So Much Blood by Simon Brett Page A

a shock. But please don’t feel you have to say anything. Willy and I weren’t love’s young dream, you know.’ The accent was Scots and she spoke quietly, but there was a hard note in her voice.
    â€˜Did you live together?’
    â€˜Up to a point. Though one or other of us always seemed to be touring or something.’
    â€˜You’re a musician too?’
    â€˜Yes. I sing in folk clubs. Not Willy’s sort of music. We grew apart musically as well as everything else.’ She leant forward and tapped the glass partition. ‘If you drop us just here . . .’
    Meadow Lane was lined with grey houses, considerably smaller than those of Coates Gardens. They had the dusty shabbiness of the Old Town. Most of the windows were shrouded with grey net. But on the house they stopped by the windows were clean and unveiled.
    Charles let Jean pay the driver. She turned to him. ‘Can you manage that on your own? It’s heavy.’
    It certainly was. Also an awkward size. His hands could not quite clasp round it. But he was determined to manage.
    As she opened the front door, he noticed a worn stone slab over it which dated the house: 1797. Inside, however, the place had been extensively modernised. There was no sign of a fireplace in the front room, but there were new-looking central heating radiators. Everything gleamed with fresh white paint. There was even a smell of it. The room was empty of furniture, but a ladder and a pile of rubble in the corner indicated decorating in progress.
    He lowered the amplifier gratefully on to the uncarpeted floor. ‘Would you mind putting it against the wall there where people can’t see it? The catch has gone on the window and I don’t want to encourage burglars.’
    Another effort moved the amplifier to the required position. He stood up. Jean Mariello had left the front door open and stood with her arms folded. He was expected to go.
    And he was never likely to get such a good opportunity for finding out more about Willy. No point in beating about the bush. ‘Mrs Mariello, do you think your husband was murdered?’
    She was not shocked or angry, she seemed to expect the question. ‘No, I don’t.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜No one wanted to kill him. Listen, Willy wasn’t a particularly nice person. He was mean and lazy. But those aren’t reasons for anyone to murder someone.’
    â€˜No. But you can’t think of anything he might have done to antagonise anyone in that Derby lot?’
    â€˜I’ve hardly met any of that Derby lot, so I wouldn’t know. Listen, Mr Paris, I can understand your curiosity, but the police have asked me all these questions and so has everyone I’ve met for the past two days. I’m getting rather bored with it, and I’d be grateful if you would stop.’
    â€˜I’m sorry, Mrs Mariello, but I do have a reason for asking.’ And he told her of his encounter with Willy in the Truth Game. At the end he paused dramatically.
    She did not seem over-impressed. ‘You say he seemed troubled?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Probably some horse he’d backed had been beaten.’
    â€˜No, it was more than that. I’m sure it was. Something that really went deep.’
    â€˜Nothing went very deep with Willy. That Truth Game could have meant anything. What makes you so sure it was something serious?’
    He could only supply a lame ‘Instinct’.
    To give her her due, Jean Mariello did not actually laugh out loud. ‘Well, instinct tells me, from knowing him pretty well, that the only thing that upset Willy was not getting his own way. He was spoilt. He’d had a lot of success and it went to his head. Used to be just a builder’s labourer, playing guitar in his spare time. Then the group took off and suddenly he was famous. Everyone gave him everything he wanted and he started getting bad-tempered if anything didn’t fail into