ignoring her opening gambit.
The woman nodded from behind her glass.
‘In that case,’ the inspector continued, ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that your parents have been killed.’ Carlyle was surprised at the flat, emotionless tone of his delivery; presumably it came from decades of giving people bad news. He realised that this would be his job one day, and shuddered.
Marshall took a long drag on her fag and blew a stream of smoke past a framed print of a naked couple in a passionate embrace. It was a cheap reproduction and there were what appeared to be dart holes in various places. ‘Good,’ she said finally, not looking at either of the guests sitting on her sofa.
The two policemen exchanged a quizzical glance.
Marshall watched her cigarette burn down to the filter and let it drop into the fireplace. ‘My mother died fifteen years ago,’ she continued. ‘She walked in front of a Piccadilly Line train near Osterley.’ She glared at Carlyle. ‘Have you ever been to Osterley?’
Staring into his lap, Carlyle was forced to admit that he had not.
‘Bit of a boring place to die,’ Marshall said drily. ‘Anyway, it was a while ago. Presumably you’re referring, technically, to my stepmother?’
‘Our apologies,’ Callender conceded, in a tone that suggested he took such bureaucratic cock-ups in his stride. ‘I was referring to Mrs Marjorie Scanlon.’
‘Marjorie was his third wife,’ Marshall explained, keeping the matter-of-fact tone going. ‘My mother was number two.’
‘I see.’ Callender nodded. ‘Still, we’re sorry for your loss.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow.
Sorry for your loss? What are we these days, the bloody Samaritans? You’d never get anything as poncey as that from Jack Regan.
Marshall muttered something under her breath that sounded to Carlyle very much like
no great loss
, before sticking a rictus grin on her face. ‘Thank you for letting me know, Inspector.’
‘You are taking it very calmly,’ Callender observed.
‘He’d had a good innings and she . . . well, she wasn’t my mother. Both of them drank too much and he lived in that fantasy world of his, full of traitors and spies and so on. He was like a little kid who’d made a living out of playing cops and robbers.’ She shot them an unapologetic look. ‘Sorry, but you know what I mean.’
Callender nodded. Carlyle just stared at the painting, unable to work out what the inspector was hoping to get out of the visit.
‘I don’t know how my mother put up with it for so long,’ Marshall continued. ‘And then he ditched her, after almost twenty years. She never got over it, the silly cow.’ Draining her glass, she contemplated the bottle on the table for a long moment before deciding to resist the temptation for now. Carlyle watched as Callender pulled a small business card from his jacket pocket and, leaning forward, placed it next to the bottle.
‘That’s the details for the local funeral director. Apparently your father had already made all the necessary arrangements.’
‘I’m sure,’ was her only reply.
Pushing himself up from the sofa, Callender got to his feet and gestured for Carlyle to do the same. ‘Well then,’ he said solemnly, ‘we need to be going. Once again, let me express our condolences.’ When Marshall, gazing aimlessly out of the window, did not respond, he added: ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’
Carlyle was relieved to find Whitelaw Walkway clear of any hostiles. Ushering the inspector towards the stairs, a thought suddenly struck him. ‘She didn’t ask anything about what happened. You would have thought she would have wanted to know how they died, her dad at least.’
‘You get all sorts of reactions, lad,’ Callender replied sagely, ‘when you give people news like that.’ He patted the constable on the shoulder.
Carlyle stopped and looked up at his colleague. ‘Do you think she’s in shock?’
‘I think she’s pissed,’ said Callender, moving round him
The woman nodded from behind her glass.
‘In that case,’ the inspector continued, ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that your parents have been killed.’ Carlyle was surprised at the flat, emotionless tone of his delivery; presumably it came from decades of giving people bad news. He realised that this would be his job one day, and shuddered.
Marshall took a long drag on her fag and blew a stream of smoke past a framed print of a naked couple in a passionate embrace. It was a cheap reproduction and there were what appeared to be dart holes in various places. ‘Good,’ she said finally, not looking at either of the guests sitting on her sofa.
The two policemen exchanged a quizzical glance.
Marshall watched her cigarette burn down to the filter and let it drop into the fireplace. ‘My mother died fifteen years ago,’ she continued. ‘She walked in front of a Piccadilly Line train near Osterley.’ She glared at Carlyle. ‘Have you ever been to Osterley?’
Staring into his lap, Carlyle was forced to admit that he had not.
‘Bit of a boring place to die,’ Marshall said drily. ‘Anyway, it was a while ago. Presumably you’re referring, technically, to my stepmother?’
‘Our apologies,’ Callender conceded, in a tone that suggested he took such bureaucratic cock-ups in his stride. ‘I was referring to Mrs Marjorie Scanlon.’
‘Marjorie was his third wife,’ Marshall explained, keeping the matter-of-fact tone going. ‘My mother was number two.’
‘I see.’ Callender nodded. ‘Still, we’re sorry for your loss.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow.
Sorry for your loss? What are we these days, the bloody Samaritans? You’d never get anything as poncey as that from Jack Regan.
Marshall muttered something under her breath that sounded to Carlyle very much like
no great loss
, before sticking a rictus grin on her face. ‘Thank you for letting me know, Inspector.’
‘You are taking it very calmly,’ Callender observed.
‘He’d had a good innings and she . . . well, she wasn’t my mother. Both of them drank too much and he lived in that fantasy world of his, full of traitors and spies and so on. He was like a little kid who’d made a living out of playing cops and robbers.’ She shot them an unapologetic look. ‘Sorry, but you know what I mean.’
Callender nodded. Carlyle just stared at the painting, unable to work out what the inspector was hoping to get out of the visit.
‘I don’t know how my mother put up with it for so long,’ Marshall continued. ‘And then he ditched her, after almost twenty years. She never got over it, the silly cow.’ Draining her glass, she contemplated the bottle on the table for a long moment before deciding to resist the temptation for now. Carlyle watched as Callender pulled a small business card from his jacket pocket and, leaning forward, placed it next to the bottle.
‘That’s the details for the local funeral director. Apparently your father had already made all the necessary arrangements.’
‘I’m sure,’ was her only reply.
Pushing himself up from the sofa, Callender got to his feet and gestured for Carlyle to do the same. ‘Well then,’ he said solemnly, ‘we need to be going. Once again, let me express our condolences.’ When Marshall, gazing aimlessly out of the window, did not respond, he added: ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’
Carlyle was relieved to find Whitelaw Walkway clear of any hostiles. Ushering the inspector towards the stairs, a thought suddenly struck him. ‘She didn’t ask anything about what happened. You would have thought she would have wanted to know how they died, her dad at least.’
‘You get all sorts of reactions, lad,’ Callender replied sagely, ‘when you give people news like that.’ He patted the constable on the shoulder.
Carlyle stopped and looked up at his colleague. ‘Do you think she’s in shock?’
‘I think she’s pissed,’ said Callender, moving round him
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