . .” Esme lowered her voice. “Drinking and cursing and, you know, carrying on . . .”
Tennison put her fountain pen away and slipped the notepad into her pocket. “I’d like to speak to your husband if it’s possible —in fact to the whole family.” She got up to leave. “As soon as possible, please.”
“This evening,” Esme said, ushering Tennison through to the shop. “We’ll all be there this evening.”
“Fine. Thank you.”
Tennison went directly to a phone booth and got through to Muddyman in the Incident Room.
“It’s Harvey, not Harley or Hardy—Harvey. H-A-R-V-E-Y. So we’ve got to start again. I’m off to see Oscar Bream. ’Bye.”
“It makes a
Tennison stepped inside. “Mrs. Allen?”
“. . . I tell you, them think the world is at them feet. They’ll never have to scrub floors or take out rubbish!”
The silvery-haired woman nodded. “Let’s hope them don’t come down to earth with a bump, ennit?”
“Mrs. Allen? Mrs. Esme Allen?”
Esme Allen turned to her with a bright smile. “Yes, dear?”
“I’m Jane Tennison. I’m a police officer.”
The smile faltered and her large brown eyes clouded over. “It’s not bad news? Don’t tell me someone’s been hurt . . . Sarah? Not Tony?”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Tennison said promptly, shaking her head. “I’m making some inquiries, that’s all.”
“Oh, my Lord, you gave me such a fright,” Esme Allen breathed, clutching the sweater above her heart. She patted her chest, regaining her composure. “Is it about that poor Cameron girl?”
“In a way.” Tennison glanced round. The cafe was quite small, with just two tables for those customers who wanted to eat their food on the premises. “Is there somewhere more private we could talk?”
The silvery-haired woman, a friend, it seemed, as well as a customer, put her shopping bag down and made a shooing motion. “You take the lady through to the back. I’ll look after the shop.”
Esme Allen raised the counter flap and Tennison followed her into a narrow, cramped room with a single window, part office, part storeroom, shelves to the ceiling stacked with provisions. The air was pungent with the mingled odors of herbs and spices. Esme indicated a canvas-backed folding chair and invited Tennison to sit down. She herself took the chair next to the desk, pushing aside a bundle of invoices to rest her elbow. She smiled attentively, lacing together her long, slender fingers.
“Mrs. Allen, I understand in the 1980s you and your husband owned Number fifteen, Honeyford Road.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“While you lived at Number seventeen with your family.”
“Yes.”
Without a pause, Tennison said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that a body has been found buried in the back garden of Number fifteen.”
Esme Allen sat back, her strong white teeth biting her lower lip. “My God . . . you think he killed poor Simone?” she asked in a small, shocked voice.
“We just want to eliminate him from our inquiries,” Tennison replied, giving the standard line. If Esme Allen had been friendly with the occupant of Number 15, then it was possible that she might wish to protect him, or throw the police off the scent. “What was his name, Esme?”
“David Harvey.” No hesitation. Straight out with it.
Tennison nodded. “Right.” She unscrewed the cap off her gold pen and wrote down the name on her notepad. She glanced up. “Do you know where he is now?”
“No.” Esme shook her head, blinking as she tried to think. “My husband Vernon might know, but . . . well, we tried not to have anything to do with the man. I would never let my daughter Sarah go near that house. We all knew what he was like. Particularly with young girls.”
Tennison leaned forward slightly but said nothing.
“He wasn’t always like that, but after his wife died . . . I thought they were a lovely couple, but after she’d gone . . .” Esme lowered her voice. “Drinking and cursing and, you know, carrying on . . .”
Tennison put her fountain pen away and slipped the notepad into her pocket. “I’d like to speak to your husband if it’s possible —in fact to the whole family.” She got up to leave. “As soon as possible, please.”
“This evening,” Esme said, ushering Tennison through to the shop. “We’ll all be there this evening.”
“Fine. Thank you.”
Tennison went directly to a phone booth and got through to Muddyman in the Incident Room.
“It’s Harvey, not Harley or Hardy—Harvey. H-A-R-V-E-Y. So we’ve got to start again. I’m off to see Oscar Bream. ’Bye.”
“It makes a
Similar Books
