Golden Mile to Murder by Sally Spencer

‘Billy was a good provider,’ she said. ‘It was only right that he should come home to a bit of comfort.’
    â€˜Was he often at home?’ Woodend asked.
    The widow shook her head. ‘He worked very hard. He gave his job almost everything he had. But he always called to tell me when he was going to be late.’
    â€˜What about the night he was killed?’ Woodend asked. ‘Was he workin’?’
    â€˜Not exactly.’
    â€˜What do you mean by that, exactly?’
    â€˜He officially came off duty at six. But he rang me at about four o’clock – before I’d started to get his tea ready – to say he was going to be late.’
    â€˜Did he give any reason for it?’
    â€˜He said he had some paperwork to catch up on.’
    â€˜That would mean he intended to stay on at the station?’
    â€˜I suppose so.’
    â€˜So how did he come to end up under the Central Pier?’ Woodend asked. He paused. ‘I’m sorry to have to put things so bluntly. I know it must be painful.’
    â€˜I’m . . . I was . . . a policeman’s wife,’ Mrs Davies said. ‘I know what has to be done. In answer to your question, Mr Woodend, I’ve no idea what Billy was doing anywhere near the Central Pier.’
    â€˜As far as you know, was he havin’ any problems at work?’
    Mrs Davies hesitated for a second, then said, ‘Not generally. But I think something’s been preying on his mind for the last few weeks.’
    â€˜Did he mention anythin’ specific?’
    â€˜No,’ Mrs Davies admitted. ‘Billy wasn’t one to talk about his work. But I was still his wife, and I
knew
that something wasn’t quite right.’
    â€˜Is there anythin’ else you think I ought to know?’ Woodend coaxed.
    â€˜Nothing comes to mind,’ Mrs Davies said firmly.
    Either the widow had no more to say, or she was unwilling, for the moment, to say it. There seemed no point in prolonging the interview. Woodend stood up, and was just about to hold out his hand to her and produce some conventional soothing platitude when he noticed the silver-framed photograph on the mantelpiece.
    It was a picture of two children – a boy and a girl – standing in what was probably the Davieses’ back garden. The boy was about eight and, obviously conscious of the camera, had a wide grin on his face. The girl was perhaps two years younger than her brother. Her expression was blank, and her eyes were empty.
    â€˜That’s Peter and Susan,’ Mrs Davies said, noticing that Woodend was examining the picture. ‘I’ve sent Peter to stay with his auntie until after Billy’s funeral.’
    â€˜And Susan?’ Woodend asked, before he could stop himself.
    Mrs Davies’ face clenched in an emotional agony Woodend could only dimly begin to comprehend. ‘Susan’s . . . Susan’s in a special boarding school,’ she gasped. ‘I tried to look after her myself, but I couldn’t.
Everybody
said I couldn’t.’
    Woodend had not even seen Paniatowski rise from her seat, but suddenly the sergeant had her arms wrapped around the widow and was cooing softly into her ear.
    â€˜That’s all right, Mrs Davies. Don’t try to hold it in, Mrs Davies.’
    The widow didn’t. Instead she buried her head in the other woman’s shoulder, and began sobbing in earnest. With her right hand, Paniatowski gestured to Woodend that he should leave. The chief inspector needed no such urging. Cursing himself for his insensitivity – for not immediately grasping the meaning of the blank expression on the girl’s face – he tiptoed quietly down the hallway and out of the house.
    Mrs Davies took one last sip from her cup, and placed it back on its saucer. ‘It was very kind of you to make the tea,’ she said.
    Paniatowski smiled. ‘It was the least I could do after that boss of mine