didn’t tell us much.’
‘I thought she told us a lot. Much more than she knew.’
‘Like what?’
‘Think about it,’ I said, and started down the stairs wondering if it was promotion that made people unpleasant, and if I’d be as nasty as Derwent by the time I was a detective inspector myself.
Assuming I made it that far.
The hall was empty when I came downstairs. I followed the sound of voices to the kitchen at the back of the house. It was narrower than the one on the other side of the road, and full of people. Eleanor Norris was standing by the sink twisting a tea towel in her hands. A teenage girl sat at the table leaning against a man with short dark hair and a golden tan, who was deep in conversation with a second, white-haired man. A third man sat on a chair he’d pushed away from the table, balancing on the two back legs. He glanced up as we came in.
‘Look out, it’s the filth.’
‘Morgan,’ the tanned man snapped. ‘That’s enough.’
‘Just a joke.’ He let the chair slam back onto the floor and stood up. ‘Morgan Norris. I’m Oliver’s brother.’
‘For my sins. I’m Oliver.’ The dark-haired man stood too, glaring at his brother. I’d have known they were related without being told. They had the same quick way of moving, the same tilt of the head, the same light eyes. Oliver was darker and handsome in a square-jawed, rugby-player way. Morgan was leaner, more like a runner. He was looking at me with frank curiosity which I ignored. I got a lot of that, one way or another. I didn’t look like a murder detective, I’d been told. Too pretty, they said. Not tough enough. Too tall.
Such nonsense.
‘I need to speak to you, Mr Norris. I need to ask you some questions about what you saw this afternoon. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
‘Of course.’ He started to detach himself from the teenage girl who clung on to his arm more tightly.
‘No.’
‘Bethany, I have to go.’
‘Let go of him, Bethany.’ The white-haired man stretched out his hand but didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. She let go of her father instantly and dropped her hands into her lap.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ I said to him.
‘Gareth Selhurst.’
He said it as if I should recognise him, his voice resonant, his barrel chest inflating with pride. An actor? I didn’t know and couldn’t ask. I’d never seen him before.
‘Are you a neighbour? Or family?’
‘I live nearby.’ He gave a vague flourish, not indicating any particular direction. ‘And we are all family here, my dear. All part of God’s family.’
‘Amen.’ Eleanor Norris had whispered it.
‘Gareth is the lead elder of our church,’ Oliver Norris said. ‘He’s here to support us.’
Not an actor: a preacher.
‘I wanted to offer my help,’ Selhurst said. ‘In case there was anything I could do. Sometimes prayer is a great comfort.’
‘Do you know Kate Emery and Chloe Emery?’
‘Yes. Not well.’ He smiled blandly. ‘They don’t worship with us, but the door is always open.’
Not worth interviewing, I thought, and immediately wondered if that was what I was supposed to think.
‘I’ll try not to take too long, Mr Norris.’
‘I want to come with you. I want to hear what happened,’ Bethany said. She sounded like a spoiled brat and looked like a child. Fifteen, her mother had said, but I’d have guessed she was thirteen at most. She was tiny and thin, with heavy, squared-off glasses that hid most of her small face. Like her mother she wore a long-sleeved top. No make-up. No nail varnish.
‘You can’t come, Bethany. The police need to speak to me on my own. Anyway, you don’t want to hear about what happened.’
‘If I don’t know, I’ll imagine worse things. I won’t be able to sleep. I’ll be terrified.’
‘Bethany.’ Gareth Selhurst shook his head at her. ‘It’s not your place to tell your father what to do.’
‘No, I know, but—’
‘Stay here and pray with us. Talk to God.’ Selhurst stretched out his hands, cupping the air. He closed his eyes, his expression blissful. Morgan Norris was shaking his head, his arms folded. Not a member of the flock, I guessed.
The girl put her hand down onto the chair beside her and I realised the cat was there, a cloud of grey fur knotted into a tight ball. She stroked the cat, watching her father’s face, seeing the little shudder of revulsion he couldn’t quite hide.
‘Why don’t you like me touching Misty, Daddy?’ She sounded more like a child than ever. ‘What’s wrong, Daddy? She’s very friendly. She’s purring.’
Under the tan, Norris had gone very pale. To me, he said, ‘Let’s go into the sitting room. We won’t be disturbed there.’
The sitting room was dark when we went in, and Norris fussed about putting on lamps, clearing armchairs of folded shirts so Georgia and I could sit down.
‘Sorry. My wife was doing the ironing in here earlier but she got distracted when I came back with Chloe. Left the place in a bit of a mess.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. There’s no need to tidy up.’ And stop blaming your wife for the mess she made while she was ironing your shirts. I could feel myself bristling with dislike, spiky as a sea urchin. I hoped it didn’t show.
He abandoned the shirts on the ironing board and threw himself into a chair, one hand to his mouth. ‘Sorry.’
‘Are you all right, Mr Norris?’
He nodded but his eyes were closed and I could see a tremor in his fingers. ‘It’s been a bit of a shock.’
‘Do you know the Emerys well?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ He blinked rapidly. ‘I mean, how well do you know your neighbours? When we moved in Bethany made friends with Chloe, which was fine, of course. We didn’t mind them spending time together.’ He said it as if other people would have minded, which intrigued me.
‘Why would you mind?’
‘Oh, because of Chloe being the way she is. She’s – I forget the politically correct term. Simple. Mentally not all there. Beautiful girl but a few sandwiches short of a picnic.’ He looked
