She turned back to the hallway, checking the smooth, pale walls. Here there were pictures too but spaced out like a gallery. So, Jackson had been a collector. Or maybe his wife, but Zoe would bet it wasn’t her. The largest ones, the ones that looked like they might be expensive, were in the study.
She took a few steps towards one of the paintings. It was a landscape, blue-green fields approached by an ominous storm. The sky had flashes of yellow and black and the grass below was peppered with dark patches. It made her shiver. Too bleak for Zoe’s taste but something she could imagine other people coveting. Another similar one faced it. Both about three feet square and signed in the bottom right hand corner. They were mounted without frames.
She went back to the office doorway. If they’d only taken the one painting, then Jackson might have disturbed them before they’d got the rest. He could have arrived home from the party, gone in there, discovered them in the act. They grabbed his knife – she frowned, wondering where the knife had been displayed – and stabbed him with it. Then made off through either the patio doors or the front door.
Occam’s Razor – the simplest explanation was normally the best. But there were flaws. That tie, for one. And what kind of burglar would kill for a panting? What vehicle would they have needed, to take a stash of delicate paintings? No one had said anything about a van.
There was nothing else she could get from this crime scene without donning her protective gear and stepping inside. The FSM would be here any moment.
She knew better than to go in there alone. This case would be political. It would be delicate, closely monitored. She couldn’t risk being accused of contaminating the scene.
In the meantime, she had a witness to question.
Chapter Eight
Margaret blinked at the young constable next to her. Someone had found a blanket, one from the second guest bedroom, if she remembered correctly. It draped around her shoulders.
They were sitting on the sofa in the kitchen. She stared at the blank windows to the garden, wondering if she’d properly secured the gate.
“Can I get you another cup of tea, Mrs Jackson?” The girl’s voice was harsher than you’d think from looking at her blonde hair and long eyelashes. She had a thick Black Country accent.
Margaret shook her head. Then nodded. Then shook it again.
She had no idea what she wanted.
“Tell you what, how about we make one anyway, then it’s up to you if you drink it.”
The girl stood and headed towards the kettle. “Strong, three sugars.”
“No—” Margaret raised a hand.
“For the shock, Mrs Jackson. It’ll make you feel better.”
Margaret frowned but said nothing.
Behind her, in the hallway and beyond, she could hear footsteps. Uniformed officers tramping all over the hardwood floors Bryn was so precious about. He’d insisted she polish them every week when they’d first moved in here, getting down on her hands and knees like a Victorian chambermaid. She’d learned to enjoy the task and felt satisfaction from seeing the wood gleam.
She thought of the wood in his study, the antique carpet. The blood she’d watched spreading across it.
She stood up. “I have to go to him.”
The policewoman pulled her down. “Please, just stay here. You’ll see him later.”
“He needs me.”
Trish placed a mug of tea on the coffee table. “I know it’s hard, but the best way you can help him right now is to let CID do their job.”
She’d used the blue mug, the one Winona had bought her two Christmases ago. Margaret hated that mug but brought it out religiously when her daughter came to visit.
She turned to the constable. “What’s your name?”
The girl smiled. “I’m PC Bright, ma’am.”
Margaret shook her head, feeling like it was full of wasps.
“No. Your real name. What do your friends call you?”
A smile. “Trish, ma’am.”
“Please don’t call me ma’am.”
Trish nodded but didn’t correct herself.
There was more noise in the hallway. Cold air flashed in as the detective entered the room. Margaret had forgotten her name. The woman was in front of her before she’d had a chance to consider standing up.
Margaret straightened as the detective looked down at her.
She thought of Bryn, twisted back over his desk. The blood, soaking into the hardwood. His desk.
Oh, my God. That desk. It was an antique. Mahogany with a leather inlay, ornately carved legs and detailing on the drawer fronts. It was worth… it was priceless.
His desk would be ruined. He would hate that.
She swallowed and closed her eyes. She felt sick.
“Mrs Jackson, are you alright? You suddenly went very pale.” The detective looked perturbed, like a mother whose child is about to throw up into her face.
Margaret held herself still. “I’m fine,” she lied.
“Good.” The detective shot the young policewoman, Trish, a keep an eye on her look. “I’ve been checking your husband’s office. Am I right in thinking that’s what the room is used for?”
“It’s his study. Yes.”
“Is it a room you both used?”
Used.
“No. He liked to keep his space private.”
“Can you tell me if there was a picture over the mantelpiece?”
“The mantelpiece?”
“In the study. It’s missing. I wondered if your husband had moved it.”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.” Truth was, she had no idea what was in that room. My husband kept me prisoner here. He locked me out of his room. He told me I was worthless. But this young detective knew nothing of all that. None of them did.
“Thank you. You drink your tea now, and I’ll be back to talk to you shortly. I suggest you get some rest.”
Margaret shook her head. Rest was the last thing on her mind. She could rest when she was with Bryn.
She listened to the two policewomen talking as she shuffled upstairs, keeping her eyes off the door to Bryn’s sanctuary.
Chapter Nine
Zoe sat in a chair at the kitchen table. Upstairs, Mrs Jackson was changing her clothes.
“You told her to leave the dress on the bed?” she asked.
“Yes,” PC Bright replied.
“Good. You can get them while I speak to her. I need your colleague to stay put until Forensics get here. We have no idea where there might be evidence.”
“Of course.”
“You’ve been using the kitchen?”
“I wanted to make her a drink.”
Zoe nodded. Standard procedure, for witnesses. Dose them up with sugar and caffeine. For the shock, the PCs said. But in reality, it gave everyone something to do while they waited for the cavalry to arrive.
Zoe started at the sound of the front doorbell ringing.
“I’ll go.” The PC looked relieved to be free of the tension.
She came back with Mo. Zoe felt herself relax a little.
“Mo. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“They’re still trying to rouse the DCIs.”
“Good luck to them.” It felt like a weight lifted, to have her old friend here. “I haven’t been in there yet, wanted to wait. I’ve got suits in my car.”