Janet.
‘No,’ she said hastily, ‘no, never that. Maudlin, weepy, or sometimes the opposite, laughing when things weren’t funny. It was too much for them to handle. He tried to stop a few times, the drinking, but it never lasted. You know, I thought he was probably dead already, his health … but you said a fire?’
‘Mrs Kavanagh, I’m sorry to tell you he didn’t die of natural causes. We’re treating his death as suspicious.’
‘Suspicious?’ Frown lines deepened on her forehead.
‘We’ve launched a murder investigation,’ Janet said. ‘The man who we believe to be your husband was shot and killed and left in the building, which was then set on fire.’
‘Shot?’ she said, her brow creasing.
‘Yes,’ Janet said.
‘Why on earth would anyone shoot Richard? He’d never hurt a fly.’ She looked bewildered.
‘To your knowledge, was Mr Kavanagh ever involved in any illegal activity?’ said Janet.
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have a clue, anything like that, people would run rings round him. He was – he could be gullible, trusted too easily.’
‘He lied about his drinking?’ Rachel knew how it went, alkies, addicts – lying and secrecy came with the territory.
‘Badly,’ Judith Kavanagh admitted. ‘He was a painter.’
‘Decorator?’ Rachel said.
‘No.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘Artist, oils. Barely anyone makes a living at that so we had the shop: art supplies, photocopier back in the days before everyone had a printer at home. We made enough to live on, I worked as a receptionist for an optician. Then,’ she sighed, ‘he’d be off to the pub at lunchtime, or after work, or he’d have a bottle under the counter. He started losing control, messing up the orders.’
‘You never divorced?’ Janet said.
‘It didn’t seem important and then, as time went on, I wouldn’t have known where to find him. We moved here later that year, ’99. My dad had died and left me some money and I put it into this place.’
‘And the children, how many?’ Janet said.
‘Two, Karen and Barry. Both flown the nest – though they’ve not gone far.’
‘And to your knowledge neither of them has resumed contact with your husband?’
‘No, they’d have said. It’s not like I’d forbidden it or anything. They …’ she paused, ‘… they were quite bitter about it, and they couldn’t understand why he chose drink over them.’
That’s how it works , Rachel thought, an image of her dad swaying down the street and Rachel, hating him and embarrassed, darting into an alley so he’d not see her.
‘Could you tell us who his dentist was when living in Bury?’ said Janet.
She nodded. ‘Henry Sharples. On Fortins Rd.’
‘The dental records will help establish beyond any doubt that this person is Richard,’ Janet explained.
‘Poor man,’ she said, shaking her head slowly.
‘Mrs Kavanagh, do you have a photograph of your husband?’
‘Somewhere,’ she said, ‘in the basement.’
‘Please could you have a look?’ said Janet.
‘It’ll be years old.’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
She left them and Rachel heard the sounds of the door to the basement opening, the snick of a light switch and footsteps going downstairs.
They didn’t talk while she was out of the room. Rachel checked her messages and Janet wrote in her notebook. Outside seagulls shrieked. Rachel thought maybe her family had holidayed in Rhyl, back when holidays were possible. They’d always stayed in caravans, not B&Bs.
Mrs Kavanagh came back. Her hand shook as she handed two photographs to Janet. ‘He always had his hair long,’ she said, a catch in her voice. ‘He was a mess when he got into drinking but he was harmless. Who on earth would do that?’ She froze. ‘He was shot first?’
‘Yes,’ Janet said. ‘There’s been a post-mortem, it’s standard with any sudden or suspicious death.’ Her voice was level, quiet, slow, reassuring. ‘And from that we could tell the
‘No,’ she said hastily, ‘no, never that. Maudlin, weepy, or sometimes the opposite, laughing when things weren’t funny. It was too much for them to handle. He tried to stop a few times, the drinking, but it never lasted. You know, I thought he was probably dead already, his health … but you said a fire?’
‘Mrs Kavanagh, I’m sorry to tell you he didn’t die of natural causes. We’re treating his death as suspicious.’
‘Suspicious?’ Frown lines deepened on her forehead.
‘We’ve launched a murder investigation,’ Janet said. ‘The man who we believe to be your husband was shot and killed and left in the building, which was then set on fire.’
‘Shot?’ she said, her brow creasing.
‘Yes,’ Janet said.
‘Why on earth would anyone shoot Richard? He’d never hurt a fly.’ She looked bewildered.
‘To your knowledge, was Mr Kavanagh ever involved in any illegal activity?’ said Janet.
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have a clue, anything like that, people would run rings round him. He was – he could be gullible, trusted too easily.’
‘He lied about his drinking?’ Rachel knew how it went, alkies, addicts – lying and secrecy came with the territory.
‘Badly,’ Judith Kavanagh admitted. ‘He was a painter.’
‘Decorator?’ Rachel said.
‘No.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘Artist, oils. Barely anyone makes a living at that so we had the shop: art supplies, photocopier back in the days before everyone had a printer at home. We made enough to live on, I worked as a receptionist for an optician. Then,’ she sighed, ‘he’d be off to the pub at lunchtime, or after work, or he’d have a bottle under the counter. He started losing control, messing up the orders.’
‘You never divorced?’ Janet said.
‘It didn’t seem important and then, as time went on, I wouldn’t have known where to find him. We moved here later that year, ’99. My dad had died and left me some money and I put it into this place.’
‘And the children, how many?’ Janet said.
‘Two, Karen and Barry. Both flown the nest – though they’ve not gone far.’
‘And to your knowledge neither of them has resumed contact with your husband?’
‘No, they’d have said. It’s not like I’d forbidden it or anything. They …’ she paused, ‘… they were quite bitter about it, and they couldn’t understand why he chose drink over them.’
That’s how it works , Rachel thought, an image of her dad swaying down the street and Rachel, hating him and embarrassed, darting into an alley so he’d not see her.
‘Could you tell us who his dentist was when living in Bury?’ said Janet.
She nodded. ‘Henry Sharples. On Fortins Rd.’
‘The dental records will help establish beyond any doubt that this person is Richard,’ Janet explained.
‘Poor man,’ she said, shaking her head slowly.
‘Mrs Kavanagh, do you have a photograph of your husband?’
‘Somewhere,’ she said, ‘in the basement.’
‘Please could you have a look?’ said Janet.
‘It’ll be years old.’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
She left them and Rachel heard the sounds of the door to the basement opening, the snick of a light switch and footsteps going downstairs.
They didn’t talk while she was out of the room. Rachel checked her messages and Janet wrote in her notebook. Outside seagulls shrieked. Rachel thought maybe her family had holidayed in Rhyl, back when holidays were possible. They’d always stayed in caravans, not B&Bs.
Mrs Kavanagh came back. Her hand shook as she handed two photographs to Janet. ‘He always had his hair long,’ she said, a catch in her voice. ‘He was a mess when he got into drinking but he was harmless. Who on earth would do that?’ She froze. ‘He was shot first?’
‘Yes,’ Janet said. ‘There’s been a post-mortem, it’s standard with any sudden or suspicious death.’ Her voice was level, quiet, slow, reassuring. ‘And from that we could tell the
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