‘Maybe an examination of the actual body itself will give us some clue.’
*
Blackstone and Walter Clegg had already knocked back three pints of best bitter—followed by whisky chasers—when Clegg suddenly said, ‘Why don’t we go back to my house?’
Blackstone had no idea why Clegg should have made the offer, but he accepted it immediately, because, in his experience, men were much more comfortable on their home ground. And whilst he did not think that Clegg had been lying to him so far, he was hopeful that the miner would become even more forthcoming from the safety of his own hearth.
They left the pub and walked down the lane towards the flashes. When they had gone about a hundred yards, Clegg turned into an alleyway, and Blackstone followed him.
They reached the back yard that contained the wash-house, outside lavatory and the house’s only tap. Walter Clegg lifted the latch on the back door and pushed it open.
Blackstone was half-expecting to be greeted by a bunch of screaming kids, but instead there was only silence from inside the house.
‘Are you there, Mam?’ Clegg called out, and when there was no answer he said, ‘She’s probably gone off to visit one of her old cronies.’
‘You still live with your parents?’ Blackstone asked incredulously, before he could stop himself.
‘Only with Mam,’ Clegg said, not noticing his tone. ‘Dad’s been dead a good few years now.’
The room they entered was probably typical of the village. A cooking range dominated one wall, and though it was by no means a cold evening, there was a fire burning in the grate to keep the oven warm. Most of the rest of the space in the room was taken up by a heavy oak-veneer sideboard—which was covered with photographs—and a large kitchen table.
‘Well, this is it,’ Walter Clegg said proudly. ‘This is the place that I call home.’
‘Very nice,’ Blackstone said, knowing that was what was expected of him. ‘Very nice indeed.’
‘Where are you plannin’ to stay for the night?’ Clegg asked, in a manner which suggested he had been waiting quite some time for the moment to spring this particular question.
‘I haven’t really thought about it,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘Is there a cheap boarding house in the village?’
Clegg laughed. ‘A boarding house? In this village? There most certainly is not. If you want to find a room, you’ll have go back to town.’
‘Well, since there doesn’t seem to be any choice in the matter—’ Blackstone began.
‘Unless, of course, you wouldn’t mind staying here,’ Walter Clegg interrupted him.
‘Here?’
‘You could sleep in the front parlour, if you wanted to. I know Mam wouldn’t mind.’
‘I’m not sure...’
‘There isn’t a bed in there, I’m afraid, but I think you’ll find the sofa quite comfortable.’
So that was what the invitation to his house was all about. It had been the first step in Clegg’s campaign to get him to agree to spend the night there.
The reason for his eagerness was obvious, Blackstone thought. A police inspector who had come all the way from London was important—at least in the eyes of someone who had probably never been more than a few miles from this village—and having that inspector spend the night under his roof would make him feel important, too. And, when all was said and done, what was the harm in that?
‘The sofa would do me just fine,’ Blackstone said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the bottle of whisky he had bought from the off-sales in the pub. ‘Why don’t you find us a couple of glasses?’
Clegg produced two glasses from the mock-oak sideboard, and the two men sat down at the kitchen table.
‘In the letter he sent to me, Tom sounded very worried,’ Blackstone said. ‘Did he seem worried to you?’
Clegg nodded. ‘He did. An’ it wasn’t like him at all. Tom was the kind of feller who normally took difficulties in his stride.’
‘He didn’t tell you what it
*
Blackstone and Walter Clegg had already knocked back three pints of best bitter—followed by whisky chasers—when Clegg suddenly said, ‘Why don’t we go back to my house?’
Blackstone had no idea why Clegg should have made the offer, but he accepted it immediately, because, in his experience, men were much more comfortable on their home ground. And whilst he did not think that Clegg had been lying to him so far, he was hopeful that the miner would become even more forthcoming from the safety of his own hearth.
They left the pub and walked down the lane towards the flashes. When they had gone about a hundred yards, Clegg turned into an alleyway, and Blackstone followed him.
They reached the back yard that contained the wash-house, outside lavatory and the house’s only tap. Walter Clegg lifted the latch on the back door and pushed it open.
Blackstone was half-expecting to be greeted by a bunch of screaming kids, but instead there was only silence from inside the house.
‘Are you there, Mam?’ Clegg called out, and when there was no answer he said, ‘She’s probably gone off to visit one of her old cronies.’
‘You still live with your parents?’ Blackstone asked incredulously, before he could stop himself.
‘Only with Mam,’ Clegg said, not noticing his tone. ‘Dad’s been dead a good few years now.’
The room they entered was probably typical of the village. A cooking range dominated one wall, and though it was by no means a cold evening, there was a fire burning in the grate to keep the oven warm. Most of the rest of the space in the room was taken up by a heavy oak-veneer sideboard—which was covered with photographs—and a large kitchen table.
‘Well, this is it,’ Walter Clegg said proudly. ‘This is the place that I call home.’
‘Very nice,’ Blackstone said, knowing that was what was expected of him. ‘Very nice indeed.’
‘Where are you plannin’ to stay for the night?’ Clegg asked, in a manner which suggested he had been waiting quite some time for the moment to spring this particular question.
‘I haven’t really thought about it,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘Is there a cheap boarding house in the village?’
Clegg laughed. ‘A boarding house? In this village? There most certainly is not. If you want to find a room, you’ll have go back to town.’
‘Well, since there doesn’t seem to be any choice in the matter—’ Blackstone began.
‘Unless, of course, you wouldn’t mind staying here,’ Walter Clegg interrupted him.
‘Here?’
‘You could sleep in the front parlour, if you wanted to. I know Mam wouldn’t mind.’
‘I’m not sure...’
‘There isn’t a bed in there, I’m afraid, but I think you’ll find the sofa quite comfortable.’
So that was what the invitation to his house was all about. It had been the first step in Clegg’s campaign to get him to agree to spend the night there.
The reason for his eagerness was obvious, Blackstone thought. A police inspector who had come all the way from London was important—at least in the eyes of someone who had probably never been more than a few miles from this village—and having that inspector spend the night under his roof would make him feel important, too. And, when all was said and done, what was the harm in that?
‘The sofa would do me just fine,’ Blackstone said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the bottle of whisky he had bought from the off-sales in the pub. ‘Why don’t you find us a couple of glasses?’
Clegg produced two glasses from the mock-oak sideboard, and the two men sat down at the kitchen table.
‘In the letter he sent to me, Tom sounded very worried,’ Blackstone said. ‘Did he seem worried to you?’
Clegg nodded. ‘He did. An’ it wasn’t like him at all. Tom was the kind of feller who normally took difficulties in his stride.’
‘He didn’t tell you what it
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