sergeant’s ring was answered by a cheerful, busy-looking old man wearing a brightly-coloured plastic apron, and clutching a fork. When the Chief identified himself the old man’s face lit up at the prospect of a little excitement to enliven his day. He urged them inside – he must attend to his onions, he was preparing a casserole for his lunch.
He stood by the cooker, jabbing away at the contents of the frying-pan while Kelsey explained why they had called. Did he remember a young woman who had lived in the middle flat for some months, leaving there at the end of February? A Mrs Anna Reardon.
The old man shook his head with an air of deep regret. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I only moved in here at the beginning of June.’ The middle flat was empty at present, it had been empty for the past two weeks. ‘You’d better talk to Mrs Hudspeth,’ he advised them. ‘Down in the bottom flat.’
He began to chop a slab of beef into ragged cubes. ‘She’s lived here for years. She won’t be home till well turned six, she’s a supervisor at a discount store.’ He made a face. ‘Bit of a tartar, but decent enough. Divorced, lives here by herself.’ He gave them directions for the store, on the outskirts of town.
‘We won’t bother with Mrs Hudspeth now,’ Kelsey decided as they went down the stairs again and out to the car. ‘We can catch her later.’ Instead, they drove to Ribbenford, to the address shown for Walter Reardon at the time of his marriage to Anna.
Ribbenford was just such another town as Whitbourn, somewhat larger, equally busy, equally unremarkable. It took them some time to locate the house; it stood in a little rural enclave not yet invaded by the forces of progress. An attractive detached property, late Victorian, medium size, substantially built.
Kelsey looked up at it as he got out of the car. Worth a pretty penny these days. He knew at once there was no one at home: all the windows closed, not a sound to be heard. But Sergeant Lambert pressed the bell all the same. They went round to the back and tried again, expecting, and getting, no response. A long rear garden, sheltered and secluded; a tall hedge of mixed shrubs running the entire width of the garden, some yards from the house.
There was no near neighbour but the Chief remembered passing a newsagent’s a few minutes back. They got into the car again.
The shop was doing a brisk trade; they waited outside for a lull. The young woman behind the counter gave them a friendly, inquiring glance as they came in.
The Chief revealed his identity. ‘We’re looking for some people by the name of Reardon,’ he added. He mentioned the address. ‘We’ve called at the house but there’s no one at home. We wondered if you might know what time anyone’s likely to be in.’
‘There’s no one by the name of Reardon living there now,’ she told him. ‘It’s a young married couple there now, with kids. He’ll be out at work. She was in here half an hour ago. She always calls in on Wednesday to pay the papers. She leaves the kids at the play-group and goes into town, shopping. She usually goes by again about half past twelve. I’m sure you’ll find her at home around lunchtime.’
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