bitter wind hit him. ‘You need to get a proper coat for this weather, Eb. That thing you’re wearing’s seen better days.’
‘It’s fine, guv. Honestly.’ She rolled her eyes.
They reached the black BMW. Willis got into the passenger seat and Carter started the engine. Before pulling out he picked out a tissue from the compartment between the seats. He handed it across to Willis, who hadn’t managed to stop sniffing since they’d met. Carter knew there was no point in telling her she needed to wrap up warmer. She was a hardy animal. She might not think she felt the cold but her nose dripped like a tap.
‘Thanks.’ She took it and gave one wipe of the nose, then stuffed the tissue into her pocket and sniffed loudly again. The gap in Ebony’s social etiquette was too big to fill and yet it didn’t amount to anything in real terms. She ate off her knife. She ate with her fingers. She piled ketchup on everything.
‘There it is, guv.’
They pulled up across the street from the house and walked towards the neat front garden, split by a path running down the centre.
‘This area costs a fortune to live in,’ said Willis. ‘You can see the new money along here.’
‘Whereas this place looks like it’s been a while since it saw a paintbrush. Looks like it has probably been in the family a long time. The front garden has that look of someone older’s planting,’ mused Carter.
‘How do you know one plant from another?’
‘My mum loves her garden. She’s always working on colour schemes,’ answered Carter. ‘We took her to Chelsea Flower Show last year – she loved it. This wouldn’t be risky enough for her. There’s a lot of variegated shrubs, bark; this is a low-maintenance garden.’
Carter knocked on the door. A woman in her late sixties answered.
Carter showed his badge. ‘Mrs Turnbill?’ She nodded, looking from one officer to the other. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Dan Carter, this is Detective Constable Willis. Is Gareth in? Could we have a word with him, please?’
‘Gareth?’
‘Yes, nothing to worry about, it’s just about where he works.’
‘It’s closed today.’
‘Yes, we know, we are part of the investigation surrounding it.’ Carter smiled again. ‘Gareth?’ Willis took a step closer to the door to give Mrs Turnbill a hint.
‘Yes, please, come in.’ She stood out of the way for them to pass.
‘Thank you.’ Carter wiped his feet on the mat. ‘Would you like us to take our shoes off?’
‘God, no! We’ve got stone floors – your feet’ll freeze. Follow me.’
Willis was almost disappointed – it must have been one of the rare times she’d ever managed to find matching socks. She lived in a shared house where they didn’t have luxuries like a dishwasher or a washing machine. She took her laundry to the laundrette to be service-washed if she didn’t have time to do it herself – she gave it to the woman who smiled a lot but didn’t speak any English. She never seemed to get it all back. Somewhere out there were a lot of her socks.
Mrs Turnbill led them down towards a kitchen at the back of the house. The place hadn’t been redecorated for at least fifty years. There were 1950s-style cabinets in the kitchen that were now very sought-after. But it hadn’t been cleaned in a long time either. The only warmth was coming from an Aga.
‘Mrs Turnbill – Gareth’s your son, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. A late gift from God.’ She was obviously used to being confused with his grandmother. She smiled. ‘I’ll just fetch him – he’s outside. He spends nearly all his time in the shed.’ She left them in the kitchen as she went out through an ancient conservatory, which was dark and cold; thin, pale spider plants hung down from overcrammed hanging baskets. She opened a door that was just out of sight. Willis took a look around the corner and came back to Carter.
‘It’s impossible to see outside,’ she said. ‘It’s dark as a cow’s guts out there.
‘It’s fine, guv. Honestly.’ She rolled her eyes.
They reached the black BMW. Willis got into the passenger seat and Carter started the engine. Before pulling out he picked out a tissue from the compartment between the seats. He handed it across to Willis, who hadn’t managed to stop sniffing since they’d met. Carter knew there was no point in telling her she needed to wrap up warmer. She was a hardy animal. She might not think she felt the cold but her nose dripped like a tap.
‘Thanks.’ She took it and gave one wipe of the nose, then stuffed the tissue into her pocket and sniffed loudly again. The gap in Ebony’s social etiquette was too big to fill and yet it didn’t amount to anything in real terms. She ate off her knife. She ate with her fingers. She piled ketchup on everything.
‘There it is, guv.’
They pulled up across the street from the house and walked towards the neat front garden, split by a path running down the centre.
‘This area costs a fortune to live in,’ said Willis. ‘You can see the new money along here.’
‘Whereas this place looks like it’s been a while since it saw a paintbrush. Looks like it has probably been in the family a long time. The front garden has that look of someone older’s planting,’ mused Carter.
‘How do you know one plant from another?’
‘My mum loves her garden. She’s always working on colour schemes,’ answered Carter. ‘We took her to Chelsea Flower Show last year – she loved it. This wouldn’t be risky enough for her. There’s a lot of variegated shrubs, bark; this is a low-maintenance garden.’
Carter knocked on the door. A woman in her late sixties answered.
Carter showed his badge. ‘Mrs Turnbill?’ She nodded, looking from one officer to the other. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Dan Carter, this is Detective Constable Willis. Is Gareth in? Could we have a word with him, please?’
‘Gareth?’
‘Yes, nothing to worry about, it’s just about where he works.’
‘It’s closed today.’
‘Yes, we know, we are part of the investigation surrounding it.’ Carter smiled again. ‘Gareth?’ Willis took a step closer to the door to give Mrs Turnbill a hint.
‘Yes, please, come in.’ She stood out of the way for them to pass.
‘Thank you.’ Carter wiped his feet on the mat. ‘Would you like us to take our shoes off?’
‘God, no! We’ve got stone floors – your feet’ll freeze. Follow me.’
Willis was almost disappointed – it must have been one of the rare times she’d ever managed to find matching socks. She lived in a shared house where they didn’t have luxuries like a dishwasher or a washing machine. She took her laundry to the laundrette to be service-washed if she didn’t have time to do it herself – she gave it to the woman who smiled a lot but didn’t speak any English. She never seemed to get it all back. Somewhere out there were a lot of her socks.
Mrs Turnbill led them down towards a kitchen at the back of the house. The place hadn’t been redecorated for at least fifty years. There were 1950s-style cabinets in the kitchen that were now very sought-after. But it hadn’t been cleaned in a long time either. The only warmth was coming from an Aga.
‘Mrs Turnbill – Gareth’s your son, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. A late gift from God.’ She was obviously used to being confused with his grandmother. She smiled. ‘I’ll just fetch him – he’s outside. He spends nearly all his time in the shed.’ She left them in the kitchen as she went out through an ancient conservatory, which was dark and cold; thin, pale spider plants hung down from overcrammed hanging baskets. She opened a door that was just out of sight. Willis took a look around the corner and came back to Carter.
‘It’s impossible to see outside,’ she said. ‘It’s dark as a cow’s guts out there.
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