him.
“I don’t smoke.” He often envied those who did.
Her hands shook as she lit it. Dark circles surrounded eyes that were a little puffy. Her naturally pale skin was a sickly grey.
“Prue was definitely wearing pyjamas when she was killed?” he asked.
“Sorry? Well, yes, she was. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I’m just curious. Did she enjoy music? Might she have gone to bed and listened to an iPod or something through earphones?”
“I wouldn’t think so. She wasn’t really a music person. She might have read, I suppose. She was a great reader. Why do you ask?”
“Is there a phone in her bedroom?”
“No. Why?”
“What about her mobile phone? Where was that?”
“I don’t know. The police returned it to me but I’ve no idea where they found it.”
Dylan walked into the hallway and on to the kitchen. A small window beside the door, a foot square, had been boarded up. Cupboard doors were open. Contents had been knocked to the floor.
“There was sixty pounds on the table apparently,” Maddie said. “I don’t know where that is. I suppose the police have it, checking for fingerprints or something.”
Any burglar happy to steal a couple of hundred pounds’ worth of stuff would have thought his birthday had come as he’d shoved sixty pounds in his pocket.
“What’s it like upstairs?” he asked.
“The same.” She hunted for an ashtray, couldn’t find one and flicked ash into the remains of a broken cup. “Have a look for yourself.”
He walked up the stairs and into the spare bedroom first. A single bed was pushed against the wall but, other than that, it was simply a place to store things. Four brown cardboard boxes had been torn open. They contained books, mainly well-worn paperbacks. A rug was rolled up and stood upright against a window that offered a view of a small back garden.
The bathroom looked untouched. Four leggy plants sat on the windowsill gathering dust and begging for water. Inside a small cabinet with a mirrored door, he found an array of toiletries. A cupboard beneath the washbasin housed white towels.
Another small bedroom had been set up as a workshop. Small hammers, pliers and tweezers sat alongside squares of wood on a table. Boxes and jars of cheap colourful beads were lined up. It looked as if she’d been working on a bracelet—cheap beads strung on leather. There was no evidence of precious jewels or gold and silver, but that wasn’t surprising. He’d looked at her internet shop and most items sold for less than a tenner. She’d specialised in cheap and quirky rather than quality jewellery.
The main bedroom, like the other rooms, was a mess. It overlooked the front of the property and he wondered if Doreen could see him standing at the window. He turned from the window and looked around the room. It was difficult to believe that this chaos had once been Prue’s refuge from the world, the place she lay awake dreaming of the future or slept peacefully with no thought of tomorrow. The bed’s covers, dumped in a pile on the mattress, were pale blue dotted with delicate yellow flowers. A set of fairy lights had been draped along the headboard. A paperback— Exit Music by Ian Rankin—was bookmarked at page 83. Sadly, Prue’s own exit music had played too early for her to finish the story. A mirror, its glass cracked, leaned against the wall. T-shirts and sweaters spilled out of a couple of drawers. Dylan looked in a wardrobe that would easily have held twice as many clothes. A quick check of the labels told him she bought her clothes from a supermarket.
He walked out of the room and stood at the top of the stairs looking down at a heavy oak table. Thanks to forensic officers, it was covered in various sorts of powder and gel. He turned round so that he had his back to the stairs. It was possible the killer came out of the spare room and threatened her, causing her to take a step backwards—
No. That didn’t add up. Nothing made sense.
He walked
“I don’t smoke.” He often envied those who did.
Her hands shook as she lit it. Dark circles surrounded eyes that were a little puffy. Her naturally pale skin was a sickly grey.
“Prue was definitely wearing pyjamas when she was killed?” he asked.
“Sorry? Well, yes, she was. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I’m just curious. Did she enjoy music? Might she have gone to bed and listened to an iPod or something through earphones?”
“I wouldn’t think so. She wasn’t really a music person. She might have read, I suppose. She was a great reader. Why do you ask?”
“Is there a phone in her bedroom?”
“No. Why?”
“What about her mobile phone? Where was that?”
“I don’t know. The police returned it to me but I’ve no idea where they found it.”
Dylan walked into the hallway and on to the kitchen. A small window beside the door, a foot square, had been boarded up. Cupboard doors were open. Contents had been knocked to the floor.
“There was sixty pounds on the table apparently,” Maddie said. “I don’t know where that is. I suppose the police have it, checking for fingerprints or something.”
Any burglar happy to steal a couple of hundred pounds’ worth of stuff would have thought his birthday had come as he’d shoved sixty pounds in his pocket.
“What’s it like upstairs?” he asked.
“The same.” She hunted for an ashtray, couldn’t find one and flicked ash into the remains of a broken cup. “Have a look for yourself.”
He walked up the stairs and into the spare bedroom first. A single bed was pushed against the wall but, other than that, it was simply a place to store things. Four brown cardboard boxes had been torn open. They contained books, mainly well-worn paperbacks. A rug was rolled up and stood upright against a window that offered a view of a small back garden.
The bathroom looked untouched. Four leggy plants sat on the windowsill gathering dust and begging for water. Inside a small cabinet with a mirrored door, he found an array of toiletries. A cupboard beneath the washbasin housed white towels.
Another small bedroom had been set up as a workshop. Small hammers, pliers and tweezers sat alongside squares of wood on a table. Boxes and jars of cheap colourful beads were lined up. It looked as if she’d been working on a bracelet—cheap beads strung on leather. There was no evidence of precious jewels or gold and silver, but that wasn’t surprising. He’d looked at her internet shop and most items sold for less than a tenner. She’d specialised in cheap and quirky rather than quality jewellery.
The main bedroom, like the other rooms, was a mess. It overlooked the front of the property and he wondered if Doreen could see him standing at the window. He turned from the window and looked around the room. It was difficult to believe that this chaos had once been Prue’s refuge from the world, the place she lay awake dreaming of the future or slept peacefully with no thought of tomorrow. The bed’s covers, dumped in a pile on the mattress, were pale blue dotted with delicate yellow flowers. A set of fairy lights had been draped along the headboard. A paperback— Exit Music by Ian Rankin—was bookmarked at page 83. Sadly, Prue’s own exit music had played too early for her to finish the story. A mirror, its glass cracked, leaned against the wall. T-shirts and sweaters spilled out of a couple of drawers. Dylan looked in a wardrobe that would easily have held twice as many clothes. A quick check of the labels told him she bought her clothes from a supermarket.
He walked out of the room and stood at the top of the stairs looking down at a heavy oak table. Thanks to forensic officers, it was covered in various sorts of powder and gel. He turned round so that he had his back to the stairs. It was possible the killer came out of the spare room and threatened her, causing her to take a step backwards—
No. That didn’t add up. Nothing made sense.
He walked
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