when’s Snow let the facts get in the way of a good story? He’s ambitious. Wants to go places.”
Another shrug. He sensed she was miffed, maybe she resented the input. No. She was usually happy to use him as a sounding board. Probably just knackered. “Fancy a nightcap?”
“Best hit the road.” Were the yawn and stretch a tad forced?
“Before you go.” He disappeared, returned seconds later with a photograph. “After Kenny Flint’s call, I rooted this out. That’s Madeleine Graves.” He pointed to a stunning-looking woman, one of five adults shepherding a crocodile of little kids. Bev had never seen so many gappy smiles and half-mast socks. “It was taken a few years back now,” Byford explained. “She was married to a man called York then. Adam Graves was her second husband.”
Bev studied Madeleine’s image: long chestnut hair, wide smile, open friendly features. “How well did Mrs B know her?”
Mrs B? Margaret would be turning in her urn. He masked a smile. “Not well. Mums at the school gate sort of thing, PTA evenings, sports day.” He nodded at the picture. “End of term trips.”
“Did you meet her?”
“Once or twice. Bit scatty; pleasant enough.”
“Adam Graves wasn’t on the scene back then?”
He shook his head. “As I say she was Madeleine York when we knew her. I can’t remember her first husband’s name. She was cut up when he died though. Heart attack, I think.”
“And the note? Still want me to check it?” Not enthusiastic, she clearly had doubts.
“Humour me.” He smiled. “I’ve just got a feeling about it.”
“That’d be your feminine side coming out.” Deadpan tongue embedded in cheek. She took a final glance at the picture before handing it back. “Fair enough. I’ll give it another whirl. Can’t do any harm, can it?”
TUESDAY
8
11.30!!! Miss it – you’re dead!!!!! XXXX
The death threat was on the kitchen table when Bev moseyed downstairs in her Snoopy dressing gown. She read it, yawned, chucked it in the bin and popped two slices of Mother’s Pride in the toaster for breakfast. The note was Frankie’s – never a girl to mince her words. The appointment was for the antenatal clinic that morning. Pressure of work meant Bev had missed two already. At least that’s what she’d told Frankie who’d turned up both times, and hung round the women’s hospital fuming while her Manolo Blahniks cooled.
Bev pictured it now: a finger wagging Frankie in full-blown maternal hen mode. Christ, she was worse than Bev’s mum. A half-smile twitched her lips as she poured boiling water on a ginger tea bag. Frankie had moved in months back to help Bev through a bad patch that had turned into a quilt. She sighed, couldn’t see her best mate leaving any time soon. Which was a mixed blessing.
Frankie was bossy, self-opinionated, and gobby to boot. Lucky Bev was a self-effacing shrinking violet. She smiled, munched dry toast. OK, Frankie Perlagio could be a pain in the butt, but she was closer than a sister. Mind, Bev didn’t have a sister. Lips puckered, she took another bite. Cardboard was caviar compared with this stuff. It was one of a long list of bland foods suggested on a medical website to curb nausea. Spooky really, cause if Bev hadn’t already put in the net-checks, Overdale’s missive would have been all Greek to her. She’d opened the pathologist’s note late last night and it had put the wind up her a damn sight more than Frankie’s early morning missive.
Overdale had written: Tell me to mind my own business but I’ve been there... Nausea gravidarum is a bitch. Try Phenergan. Lots of ginger. And congratulations!
Nausea gravidarum, medico-speak for morning sickness. The doc’s words alone had been enough to make Bev gag and dash to the loo. Overs had rumbled the pregnancy – would she keep mum or mouth off? Still hunched over the porcelain, hot tears had pricked Bev’s eyes as she realised that Gillian Overdale – a woman she barely
Another shrug. He sensed she was miffed, maybe she resented the input. No. She was usually happy to use him as a sounding board. Probably just knackered. “Fancy a nightcap?”
“Best hit the road.” Were the yawn and stretch a tad forced?
“Before you go.” He disappeared, returned seconds later with a photograph. “After Kenny Flint’s call, I rooted this out. That’s Madeleine Graves.” He pointed to a stunning-looking woman, one of five adults shepherding a crocodile of little kids. Bev had never seen so many gappy smiles and half-mast socks. “It was taken a few years back now,” Byford explained. “She was married to a man called York then. Adam Graves was her second husband.”
Bev studied Madeleine’s image: long chestnut hair, wide smile, open friendly features. “How well did Mrs B know her?”
Mrs B? Margaret would be turning in her urn. He masked a smile. “Not well. Mums at the school gate sort of thing, PTA evenings, sports day.” He nodded at the picture. “End of term trips.”
“Did you meet her?”
“Once or twice. Bit scatty; pleasant enough.”
“Adam Graves wasn’t on the scene back then?”
He shook his head. “As I say she was Madeleine York when we knew her. I can’t remember her first husband’s name. She was cut up when he died though. Heart attack, I think.”
“And the note? Still want me to check it?” Not enthusiastic, she clearly had doubts.
“Humour me.” He smiled. “I’ve just got a feeling about it.”
“That’d be your feminine side coming out.” Deadpan tongue embedded in cheek. She took a final glance at the picture before handing it back. “Fair enough. I’ll give it another whirl. Can’t do any harm, can it?”
TUESDAY
8
11.30!!! Miss it – you’re dead!!!!! XXXX
The death threat was on the kitchen table when Bev moseyed downstairs in her Snoopy dressing gown. She read it, yawned, chucked it in the bin and popped two slices of Mother’s Pride in the toaster for breakfast. The note was Frankie’s – never a girl to mince her words. The appointment was for the antenatal clinic that morning. Pressure of work meant Bev had missed two already. At least that’s what she’d told Frankie who’d turned up both times, and hung round the women’s hospital fuming while her Manolo Blahniks cooled.
Bev pictured it now: a finger wagging Frankie in full-blown maternal hen mode. Christ, she was worse than Bev’s mum. A half-smile twitched her lips as she poured boiling water on a ginger tea bag. Frankie had moved in months back to help Bev through a bad patch that had turned into a quilt. She sighed, couldn’t see her best mate leaving any time soon. Which was a mixed blessing.
Frankie was bossy, self-opinionated, and gobby to boot. Lucky Bev was a self-effacing shrinking violet. She smiled, munched dry toast. OK, Frankie Perlagio could be a pain in the butt, but she was closer than a sister. Mind, Bev didn’t have a sister. Lips puckered, she took another bite. Cardboard was caviar compared with this stuff. It was one of a long list of bland foods suggested on a medical website to curb nausea. Spooky really, cause if Bev hadn’t already put in the net-checks, Overdale’s missive would have been all Greek to her. She’d opened the pathologist’s note late last night and it had put the wind up her a damn sight more than Frankie’s early morning missive.
Overdale had written: Tell me to mind my own business but I’ve been there... Nausea gravidarum is a bitch. Try Phenergan. Lots of ginger. And congratulations!
Nausea gravidarum, medico-speak for morning sickness. The doc’s words alone had been enough to make Bev gag and dash to the loo. Overs had rumbled the pregnancy – would she keep mum or mouth off? Still hunched over the porcelain, hot tears had pricked Bev’s eyes as she realised that Gillian Overdale – a woman she barely
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