Imelda Watkins’ four-bedroom detached property was in a sprawling cul-de-sac, in the large village of North Baddesley, situated halfway between the Lordshill and Romsey suburbs. The front of the property was protected by a small brick wall enclosure and a large wooden farm gate, beyond which Kate spotted a Mercedes, sparkling despite the recent run of bad weather. Parking up directly outside the gate, Kate followed the small pathway that ran down the side of the wall, where a smaller wooden gate led past the bay window to the front door.
Kate casually glanced through the window as she proceeded, but the blinds were partly closed and obscured most of the view. Kate hadn’t called ahead to check whether Mrs Watkins would be home, so was relieved to hear her approaching the door when Kate had clattered the letterbox.
‘Detective Matthews, this is a surprise. Please, come in.’
Kate followed Imelda out to a conservatory at the rear of the property, politely declining the offer of a drink. The room looked out onto a long lawn, bordered by several conifer trees at its end, which caused a dark shadow to spread over the grass, which still had patches of white from the previous evening’s snow. Inside the conservatory, the walls were adorned with pictures of Mrs Watkins and a man.
‘Is that you and your husband?’ Kate asked, nodding at one of a younger Imelda standing beside a blue beach hut with a tall man, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt.
Imelda looked up at the image, and a sorrowful smile graced her face. ‘That’s my Graham, yes. I’m sure that’s where Neil gets his passion for the ocean from. Graham was in the navy when I met him, before resigning his commission when I fell pregnant, and taking a job at the local hospital.’
Kate watched as Imelda continued to stare at the image, the memories of that time playing silently behind her eyes. ‘I’m here about the discovery we made at your Abbotts Way property last night,’ Kate continued. ‘I believe one of my team has been in touch?’
Imelda’s focus returned to Kate. ‘Good heavens, no. What kind of discovery?’
Kate perched on the wicker chair next to Imelda. ‘You haven’t spoken to anyone from my team today?’
‘No, I’ve only been home for about ten minutes. Neil and I went and laid flowers at my late husband’s graveside. What’s going on? Oh God, tell me someone hasn’t vandalised it as well? It took me hours to get the paint from Neil’s brickwork.’
‘Not exactly. One of the rooms upstairs, Mrs Watkins, we are treating as a murder scene.’
Imelda gasped, and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Murder?’
Kate tried to read Imelda’s face, but could trace no sign of deceit. This news really was a shock to her. ‘When were you last at the property, Mrs Watkins?’
Imelda puffed out her cheeks. ‘I-I-I don’t know. I can’t remember.’
‘It’s been some time, then?’
‘Well, yes. It’s been vacant for nearly a year. It’s on the market, and I really can’t remember when I last called in there. Supporting the school takes up much of my time and I… goodness me. Would you mind fetching me a glass of water?’
Kate stood and made her way back to the kitchen, locating a glass on the draining board and filling it at the sink, before returning to the conservatory. ‘Here you go.’
Imelda accepted the glass and sipped from it slowly.
‘Can you confirm who has access to the property, Mrs Watkins?’
‘Um, let me see. Well, I have a set of keys, of course, and the estate agent has a set so they can show prospective clients around, but I don’t think there have been any interested parties in several months.’
‘Anybody else? What about your son, Neil?’
‘No, he doesn’t have a set of keys. He mows the lawn there sometimes, but I don’t think he’s been over there since before Christmas. I can call him and ask if you like?’
‘Is he not here now?’
‘No, he dropped me home and then said he wanted to go for a drive. I don’t imagine he’ll be much longer.’
‘You were renting the property out last year, weren’t you?’
‘That’s right. To a man I met at St Bartholomew’s, as it goes.’
‘Chris Jackson?’
‘That’s right. Do you know him?’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
Imelda lowered the glass of water to a small table adjacent to the wicker chair, considering her answer. ‘He paid his rent on time.’
‘Is that it? There’s nothing else you can tell me?’
‘Apologies, detective, but I was raised not to gossip behind other’s backs. What is it you want to know?’
Kate had to be careful not to inadvertently lead Imelda as a witness. ‘He was renting the property for a year according to council tax records. Why did the tenancy agreement end? Was it his choice or yours?’
‘Mine.’
Kate remained silent, waiting for Imelda to elaborate. She eventually sighed. ‘After my husband passed, things became difficult… financially, I mean. That was why I first agreed to Chris leasing the property. It was such a big place, and not in a good state of repair, so I didn’t charge him top whack. I thought it would be good having someone capable with their hands on site. With all the best will in the world, Neil isn’t good at that kind of thing. He can’t jump unless I tell him, and I didn’t want to spend money on a third party to maintain the place, so Chris just came along at the right time.’
Kate thought back to the threadbare carpets in number forty-eight, and wondered exactly what kind of maintenance Jackson had done. ‘So why end the agreement? There’s something you’re not telling me, and I need you to be open.’
‘The house was becoming more of a burden, and I decided to put it on the market. I offered Chris the chance to buy it, but he said he wouldn’t be able to secure a mortgage and so he moved out.’
‘But he still works at the school?’
‘He’s self-employed, but I think the school calls on him when required. I really don’t get involved in that side of school affairs.’
‘So you expect me to believe that your landlord-tenant relationship ended amicably?’
Imelda reached for her water again, studying Kate’s face. ‘Why would you assume otherwise?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Wait, you think Chris has something to do with what you’ve found at the house? You think he’s murdered somebody?’
‘I can’t go into detail, Mrs Watkins, but we have reason to believe that the crime scene at your house is linked to what was discovered on Friday night at the school.’
Mrs Watkins’ hand shot to her mouth again. ‘You think… Chris? Oh my.’
‘Let me ask you again: why did you not extend his lease?’
Imelda suddenly stood and moved to the window, staring into the garden. ‘It will probably sound prudish… but he was into things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘I don’t understand the correct vernacular, but… whips and chains and that sort of paraphernalia.’
‘Bondage? Sadomasochism?’
Imelda nodded, still stood by the glass. ‘I called round to the house one day, and walked in on… suffice to say it was embarrassing for all concerned. I hadn’t realised that… it came as quite a shock, I can tell you.’
Sadomasochism wasn’t a crime, nor was it an indicator of psychopathy. ‘Can you be more specific, Mrs Watkins. I’m sorry to ask. Was he tied up? Was he alone?’
‘There was a girl there; I didn’t know who she was… but she was tied up… to a chair… she was naked, and her wrists and ankles were tied to the chair with some kind of rope. There was a gag around her mouth as well. When I first saw it, I didn’t know what I’d stumbled into, but he explained, and when he untied the girl, she verified that she had chosen to be tied up. Not the sort of thing that happened in my day, let me tell you.’