know that someone else would be collecting the Pengelly children.
‘What did she die of?’
‘We don’t know yet for certain. There’ll be a post-mortem.’
‘Oh, I see.’
The two officers exchanged a glance. Most people were upset when they heard this news, Mrs Pengelly’s daughter-in-law actually seemed pleased. An empty paracetamol bottle did not necessarily prove that the old lady had swallowed the lot, she may simply have taken the last two because of chest pains for all they knew. It was up to the pathologist to find out. For the moment their instructions were that the cause of death was as yet unknown.
‘Can we go ahead with any arrangements?’
‘I’m afraid not, not until after the inquest.’
‘Inquest. Yes, I see.’ Gwen pressed her lips firmly together. In a minute she’d lose control, she’d felt her teeth knocking when she relaxed her jaw. ‘And the post-mortem, why’s that necessary?’
‘It’s quite normal under the circumstances if someone dies suddenly and they’re not under medical supervision.’
‘Yes. Good.’
PC Tregidgo raised his eyebrows and tilted his head towards the kitchen. The WPC took the hint and went to put the kettle on. Mrs Pengelly seemed to be in shock, her reactions were not those they usually experienced in such cases.
‘What time’ll your husband be home?’
Gwen looked up. The policeman did seem young, it was true what they said. ‘Not until about ten. He works for Great Western.’
‘Is there someone who can sit with you?’
‘No. I’ll be fine, and I’ll have the children.’
By the time they had drunk the tea the children had returned home, dropped by one of the neighbours. They were unnaturally quiet at the sight of the two uniforms and went upstairs to their rooms.
Alone at last Gwen went straight to the kitchen cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whisky. She half filled a tumbler and drank most of it standing by the sink. It was an unprecedented action but never more needed. Five minutes later she started to prepare tea for Kirsty and Michael. Breathing deeply to steady herself she realised that now she would be able to buy some more dresses. She never wore jeans or trousers, they were unfeminineand she knew what men liked. Better still, they could move to a large house. But first she had to deal with the guilt and the fear.
Rose was staring out of the window; her face was wet with tears so she did not immediately notice it was raining, ‘Oh, Dorothy,’ she said sadly. ‘How I’m going to miss you.’ She brushed at her face impatiently and went to the kitchen and out into the garden to retrieve the washing which flapped furiously in the spray-laden wind and rain. Hurriedly she unpegged it and threw it into the basket. From the comparative warmth of the kitchen she could hear the loose brass knob on her bedroom door rattling because the windows were open.
As she placed the washing basket on the table a wave of exhaustion swept over her. Delayed reaction. As long as there had been Martin to consider her own feelings hadn’t come into it. And now she was dreading telling Barry Rowe. Rose could not see that Dorothy’s death was that simple. Yes, she was old and not quite as strong as she liked to think, but she was tough and she hadn’t shown any of the symptoms of heart disease. Yes, Rose knew it could happen, a sudden massive coronary, but not to Dorothy, surely? Barry would struggle to hide his annoyance because he was always angry when she became too involved with other people. Jealous, more like, she thought. But Barry Rowe and Jack Pearce no longer seemed to matter much. At some point during that apparently fruitful staring out of the window she had made up her mind about her future.
With a glass of wine in her hand she waited in the sitting-room in her favourite armchair for Barry to arrive. The suite was covered in fading chintz, there was an open fire, lit in the winter to supplement the central heating, and cosy
‘What did she die of?’
‘We don’t know yet for certain. There’ll be a post-mortem.’
‘Oh, I see.’
The two officers exchanged a glance. Most people were upset when they heard this news, Mrs Pengelly’s daughter-in-law actually seemed pleased. An empty paracetamol bottle did not necessarily prove that the old lady had swallowed the lot, she may simply have taken the last two because of chest pains for all they knew. It was up to the pathologist to find out. For the moment their instructions were that the cause of death was as yet unknown.
‘Can we go ahead with any arrangements?’
‘I’m afraid not, not until after the inquest.’
‘Inquest. Yes, I see.’ Gwen pressed her lips firmly together. In a minute she’d lose control, she’d felt her teeth knocking when she relaxed her jaw. ‘And the post-mortem, why’s that necessary?’
‘It’s quite normal under the circumstances if someone dies suddenly and they’re not under medical supervision.’
‘Yes. Good.’
PC Tregidgo raised his eyebrows and tilted his head towards the kitchen. The WPC took the hint and went to put the kettle on. Mrs Pengelly seemed to be in shock, her reactions were not those they usually experienced in such cases.
‘What time’ll your husband be home?’
Gwen looked up. The policeman did seem young, it was true what they said. ‘Not until about ten. He works for Great Western.’
‘Is there someone who can sit with you?’
‘No. I’ll be fine, and I’ll have the children.’
By the time they had drunk the tea the children had returned home, dropped by one of the neighbours. They were unnaturally quiet at the sight of the two uniforms and went upstairs to their rooms.
Alone at last Gwen went straight to the kitchen cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whisky. She half filled a tumbler and drank most of it standing by the sink. It was an unprecedented action but never more needed. Five minutes later she started to prepare tea for Kirsty and Michael. Breathing deeply to steady herself she realised that now she would be able to buy some more dresses. She never wore jeans or trousers, they were unfeminineand she knew what men liked. Better still, they could move to a large house. But first she had to deal with the guilt and the fear.
Rose was staring out of the window; her face was wet with tears so she did not immediately notice it was raining, ‘Oh, Dorothy,’ she said sadly. ‘How I’m going to miss you.’ She brushed at her face impatiently and went to the kitchen and out into the garden to retrieve the washing which flapped furiously in the spray-laden wind and rain. Hurriedly she unpegged it and threw it into the basket. From the comparative warmth of the kitchen she could hear the loose brass knob on her bedroom door rattling because the windows were open.
As she placed the washing basket on the table a wave of exhaustion swept over her. Delayed reaction. As long as there had been Martin to consider her own feelings hadn’t come into it. And now she was dreading telling Barry Rowe. Rose could not see that Dorothy’s death was that simple. Yes, she was old and not quite as strong as she liked to think, but she was tough and she hadn’t shown any of the symptoms of heart disease. Yes, Rose knew it could happen, a sudden massive coronary, but not to Dorothy, surely? Barry would struggle to hide his annoyance because he was always angry when she became too involved with other people. Jealous, more like, she thought. But Barry Rowe and Jack Pearce no longer seemed to matter much. At some point during that apparently fruitful staring out of the window she had made up her mind about her future.
With a glass of wine in her hand she waited in the sitting-room in her favourite armchair for Barry to arrive. The suite was covered in fading chintz, there was an open fire, lit in the winter to supplement the central heating, and cosy
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