There was no time for sympathy.
Geraldine sat down opposite Sophie Cliff. Behind her the sergeant spoke softly to Mrs Pettifer. Geraldine waited. A large flat screen television hung on the wall to one side. It had been muted. The screen was flashing with advertisements on the periphery of Geraldine’s vision. Beside it on a low table, a huge vase of lilies filled the air with their heavy scent. Geraldine fiercely dismissed the memory of her mother’s funeral.
Three large armchairs and a matching settee covered in a velvety red fabric stood in a semi-circle around the television.This probably wasn’t even the main living room. Geraldine recalled the Cliffs’ skeletal black kitchen, metal shreds of an extractor fan hanging from the scorched ceiling, the air choking with sooty dust and the foul stench of smoke. It was hard to imagine Sophie Cliff and the figure in the mortuary sitting together in a well furnished living room of their own, relaxing in front of the television.
Mrs Pettifer was hesitating. ‘I called the doctor. He’s on his way.’ She looked from Geraldine to the sergeant who was holding the door open for her. Peterson ushered her from the room and closed the door.
Geraldine waited for the sergeant to sit down and take out his note book before she leaned forward and spoke gently. ‘Mrs Cliff?’ No response. ‘Sophie? I’m sorry about Tom.’ Hearing her husband’s name, Sophie Cliff raised her eyes to look straight at Geraldine through the thick lenses of her glasses. Having caught her attention, Geraldine tried a direct question. ‘Mrs Cliff, do you know who left the gas on in your house last night?’ Sophie Cliff didn’t answer. Geraldine took a different tack. ‘Mrs Cliff, Sophie, your husband died in a fire caused by a gas explosion. We want to find out how it happened. We want to know why Tom died.’ Sophie Cliff moaned softly. She began to rock backwards and forwards on the armchair. ‘For the record, can you tell me if you turned the gas on in your kitchen last night, for any reason?’ Geraldine insisted. Sophie Cliff didn’t answer.
‘You work in IT?’ Geraldine asked. Silence. ‘Can you tell me why you were called out last night?’ Sophie Cliff looked blankly at Geraldine. ‘Were you called out to work last night?’ Geraldine asked. Silence. Geraldine adopted a conversational tone. She leaned back slightly in her chair. ‘We know it’s nothing unusual for you to be called out at night. It must be very difficult for you. I sympathise. I know it’s hard drivingwhen you’ve just woken up. Do you have a routine on such occasions? I know I do. I expect you make yourself a cup of coffee before you go out, to wake yourself up before driving?’
‘Where’s Tom?’ Sophie Cliff’s voice was barely louder than a whisper.
Geraldine sighed. Dealing with grieving people was the worst part of her job. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie, your husband died in the fire.’
‘He wasn’t burned.’
‘No. He was overcome by smoke. He’s dead, Sophie. Tom’s dead.’
‘Where is he?’ Her voice rose in panic. ‘What are they doing to him?’
‘He’s still in the mortuary. Do you remember? You saw him there. You identified him. You’ll be able to make the funeral arrangements as soon as we know what happened.’
‘I want to see him. I want him back.’
‘Yes, you’ll be able to see him. You’ll have him back soon, Mrs Cliff.’
‘I want him to come home.’ The last word drew out into a wail. Sophie Cliff started shaking. Geraldine struggled against feeling pity for her. Time was pressing. The first few hours in any investigation were crucial. She had to consider the possibility that Thomas Cliff had been murdered.
‘Sophie, please concentrate. This could be important. We know the explosion was caused by a gas tap left on in your kitchen overnight. We need to find out how that happened. Did you go in your kitchen before you went out last night? Think carefully.’ She paused.
Geraldine sat down opposite Sophie Cliff. Behind her the sergeant spoke softly to Mrs Pettifer. Geraldine waited. A large flat screen television hung on the wall to one side. It had been muted. The screen was flashing with advertisements on the periphery of Geraldine’s vision. Beside it on a low table, a huge vase of lilies filled the air with their heavy scent. Geraldine fiercely dismissed the memory of her mother’s funeral.
Three large armchairs and a matching settee covered in a velvety red fabric stood in a semi-circle around the television.This probably wasn’t even the main living room. Geraldine recalled the Cliffs’ skeletal black kitchen, metal shreds of an extractor fan hanging from the scorched ceiling, the air choking with sooty dust and the foul stench of smoke. It was hard to imagine Sophie Cliff and the figure in the mortuary sitting together in a well furnished living room of their own, relaxing in front of the television.
Mrs Pettifer was hesitating. ‘I called the doctor. He’s on his way.’ She looked from Geraldine to the sergeant who was holding the door open for her. Peterson ushered her from the room and closed the door.
Geraldine waited for the sergeant to sit down and take out his note book before she leaned forward and spoke gently. ‘Mrs Cliff?’ No response. ‘Sophie? I’m sorry about Tom.’ Hearing her husband’s name, Sophie Cliff raised her eyes to look straight at Geraldine through the thick lenses of her glasses. Having caught her attention, Geraldine tried a direct question. ‘Mrs Cliff, do you know who left the gas on in your house last night?’ Sophie Cliff didn’t answer. Geraldine took a different tack. ‘Mrs Cliff, Sophie, your husband died in a fire caused by a gas explosion. We want to find out how it happened. We want to know why Tom died.’ Sophie Cliff moaned softly. She began to rock backwards and forwards on the armchair. ‘For the record, can you tell me if you turned the gas on in your kitchen last night, for any reason?’ Geraldine insisted. Sophie Cliff didn’t answer.
‘You work in IT?’ Geraldine asked. Silence. ‘Can you tell me why you were called out last night?’ Sophie Cliff looked blankly at Geraldine. ‘Were you called out to work last night?’ Geraldine asked. Silence. Geraldine adopted a conversational tone. She leaned back slightly in her chair. ‘We know it’s nothing unusual for you to be called out at night. It must be very difficult for you. I sympathise. I know it’s hard drivingwhen you’ve just woken up. Do you have a routine on such occasions? I know I do. I expect you make yourself a cup of coffee before you go out, to wake yourself up before driving?’
‘Where’s Tom?’ Sophie Cliff’s voice was barely louder than a whisper.
Geraldine sighed. Dealing with grieving people was the worst part of her job. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie, your husband died in the fire.’
‘He wasn’t burned.’
‘No. He was overcome by smoke. He’s dead, Sophie. Tom’s dead.’
‘Where is he?’ Her voice rose in panic. ‘What are they doing to him?’
‘He’s still in the mortuary. Do you remember? You saw him there. You identified him. You’ll be able to make the funeral arrangements as soon as we know what happened.’
‘I want to see him. I want him back.’
‘Yes, you’ll be able to see him. You’ll have him back soon, Mrs Cliff.’
‘I want him to come home.’ The last word drew out into a wail. Sophie Cliff started shaking. Geraldine struggled against feeling pity for her. Time was pressing. The first few hours in any investigation were crucial. She had to consider the possibility that Thomas Cliff had been murdered.
‘Sophie, please concentrate. This could be important. We know the explosion was caused by a gas tap left on in your kitchen overnight. We need to find out how that happened. Did you go in your kitchen before you went out last night? Think carefully.’ She paused.
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