with a bird-like frame, her hands were twisted, the knuckles swollen with arthritis. The fingertips on her right hand were stained the dark yellow that only a truly dedicated smoker could achieve. Her teeth and even the fringe of her thinning white hair were similarly affected, almost as if she had started to dye her hair blonde, before giving up.
After slowly leading the three officers into her living room, she carefully sat down on what was clearly her favourite chair. A bag of knitting lay next to an open newspaper and a TV remote control. A packet of Marlboro Red cigarettes and a lighter sat next to an overflowing ashtray, although much to Warren’s relief she made no move to light one.
After clearing her throat a few times, a wet, wheezy sound that made Warren wince inwardly, she was settled.
“So you were saying that Darren has had very few visitors since Sally’s disappearance? What about his parents? Or her parents?”
The old lady shook her head. “I don’t like to gossip, you understand, but I heard that he doesn’t get on very well with his parents any more. Not since the incident with that Kim Bradshaw. He thinks that they betrayed him.”
There was clearly much to this story, Warren was beginning to realise, and it seemed to be common local knowledge. Unfortunately, Mrs Cunningham knew, or was willing to admit to knowing, few details and so he dropped the discussion.
“Tell me, how well did they get on as a couple, do you think?”
“They always seemed happy, whenever I saw them. Dead close. But then I suppose that you have to be, when both of you have been practically disowned by your parents. I suppose it’s romantic in a way — bit like Romeo ’n’ Juliet.”
“So you were aware that Ms Evans’ parents didn’t like Darren Blackheath?”
The old woman cackled, her eyes suddenly dancing with amusement. “I’ll bloody say I did. A few weeks after they started living here, her dad turned up, didn’ he? He was drunk and he started shouting at Darren to come out. It was late at night, so I got up to see what was going on. Anyway, he starts banging on the flat door. Well, the original doors in these flats are cheap and flimsy and it popped open. I had mine replaced after I was broken into but they haven’t yet.
“I heard shouting and came back in here to call the police, but it stopped. A few seconds later, what do I see but Darren Blackheath, wearing nothing but a bath towel, climbing down the fire escape!”
The old woman burst out laughing, before subsiding into a coughing fit. She leant forward and patted Karen Hardwick’s knee and winked.
“I can’t say he was the finest specimen I’ve ever seen — boy needs a good feeding — but when you get to my age you take what you can.”
Warren couldn’t help smiling; the old woman’s good cheer was infectious. Sutton was grinning from ear to ear.
“Do you have any idea why her father disliked Darren so much?”
The old lady paused, thinking. “Obviously, I can only tell as what I hear down the club, but Mr Evans is a bit of a snob. He looks down on us working-class types. He forgets that a generation ago his parents worked in the factory. Then there was the whole Kim Bradshaw incident. He figured his little girl was better than all that.”
She shook her head. “But they were in love. And they were happy. Seems a shame he couldn’t deal with that.”
After a few more questions, it soon became obvious that Maeve Cunningham had little more to say. Besides which, she kept on glancing at her cigarettes. Finally, standing up, the three detectives took their leave of the elderly lady.
“Thank you very much for your time, Mrs Cunningham. Can I leave you my card in case you remember anything else?”
“Of course. But it’s Miss Cunningham. Why did you think I was married?”
Warren blinked, completely nonplussed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. You mentioned how lonely you were after Stan died and, well, you know, I thought he was your husband.”
“Well, I’d heard about how strange folks were in Birmingham, but I didn’t realise they married their dogs.”
The three officers could still hear her laughter as they turned the corner of the corridor.
Back in the car, Hardwick and Sutton unsuccessfully tried to hide their smirks.
Warren sighed. “OK, you two, be honest, do I really sound like a Brummie? I’m from Coventry and I only worked in Birmingham for a few years.”
The two more junior officers glanced at each other before Sutton took the lead, clearing his throat. “Well, sometimes. You know, certain words and phrases.”
“It’s more of a general West Midlands twang,” supplied Karen Hardwick helpfully from the back seat. “You know, a bit like Lenny Henry.”
“Lenny Henry! He’s from bloody Dudley! No way do I sound like that.” Warren was amazed, how could they not hear the difference?
“It’s just a regional thing, guv,” Sutton interjected quickly. “You know the way most English folks can’t tell the difference between Northern and Southern Irish, or different parts of the North East. You have to live somewhere ages to tell the difference.”
“I imagine the local accents down here are a bit difficult to distinguish for you as well, sir.”
A fair point, Warren acknowledged grudgingly. He had lived here for six months and, although he was slowly starting to recognise the difference between Eastern accents and London, this whole corner of England sounded remarkably homogenous. He was sure that there must be a difference between an Essex and a Hertfordshire accent, but he had yet to figure it out. He admitted as much, even letting slip that he couldn’t distinguish between the Cockney accents on Eastenders and Essex accents. His two colleagues shook their heads in disbelief.
Warren grunted and scowled. Truth be told, though, he was enjoying the banter. The atmosphere had been heavy the previous twenty-four hours, with only the darkest humour glimmering. He was confident that details of the conversation would circulate the office in record time. Hopefully a little good-natured teasing would improve morale and even make him seem a bit more human.
The time for levity soon passed though, as the car pulled into the customer parking bay of the tyre fitters that Darren Blackheath worked for. The three officers made their way into the small, glass-walled customer waiting area. At one end of the room was a small desk with a computer. A middle-aged man with greying hair was busy pecking away, two fingers at a time, on a battered keyboard, as he grunted and ‘uh-huh’ed into the mouthpiece of the phone clamped between his shoulder and ear. A small name badge identified him as ‘Jack Bradley — Manager’.
As they waited they gazed through the window into the garage beyond. Blue-overalled mechanics worked away on four different vehicles, Along the far side of the space were literally hundreds of different tyres, forming an almost seamless wall of black, shiny rubber, broken only by brightly coloured advertising posters urging customers to ready their car for winter. Warren counted four mechanics, but no Darren Blackheath.
Finally, the man on the phone finished. Looking up, his eyes narrowed. It
