Post Mortem by Kate London Page A

Stewart’s, which was only next door, and yet Lizzie’s sense of it was so different. This woman, it seemed, lived only on the surface of the place and had in no way penetrated its core. It was mutual: the house had had no effect on her either. She seemed to move around these rooms, transposed as if by green screen from her North African city.
    The kitchen, like the hall, was dark. There was the smell of foreign food. Although there was washing on the floor and dirty plates on the side, the room did not feel truly inhabited. It felt as though the family could leave in a matter of minutes and never again be found. The floor was cheap linoleum, an orange flowery pattern left over from the sixties. The work surfaces were Formica, edged with pine panelling. Someone else’s optimism, lingering long after its authors had disappeared. There were no pictures on the walls, no books, no clues as to the inner life of the place.
    Mrs Mehenni passed Lizzie the phone.
    â€˜Yes, who are you?’ The voice was female, heavily accented, and angry.
    â€˜I’m a police officer.’
    â€˜I know that. What’s your name?’
    â€˜PC Griffiths.’
    â€˜And your number?’
    â€˜611DW.’
    â€˜I’ve made a note of that, PC Griffiths. Now tell me what are you doing there.’
    â€˜Who are you?’
    â€˜You are in my mother’s house. I want you to leave.’
    â€˜Your mother is Mrs Mehenni?’
    Silence.
    â€˜We need to speak to your brother, Younes.’
    â€˜What about?’
    â€˜I’m not sure I can discuss that—’
    Mrs Mehenni was talking loudly and gesturing for the phone. Lizzie handed it to her. There was a ring at the doorbell and she turned to see who was there. But Mrs Mehenni was passing the phone back and Lizzie was detained by the angry voice on the other end of the line.
    â€˜My mother says Younes is not there. You can look in the garden if you like.’
    Mrs Mehenni had opened the back door and was gesturing for Lizzie to go outside. Along the hallway Lizzie heard the click of the front door opening. She looked over her shoulder. Hadley was standing in the doorway. Just past his bulk she could see the slight figure of a girl dressed in school uniform. She could not concentrate on this new arrival – Mrs Mehenni was speaking and through the earpiece of the phone Lizzie also heard the other distant voice, imperious and seething with disdain.
    â€˜Have you been outside?’
    Lizzie stepped into the yard. It was neglected, damp and cold under an overcast sky. Concrete paving slabs that she could see had once been yellow and pink were stained grey-green by lichen and rainfall. In the corner a neglected sandpit was filled with rain. Just over the fence she could see Ben Stewart’s toppled red tricycle. The splat of a raindrop landed on the discarded novel that lay next to Carrie’s bench. Another raindrop fell on Lizzie’s hand.
    â€˜No one there?’ Lizzie heard again the scornful disembodied voice down the phone. ‘Now you’ve looked everywhere, please go. You are upsetting my mother.’
    â€˜Could you tell your mother we need to speak with her son? Does she know where he is?’
    There was the sudden heavy patter of the rain shower bursting. Lizzie stepped back into the kitchen. The voice on the other end of the phone continued.
    â€˜Give me back to my mother.’
    Mrs Mehenni spoke to her daughter in a torrent before handing the phone back to Lizzie with some urgency. The dam burst of words between mother and daughter was reported as a brief statement: ‘My mother does not know where my brother is.’
    â€˜Can one of you tell him we need to speak to him? Can he come to the station?’
    â€˜Neither of us has spoken to him for more than a week. We don’t know where he is. If you don’t leave immediately, you can expect a formal complaint.’
    Hadley was standing in the entrance to