‘I don’t suppose my husband would know any more than I do,’ she explained, leading him through the house to the large kitchen diner – a common feature in the houses of the street. ‘We hardly know them − they only moved in a few weeks ago. But I suppose you already know that. Please, take a seat,’ she told him, indicating a stool at the breakfast bar.
‘And you popped round to introduce yourself?’ Donnelly asked, keen to speed things along.
‘Of course. This is a friendly street. We had a street party for the Jubilee and every Christmas we have a big party for all the kids at the local tennis club, that sort of thing.’
‘But the Bridgemans didn’t want to know?’
‘You could say that. She seemed keener than her husband, but not exactly over-friendly.’
‘So the husband seemed to be the one wanting them to keep their distance – is that fair?’
‘I suppose so,’ she answered. ‘I assumed they were just shy and preferred to keep themselves to themselves.’
‘Fair enough,’ Donnelly encouraged.
‘Exactly, but they’d only been here a few days when … well, quite frankly, the arguments started. Believe me, the walls of these houses are pretty solid, but you could still hear them – or rather him.’
‘So it was Mr Bridgeman doing the shouting?’
‘She joined in, but yes, mainly him.’
‘Could you hear what they were arguing about?’
‘Not really, although I did hear him calling her a lying bitch one time. I think at that point my husband and I vowed to have as little to do with them as possible and that’s the way it’s been.’
‘What about the kids? How did they seem?’
‘All right, considering.’
‘And the children’s behaviour?’
‘Fine. The little girl …’
‘Sophia.’
‘Yes, Sophia, seemed to have a lot to say for herself, but the little boy …’
‘George.’
‘Yes, sorry, George was a very quiet boy, from what I could tell. But like I said, we don’t really know them.’
‘But on the occasions you did see them,’ Donnelly pressed, ‘maybe in the back garden or out the front there, how did the parents seem towards the children?’ Donnelly’s chirping mobile broke the flow of questions and answers, making him curse under his breath. The caller ID told him it was Sean. He answered without excusing himself. ‘Guv’nor.’
‘Where are you?’ Sean asked.
‘Door-to-door, as assigned. Speaking to the Bridgemans’ neighbours, who are being very helpful,’ he added for the benefit of the listening Mrs Howells.
‘Good,’ Sean told him. ‘While you’re doing that you should bear in mind the house has now been searched properly and the boy hasn’t been found.’
Donnelly cursed inwardly twice: once for not being right about the boy’s body being found in the house and again for not making sure DC Goodwin tipped him off about the search before he told Sean. The news must have come through while he was in with the Beiersdorfs. Damn it. Not to worry. His theory still held water. After killing the boy the Bridgemans could have easily moved the body from the house – perhaps to a secure place while they waited for the heat to die down before getting rid of it permanently. Or maybe they had already disposed of it. ‘Is that so,’ he finally answered.
‘Yes, and the one we have in custody is shaping up nicely,’ Sean continued.
‘Has he admitted it yet?’ Donnelly asked, disappointment at the prospect of being proved wrong mingling with satisfaction that the person responsible was in custody. He had no problem swallowing his pride for the sake of getting a conviction on some sick bastard kiddie-fiddler.
‘No,’ Sean told him. ‘But he hasn’t denied it either, and you have to ask yourself why he wouldn’t deny it if he wasn’t involved.’
‘Because he’s insane?’ Donnelly offered.
‘Not this one,’ Sean explained. ‘He’s wired wrong, but he’s not insane. Seems to want to play games too.’
‘With us?’
‘Apparently. Finish up where you are and try and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be an early start and a late finish, as is every day until we find George – one way or the other.’ Donnelly heard the connection go dead.
‘Sorry about that. Where were we?’ Donnelly asked Mrs Howells.
‘The Bridgeman children,’ she reminded him.
‘Aye, indeed. From what you could see, how did the parents behave towards their children?’
‘OK,’ she answered. ‘Although …’
‘Although what?’ Donnelly seized on it.
‘From the bits and pieces I’ve seen, they were fine towards Sophia, but …’
‘But …?’ he pushed her.
‘Not Celia, but Mr Bridgeman always seemed a little … well, a little cold towards George.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘As I said, I barely know them. I’m just telling you what struck me from the little I’ve observed.’
‘That’s very interesting,’ Donnelly told her. ‘But he’s fine towards Sophia?’
‘Kisses and cuddles on the doorstep when he comes home – plays with her in the garden at the weekends.’
‘Nothing unusual about a daddy’s girl. I have a few kids of my own and my ten-year-old only has eyes for her old dad – much to the annoyance of her mother.’
‘It’s getting very late now,’ Mrs Howells said with a polite smile Donnelly had seen a thousand times before. ‘I really ought to check on the children.’
‘Have you ever seen him, maybe, hit the boy?’ Donnelly ignored her hints.
‘No. No. Of course not.’
‘Ever see him touch George in an inappropriate way?’
‘I really don’t think I should say any more.’
‘Anything you tell me will be treated as confidential, Mrs Howells.’
‘I’ve told you all I know. I never saw him abuse George in any way. It’s just … he was …’
‘Cold towards him,’ Donnelly
