“You think there was a delay?”
He shrugged. “That’s for the pathologist. But his wife didn’t exactly seem in a hurry when we arrived.”
“Look, we’ll need a formal statement from you tomorrow. But right now, I need control of that scene. Please, go in and have a word with your colleague.”
He gave her an icy look. “Right you are.” He turned and headed into the house, calling for his colleague as he did so.
Zoe put on her shoe covers and trailed behind, taking care to follow in his footsteps so as not to disturb anything she couldn’t see in the darkness. She wondered why there wasn’t a security light, something on a motion sensor.
As she reached the front door, the two paramedics almost crashed into her coming the other way. The second one, a blonde woman who looked too delicate for this work, gave her a look of contempt.
“Thanks,” Zoe said.
“We’re not leaving yet,” replied the woman. “Paperwork to do.”
“Fair enough. But check with me before you go back inside the house.”
“Of course.”
There was muttering as the two paramedics retreated to their vehicle. She knew their job was tough, but she didn’t have time to wait around. She had to get in there and secure that scene. She only hoped that whoever had come in the squad car would know what they were doing.
Chapter Six
A film of cold milk was forming on the surface of Margaret’s tea, sitting on the table in front of her. She stared at it, suddenly aware that her dress was spattered with Bryn’s blood.
She pawed at it. “I need to get this off.”
The female PC, standing in front of the Aga, stepped forward. “We’ll need that, madam.”
She frowned. “What? Why?”
She looked down at the dress. She hated this thing. She’d wanted to wear her favourite emerald green dress. Bought ten years earlier but it still fitted. Being under constant stress was good for the figure.
But Bryn had vetoed it. She’d checked he wasn’t looking then sashayed down the stairs, for once pleased with how she looked. He’d appeared from his study and adopted an expression of distaste.
“You can’t wear that thing.”
She’d looked down at it. The green set off the tone of her skin and made her feel younger than her nondescript sixty-three years.
“You like this dress. You said so when I bought it.”
“That was five years ago.”
“Ten years, actually.”
He bit his nail and spat. She tried to make out where the fragment had landed.
“Exactly,” he said. “You look like mutton dressed as lamb. You’re not wearing it.”
She’d taken a breath, about to object, but then decided better of it. It was just a dress. No one at this awful party would care what she looked like. If she wore something drab she could fade into the background, get it all over with.
She’d dragged herself back upstairs, a headache forming behind her eyes.
Now the emerald dress lay on her bed still. She’d been intending to put them both away after the party, knowing that Bryn would still be downstairs and wouldn’t have to see the thing. She’d been looking forward to lifting it off the bed, holding it against herself and admiring it in the mirror. Her eyes sparkled when she wore green. It made her look alive.
Alive.
How could she be thinking about dresses when Bryn lay dead in the next room?
Bryn was sixty-five years old, and he’d had that mini stroke. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought about his death before. He wasn’t a healthy man. He had his paunch, and panted when he walked up more than a few stairs. But he’d bragged about the long years of retirement he would enjoy. The rounds of golf that would provide the exercise he’d been missing since trading a response vehicle for a desk.
Ten years, maybe twenty if he’d had his way. Twenty years of insults, and restrictions, and fear.
Now there would be none of that.
Margaret had spent thirty-four years in his orbit, her every move calculated with regard to his reaction. She’d learned what annoyed him, and what pacified him. What kept him away from her, and what encouraged contact. She’d become an expert on Bryn Jackson. It was a full-time job.
Now, she was nothing.
She shuddered. The policewoman leaned in. She was impossibly young, surely not much older than Margaret’s teenage granddaughters. The bulky uniform made her look tiny.
“Is there anything I can get you, Mrs Jackson? Anyone I can call?”
“I just want to find some clean clothes.”
“That’s fine. Please leave the clothes you’re wearing on the bed, and we’ll take them. You won’t miss them, will you?”
“No.”
Margaret heaved herself up, pulling at the hem of the dress. It was stiff, crusted with blood. Not just his, but her own. She’d cut her hand on the knife when she’d picked it up from the desk. No one had mentioned that. No one had talked about treating the gash that ran down her palm.
“I might need to go to the doctor,” she whispered.
“Of course. You’ll be needing something to help you sleep,” the girl replied.
“No. Not that.” She hadn’t thought about sleep. It seemed so unimportant now. “My hand.”
She held her palm up. The constable winced.
“Sorry, we should’ve seen that earlier. We’ll get someone to come and treat it for you.”
“Thank you.” Margaret stood up. Her legs were heavy.
There was a knock at the front door.
“Don’t worry, Mrs Jackson. PC Khaled will get it.”
Margaret didn’t like other people answering her door. She rarely had visitors, but supposed she would be inundated with them now. Well-wishers. Bryn’s myriad friends and associates. Maybe one or two of her own.
A woman put her head round the kitchen door. She was tall with red-brown hair that had been tied back in a hurry. She looked nervous. As she entered the room, her height became even more apparent. Margaret had seen this woman before, at the party. But there, even though she’d been standing while everyone else sat, she’d seemed smaller. Less significant.
“Mrs Jackson,” the woman said. She had a strong Birmingham accent and sounded almost as tired as Margaret felt. “I’m Detective Inspector Zoe Finch.” Her gaze flicked across Margaret’s dress. “I’m very sorry about your husband’s death.”
Margaret’s neck muscles tightened. “Thank you.”
“It’s my job to secure the scene.” DI Finch turned to the constable. “Have you been anywhere else in the house, other than this room?”
“No ma’am.”
“Good. You stay in here. Mrs Jackson, I’d be grateful if you could stay in here with PC—?”
“PC Bright, ma’am,” said the constable.
“PC Bright. She’ll get you a cup of… you already have one. And I’m sorry, but we’ll need your dress.”
Margaret looked down at the dress again. “Of course.”
“Can I ask what happened?”
Margaret’s legs felt weak. “I don’t know. He was… I found him…”