The Affair by Emma Kavanagh Page B

she will talk to me.
    ‘Well, I’ll tell you, Muriel …’ I jot down the name Muriel. Another voice, this one floating from somewhere near the back. ‘I heard a car, late – late Saturday night. Was out of here like a bat out of hell. I bet you anything that had something to do with it. I said to you, didn’t I, Phil?’
    ‘Aye, you did.’
    Phil. Car, late on Saturday.
    ‘See.’
    I look back to the front door. It stands open, and every now and again there is a flutter of movement as a white forensic suit crosses the opening. They do not look at us, the waiting audience; just keep their heads down and get on with studying death. I think about Sian Myricks, about the profile picture with the round face, clumsily applied lipstick and the expression that seemed to be slightly surprised. Why are you dead, Sian? Were they coming after you, too? Or were you simply one of the unfortunates, in the wrong place at the wrong time?
    Clouds are beginning to mass overhead, dense and grey. The wind has picked up. I suppress a shiver, wonder if the neighbours will have solved the murder before the rain starts. Then I hear the soft squeal of car brakes, the squawk of an opening door.
    My feet begin to move before my mind does, because I have done this before and I know how these things work, so I already knew that Del would be here. I push my way through the crowd, get to its edge just as he is climbing his way out of the unmarked Ford Focus. He catches sight of me, grins.
    ‘Might have known you’d be here.’
    I smile back. ‘You know me too well.’
    I’ve known Del since nursery school, kissed him once in a game of spin-the-bottle. That, however, was the beginning and the end of our romance, and these days we settle for passing gentle barbs back and forth at one another across police lines. He’s a good guy, a detective constable for the moment, although scuttlebutt tells me there’s a promotion in the offing, a shift back to uniform, but as a sergeant this time. He often tells me more than he should. Fortunately I know how to use his information judiciously. It must be working. He hasn’t been fired yet.
    ‘So, you have something for me?’
    Del laughs. ‘Patience, Charlie. God! All I know so far is it’s a married couple …’
    ‘Morris and Sian Myricks.’
    ‘Yeah, that’s them. Forensics are in, but we’ve got to wait for Firearms to clear the scene.’
    ‘Firearms? They were shot?’
    ‘No, but Forensics found a gun in the house. So it’s got to be checked and removed. Do you know Aden, by the way?’
    I hadn’t noticed the officer behind him, dressed in dark firearms gear, boots laced up high. Tall, dark-blond hair, good-looking enough that I wished I’d run a comb through my hair before I left the office. ‘No, hi. I’m Charlie.’
    Aden nods, gives me a swift smile. ‘Nice to meet you. I’d better get inside, Del.’
    ‘Yeah, I’m coming. Charlie, I’ll call you in a bit?’
    The crowd parts before them, heads turning as if on springs to follow this latest development. And I go back to waiting. I do this. A lot.
    The elderly lady, Muriel – the one who looks like she has been dipped in make-up – looks across at me, the foundation facade fracturing as she frowns. ‘I’ve seen you before somewhere, ’aven’t I?’
    I add my best smile. ‘Charlotte Solomon,
Swansea Times
. I tend to work around here quite a bit. Can I ask – you knew the Myricks?’
    ‘Aye, well, been here a long time, me. Lovely girl, Sian, lovely.’
    The division leaps out at me. ‘And Morris?’
    She purses her lips. ‘Well, let’s just say he was lucky to have Sian. What with everything.’ She isn’t looking at me, is glaring off into the crowd at the narrow woman with the hook-nose. It seems that she feels the force of the gaze, her head lifting slowly, her stare baleful. Muriel shakes her head, a Tchh sound escaping her.
    ‘You mean …’
    ‘No, well, there are others that would need to talk to you about