guilt and provided tissues and cups of coffee. So she
was abashed when Dorinda looked at her defiantly and refused to say a word: not
because she was struck dumb with grief, but because she didn't want to. Grief
didn't come into it.
'I'm sorry to have to ask this, Mrs
Openheim,' Rachel said gently. "I know it's an upsetting time for you.'
Dorinda shrugged.
'We'd just like to have a quick look
through your husband's things. It's merely routine. Would that be all right?'
Dorinda pressed her scarlet lips
together impatiently. 'Sure, honey. Do what the hell you like. Take his things
if you want. He won't be needing them where he's gone.'
Rachel was lost for words. It was a
well-known fact in the police force that most murders were perpetrated by a
spouse or close relative of the victim. But, she thought, if Dorinda
Openheim had killed her husband, surely she would have put on a show of grief
to throw them off the track. And her attitude towards her late husband
indicated indifference rather than hatred.
'You can be there while I look
through his things if you like.'
'What's the point? You've got an
honest face, honey. You ain't going to steal nothing.'
There didn't seem much point in
Rachel's next question but she asked it anyway. 'Will you be all right on your
own. Mrs Openheim? Is there anyone you'd like to sit with you?'
Dorinda gave her a look of contempt.
'At my age, honey, I can take care of myself. I'll get along to the bar. That
okay with you?'
Rachel, speechless, nodded.
In the first-floor bedroom
overlooking the sea, she looked through the wardrobe and the drawers. She
thought how her mother and her aunts would have loved this part of the job. coming
as they did from a generation that kept itself to itself and thrilled at any
glimpse into the private world of others. Dorinda had brought far more clothes
with her to England than her husband had: dresses, suits, skirts and sweaters
filled all the
available space, while Norman's clothes (a blazer, three brightly coloured
shirts and two pairs of casual slacks) were pushed into a far corner of the
wardrobe. The drawers told the same story: all but one contained Dorinda's
things. Norman had been lucky to get
one small drawer in which to store his brightly coloured golfing jumpers.
Rachel looked round. There was
nothing out of the ordinary. Even the pockets of Norman's blazer contained only
a handkerchief, some loose change and a
couple of used ferry tickets printed with Sunday's date.
Ferry tickets. She returned to the
wardrobe and took them from the pocket. What had Norman been doing on the
Tradmouth passenger ferry on the day he was to die? She put the tickets in a plastic
exhibit bag (she had come prepared), then she searched the
suitcases beneath the bed.
Norman's underwear was well worn and
washed out. Dorinda's was lacy, sexy and new-looking. Rachel allowed herself
the hope that she would still be wearing pants and bras like that when she reached
Dorinda's age.
The search of the cases yielded nothing
of interest. Rachel was about to leave the room when she spotted the wastepaper
basket pushed under the kneehole of the dressing table. Beneath the make-up-covered
lumps of cotton wool and the used coffee bags.
Rachel saw the telltale blue of airmail paper. The paper was crumpled into a ball, but she drew it out carefully and
flattened it out on the floor. It was an air letter, postmarked Tradmouth,
Devon.
'My dear Norman .' it began.
'When I got
your letter I didn't know what to do after all these years. There's been a lot
of water under the bridge since 1944.
I'm a widow now
with a grown-up daughter and two grandchildren. If you're coming to Devon I'd
like to see you again. I still think of you as that handsome boy who used to
take me to that old chapel... do you remember? I suppose I wouldn't recognise
you
now ... or you me. Time does awful things to people, doesn't it?
I'd like us to
meet.
was abashed when Dorinda looked at her defiantly and refused to say a word: not
because she was struck dumb with grief, but because she didn't want to. Grief
didn't come into it.
'I'm sorry to have to ask this, Mrs
Openheim,' Rachel said gently. "I know it's an upsetting time for you.'
Dorinda shrugged.
'We'd just like to have a quick look
through your husband's things. It's merely routine. Would that be all right?'
Dorinda pressed her scarlet lips
together impatiently. 'Sure, honey. Do what the hell you like. Take his things
if you want. He won't be needing them where he's gone.'
Rachel was lost for words. It was a
well-known fact in the police force that most murders were perpetrated by a
spouse or close relative of the victim. But, she thought, if Dorinda
Openheim had killed her husband, surely she would have put on a show of grief
to throw them off the track. And her attitude towards her late husband
indicated indifference rather than hatred.
'You can be there while I look
through his things if you like.'
'What's the point? You've got an
honest face, honey. You ain't going to steal nothing.'
There didn't seem much point in
Rachel's next question but she asked it anyway. 'Will you be all right on your
own. Mrs Openheim? Is there anyone you'd like to sit with you?'
Dorinda gave her a look of contempt.
'At my age, honey, I can take care of myself. I'll get along to the bar. That
okay with you?'
Rachel, speechless, nodded.
In the first-floor bedroom
overlooking the sea, she looked through the wardrobe and the drawers. She
thought how her mother and her aunts would have loved this part of the job. coming
as they did from a generation that kept itself to itself and thrilled at any
glimpse into the private world of others. Dorinda had brought far more clothes
with her to England than her husband had: dresses, suits, skirts and sweaters
filled all the
available space, while Norman's clothes (a blazer, three brightly coloured
shirts and two pairs of casual slacks) were pushed into a far corner of the
wardrobe. The drawers told the same story: all but one contained Dorinda's
things. Norman had been lucky to get
one small drawer in which to store his brightly coloured golfing jumpers.
Rachel looked round. There was
nothing out of the ordinary. Even the pockets of Norman's blazer contained only
a handkerchief, some loose change and a
couple of used ferry tickets printed with Sunday's date.
Ferry tickets. She returned to the
wardrobe and took them from the pocket. What had Norman been doing on the
Tradmouth passenger ferry on the day he was to die? She put the tickets in a plastic
exhibit bag (she had come prepared), then she searched the
suitcases beneath the bed.
Norman's underwear was well worn and
washed out. Dorinda's was lacy, sexy and new-looking. Rachel allowed herself
the hope that she would still be wearing pants and bras like that when she reached
Dorinda's age.
The search of the cases yielded nothing
of interest. Rachel was about to leave the room when she spotted the wastepaper
basket pushed under the kneehole of the dressing table. Beneath the make-up-covered
lumps of cotton wool and the used coffee bags.
Rachel saw the telltale blue of airmail paper. The paper was crumpled into a ball, but she drew it out carefully and
flattened it out on the floor. It was an air letter, postmarked Tradmouth,
Devon.
'My dear Norman .' it began.
'When I got
your letter I didn't know what to do after all these years. There's been a lot
of water under the bridge since 1944.
I'm a widow now
with a grown-up daughter and two grandchildren. If you're coming to Devon I'd
like to see you again. I still think of you as that handsome boy who used to
take me to that old chapel... do you remember? I suppose I wouldn't recognise
you
now ... or you me. Time does awful things to people, doesn't it?
I'd like us to
meet.
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