down his briefcase and pulled off his gloves, got out his keys.
‘Anna’s probably having a nap,’ he said as he unlocked the front door. His tone strove for lightness. He raised a cautionary hand to indicate the need for silence.
Cosy warmth floated out to welcome them as they stepped into the hall. ‘Come through into the kitchen,’ Conway said in a low voice. ‘You can have a cup of tea while you look at the patterns.’
Garbutt nodded and followed him along the passage to the kitchen. Everything scrupulously clean and tidy. No sign of food preparation, no smell of cooking. A faint drift of music sounded from the direction of the bathroom.
Conway’s face cleared. ‘She’s having a bath.’ His voice held relief. ‘I’ll pop along and let her know we’re here.’ He waved a hand. ‘Put the kettle on. Make yourself at home.’ He went cheerfully off.
Garbutt picked up the electric kettle and filled it at the sink. He could hear Conway tapping on the bathroom door, calling out: ‘I’m home, Anna.’ A brief silence. Louder knocking, the doorknob rattling. Conway’s voice raised, calling urgently: ‘Are you all right, Anna?’ Calling again, more loudly still. Rattling, knocking, calling.
Garbutt set down the kettle and went along to the bathroom. Conway threw him a distracted glance, his face creased in anxiety. Garbutt put his ear against the door panel. Total stillness at the other side, except for the tinkling tune from the radio.
‘She’s locked herself in,’ Conway said in a voice brittle with tension. ‘She never does that.’ He suddenly jumped back and launched himself at the door, shoulder on. The solid structure stood unyielding.
‘Let me,’ Garbutt said. At his second powerful kick the door burst open.
The bathroom was in darkness except for the light filtering in from the passage and the rosy glow from an infra-red heater on the wall above the handbasin.
The two men remained for an instant in frozen silence, gazing in, then Conway raised a hand to pull the cord of the light switch. In the moment before his fingers touched the cord, Garbutt’s eyes made out the pale form reclining in the bath.
The ceiling light sprang to life and Garbutt saw that the bath was full of blood.
By eleven o’clock the wind was blowing half a gale. In an interview room in the main Cannonbridge police station a single overhead bulb cast a harsh white light over the bare furnishings. An uneasy combination of pine disinfectant and floral air freshener lent a quirky note to the cheerless surroundings.
The officer detailed to take David Conway’s statement had now finished. He pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll see if they need you for anything more tonight,’ he told Conway. ‘If not, you’ll be able to get off home.’ He halted in the doorway. ‘I’ll try to find out what’s happening about the post-mortem.’
Conway gave a nod. He slumped down in his seat, head lowered, eyes closed.
Some little time later, Police Constable Hamlin came along the corridor, at long last on his way home to bed. Greying hair, an air of shrewd common sense.
He paused by a window to assess the weather for the drive home. The sky was cloudless. A bright crescent moon lay on her back among glittering stars. The wind screamed round the building, tossing trees along the side of the forecourt.
There was no one else in the corridor and he permitted himself a gigantic yawn before moving off again. It had been a very long day. He had been driving back to Cannonbridge alone, shortly before seven, in the happy belief that he would soon be heading for home, when he got a message to go at once to Ferndale. A reported death, his was the nearest car. He had been first on the scene.
He blinked away the grim recollection. His long years in the force had hardened him to a great many things but not to everything. An appalling death for so young a woman. A terrible thing, depression, so much more prevalent nowadays, it seemed, than when he was a young constable, starting out. So much more severe in so many cases, always to be taken very seriously indeed. And the poor husband, Conway, shattered and distraught, but still trying his best to he helpful and cooperative.
Hamlin turned a corner in the corridor. Ahead of him he saw with surprise the light still shining out through the glass-panelled door of the room where Conway had been interviewed. He’d have thought they’d have finished with Conway by now, let him get off home.
He reached the room, halted and looked in through the glass. Conway was alone, sitting at the table, leaning forward in an attitude of studious concentration, gazing intently down at a newspaper folded into a square.
He showed no sign of distress or agitation, he appeared oblivious of his bleak surroundings. He moved his mouth, bit his lip, as if deep in cogitation. From time to time he made a mark on the newspaper with a pen. He put Hamlin in mind of nothing so much as a man at a café table, marking runners on the racing pages.
Hamlin opened the door and stuck his head in. ‘You still here, then?’ he asked on a friendly note.
Conway laid down his newspaper and put the pen away in a breast pocket. He looked up at Hamlin, his face composed but infinitely weary. ‘I’ve finished my statement,’ he said flatly. ‘I’m waiting to see if there’s anything else.’
‘I’ll hang on, then,’ Hamlin offered. ‘I’m off home myself. I can give you a lift. You’re not many minutes further along my own road.’
‘That’s very good of you.’ Conway passed a hand over his eyes.
Footsteps sounded along the corridor. Hamlin turned his head and saw Detective Chief Inspector Kelsey approaching. He stepped smartly to one side of the open door.
The Chief gave him no more than a passing glance as he halted on the threshold. A big, solid man with a freckled face dominated by a large, fleshy nose. Carroty hair, thick and springing, the vibrant colour still untouched by grey. Bright green eyes; a penetrating look, even at this late hour.
‘There’s nothing more tonight,’ the Chief informed Conway. ‘You can get off home.’ He gazed down at him with compassion. Pale and exhausted under the bright light, still with a boyish look.
‘Will you be at home tomorrow?’ Kelsey asked. ‘Around lunchtime?’
Conway stared up at him with a lost air as if tomorrow was a stretch of time he couldn’t begin to envisage. He gave a hesitant nod.
‘We’ll probably be in touch with you then,’ Kelsey told him. ‘We should have the results of the post-mortem.’ Conway gave another slow nod.
‘You’ll want some transport,’ Kelsey added.
Constable Hamlin stepped forward. ‘I can give Mr Conway a lift home. I live out in that direction.’
‘Right,’ Kelsey said. Conway still sat motionless. He wore a poleaxed air as if rising from the table was beyond his powers.
‘Don’t sit up half the night brooding,’ Kelsey advised. ‘Going over things in your brain. Won’t do any good. Try to get some sleep.’ He bade them both good night and went back along the corridor.
Still
