‘Do come in,’ says Miriam, stepping back. ‘Gosh, it’s freezing. Come on in, yes, that’s it, follow the corridor straight down to the kitchen.’
DS Bradshaw walks ahead of her, Miriam following and saying, ‘Tea?’
‘Lovely, yes, thanks,’ says the officer, allowing her bag to slip to the floor beside the kitchen table. ‘Glad to see the photographers have gone.’
‘Yes, we are no longer of interest, thank God,’ says Miriam, filling the kettle at the tap. ‘For the time being, at least. The last of them sloped off on New Year’s Eve but it was only the stragglers, to be honest.’
DS Bradshaw takes off her coat, laying it gently over the back of the padded banquette and revealing only more black, formless clothing. Perhaps they have to be constantly prepared for death – harbingers at the ready!
Ian walks in. ‘DS Bradshaw,’ he says, offering his hand. His voice these days has no uplift, no spring of humour behind it, which Miriam had always so loved in his greetings.
‘Call me Manon, please.’
‘Yes, Manon, of course.’
‘Tea, darling?’ says Miriam.
‘Why not?’
‘Can you call Rollo down?’
‘Yes, of course,’ says Ian. ‘He’s frantically tweeting and Facebook-ing,’ he says by way of explanation, and he disappears again to look for their son.
Miriam places a tea in front of Manon, who looks up at her and her face is lit by the window opposite – an angry left eye, swollen, pink-sheened and half shut.
‘You’d better treat that, sooner rather than later, by the looks of it. Conjunctivitis,’ Miriam says, adopting her GP no-arguing voice. ‘Very simple – buy some Chloramphenicol eye drops over the counter. It’ll clear up in a day. But make sure you finish the course. There, sermon over.’
‘I thought it might clear up by itself.’
‘Unlikely.’
‘How are you bearing up, Lady Hind?’
‘My name’s Miriam, my dear,’ she says. ‘And I’m not bearing up at all. Do you have any news for us?’
‘Not about Edith’s whereabouts. We have some leads …’
‘Leads?’ says Ian, settling, with Rollo, in the chairs opposite Miriam and Manon.
Manon stretches out her hand. ‘Nice to see you again, Rollo. I hear you’re running a formidable social media campaign.’
‘Much good it’s doing. There’s a lot of online emoting,’ says Rollo, ‘often by strangers, which I know I should find comforting but is really quite creepy.’
They smile and sip. In the sad silence of the kitchen, a fly fizzes against the glass of the window. Tap, fizz, tap.
‘So – leads, you said,’ says Ian.
‘Well, not exactly leads,’ says the sergeant. ‘Possible links which need exploring. We found a body.’ Then she swiftly adds, ‘No, not Edith. A boy – a seventeen-year-old called Taylor Dent.’
‘Oh, his poor mother,’ says Miriam, her palm across her mouth. Poor mother, but oh thank God it’s not Edith, thank God that wretched mother is not me. ‘What has he to do with Edith?’
‘We don’t know yet. That’s what we’re investigating. He is, was, from Cricklewood, not far from here.’
‘I think you’ll find Cricklewood is very far from here,’ mutters Ian.
‘Did Edith ever mention the name?’ asks Manon.
‘Taylor Dent?’ says Ian and he searches Miriam’s face. They shake their heads at one another.
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ says Miriam. ‘How did he die?’
‘We can’t be sure. His body was found on Friday in the river near Ely. Did you know him, Rollo?’
‘No, no, I’ve never heard of him,’ Rollo says.
‘Did Edith ever try any drugs? Did she buy any marijuana from anyone, for example?’
‘No,’ say Rollo and Miriam simultaneously.
‘She had a boyfriend who smoked a bit – Jonti – but she never wanted it,’ says Rollo. ‘I know because I was with her when he was smoking.’
‘Might she have refused because you were there?’
‘I don’t think so. It wasn’t a big deal – she had no moral problem with it, she just didn’t like it, or feel the need for it,’ Rollo says.
‘We’ll need to talk to Jonti,’ says Manon.
‘I went to see him this morning. He hasn’t seen or heard from her. But yes, of course, I’ll get you the number,’ says Miriam, getting up to fetch her telephone book from the worktop.
The fly is fizzing its death throes again.
Ian gets up and turns to the window, his back to them. He begins to rattle – rather frantically, Miriam feels – at the window lock, trying to lift the metal arm to let the fly out.
She returns to the table, her reading glasses on, and gives Manon the number. Then she looks up irritably. ‘Ian, stop fussing and come and sit down. This is important.’
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Is this Dent boy your lead? Do you think he harmed Edith?’
‘We’re trying to work out whether there’s a connection between the two of them first – whether they had ever met, or whether they had friends in common.’
‘He was seventeen, you say?’ says Rollo.
‘A child,’ says Miriam.