slipping. Eight miles used to be plenty to get a feel for a man.
At the address, Pierre walked beside me to the front door. I could smell his aftershave. He knocked and we waited. A woman in her mid-sixties came to the door. She was wearing a green velvet dressing gown tied with a gold cord, red lipstick on her lips bleeding on to her face, and a jet-black wig, which was wonky on her head.
Pierre said, ‘Mrs Newman? Police.’ We both showed our identification.
She didn’t look down at the warrant cards, but walked back along the hallway, saying, ‘Come in, come in.’
Pierre and I looked at each other and followed her inside. I noticed that on her left foot was a red slipper and on her right a green one. We hastened after her into the lounge, a pleasant if musty room. So far, she didn’t seem too bothered about why there were two police officers in her house, but that could have been because she was crazy. As a police officer I wasn’t qualified to make a medical or psychological diagnosis, but I wasn’t about to turn my back to her.
She indicated that we sit on the sofa opposite the armchair she had just taken.
‘Thank you,’ said Pierre as we sat down. ‘Can I just confirm that you are Mrs Newman, Josie Newman’s mother?’
‘Yes,’ she answered with a nod. The wig inched forward. ‘I’m Susan Newman.’
‘Is Josie here?’ asked Pierre.
‘No, she’s not. She lives abroad now.’ Susan was sitting upright in the chair, leaning back against the headrest. ‘She had to get away once little Josh died, things were so bad for her. She went to France with a boyfriend.’
‘Josh…?’ said Pierre.
‘Her son, my grandson. He fell into the fishpond in the garden when he was two. He was only out of our sight for a minute.’ Her mouth dropped as she said this, accentuated all the more by the lipstick. I’d found the Baby Jane impression pretty hilarious at the front door. It didn’t seem so funny now.
Pierre and I persevered with our questions but after half an hour we weren’t really sure that we were getting anywhere. Taking contact details for Josie and giving her our cards, we got up to leave.
Susan stood up too. Her wig remained in the chair. It must have been caught on the chair-back cover. She didn’t seem to notice and we were too embarrassed to say anything. Her head was almost entirely bald. Just a few white, wispy strands remained.
As we walked back along the hallway, she said, ‘Pierre Rainer. Are you French?’
We looked round at her and saw she was holding our business cards, one in each hand.
Pierre winked at me. ‘Yes, Mrs Newman, I am.’
‘Thought so. You have that garlic look about you.’
Chapter 13
O nce back in the car, we set off for our next visit.
‘Sad, a little kid dying like that. Wonder if she was barking mad before he died?’ I said to my colleague for the day.
‘Don’t know but, as you said, it’s sad. You got any kids, Nina?’
Here we go, I thought to myself: this might have just got easier. ‘No, just me. No one to please or worry about. You, Pierre?’
‘No. I do want kids but it’s not looking likely in the near future. I split with my partner about two months ago.’
‘You never know – you just have to meet the right person.’
‘I thought I had, but it turned out he didn’t want the same things in life.’
For crying out loud. I really was losing my touch. Might as well rip into the Galaxy bar in my handbag now.
I searched through my bag for the chocolate and offered Pierre a chunk to show there were no hard feelings. ‘Were you together long?’ I asked.
‘Four years. We still speak but, you know…’
Yeah, I did know. Knew that the smell of his aftershave was getting on my nerves. I opened a window.
As we drove, I tried Josie Newman’s number several times, but got no reply. Finally, towards the end of the afternoon, with several other dead-end enquiries out of the way, we got a reply. Pierre spoke to her on speakerphone
At the address, Pierre walked beside me to the front door. I could smell his aftershave. He knocked and we waited. A woman in her mid-sixties came to the door. She was wearing a green velvet dressing gown tied with a gold cord, red lipstick on her lips bleeding on to her face, and a jet-black wig, which was wonky on her head.
Pierre said, ‘Mrs Newman? Police.’ We both showed our identification.
She didn’t look down at the warrant cards, but walked back along the hallway, saying, ‘Come in, come in.’
Pierre and I looked at each other and followed her inside. I noticed that on her left foot was a red slipper and on her right a green one. We hastened after her into the lounge, a pleasant if musty room. So far, she didn’t seem too bothered about why there were two police officers in her house, but that could have been because she was crazy. As a police officer I wasn’t qualified to make a medical or psychological diagnosis, but I wasn’t about to turn my back to her.
She indicated that we sit on the sofa opposite the armchair she had just taken.
‘Thank you,’ said Pierre as we sat down. ‘Can I just confirm that you are Mrs Newman, Josie Newman’s mother?’
‘Yes,’ she answered with a nod. The wig inched forward. ‘I’m Susan Newman.’
‘Is Josie here?’ asked Pierre.
‘No, she’s not. She lives abroad now.’ Susan was sitting upright in the chair, leaning back against the headrest. ‘She had to get away once little Josh died, things were so bad for her. She went to France with a boyfriend.’
‘Josh…?’ said Pierre.
‘Her son, my grandson. He fell into the fishpond in the garden when he was two. He was only out of our sight for a minute.’ Her mouth dropped as she said this, accentuated all the more by the lipstick. I’d found the Baby Jane impression pretty hilarious at the front door. It didn’t seem so funny now.
Pierre and I persevered with our questions but after half an hour we weren’t really sure that we were getting anywhere. Taking contact details for Josie and giving her our cards, we got up to leave.
Susan stood up too. Her wig remained in the chair. It must have been caught on the chair-back cover. She didn’t seem to notice and we were too embarrassed to say anything. Her head was almost entirely bald. Just a few white, wispy strands remained.
As we walked back along the hallway, she said, ‘Pierre Rainer. Are you French?’
We looked round at her and saw she was holding our business cards, one in each hand.
Pierre winked at me. ‘Yes, Mrs Newman, I am.’
‘Thought so. You have that garlic look about you.’
Chapter 13
O nce back in the car, we set off for our next visit.
‘Sad, a little kid dying like that. Wonder if she was barking mad before he died?’ I said to my colleague for the day.
‘Don’t know but, as you said, it’s sad. You got any kids, Nina?’
Here we go, I thought to myself: this might have just got easier. ‘No, just me. No one to please or worry about. You, Pierre?’
‘No. I do want kids but it’s not looking likely in the near future. I split with my partner about two months ago.’
‘You never know – you just have to meet the right person.’
‘I thought I had, but it turned out he didn’t want the same things in life.’
For crying out loud. I really was losing my touch. Might as well rip into the Galaxy bar in my handbag now.
I searched through my bag for the chocolate and offered Pierre a chunk to show there were no hard feelings. ‘Were you together long?’ I asked.
‘Four years. We still speak but, you know…’
Yeah, I did know. Knew that the smell of his aftershave was getting on my nerves. I opened a window.
As we drove, I tried Josie Newman’s number several times, but got no reply. Finally, towards the end of the afternoon, with several other dead-end enquiries out of the way, we got a reply. Pierre spoke to her on speakerphone
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