Death of a Perfect Mother by Robert Barnard Page B

slept. It was empty. Good old Lill, he thought: she’s making the tea. Then he struggled upright, his thin body racked by coughs till tears came to his eyes.
    Next door Mrs Casey lay wakeful in bed. Now that she was old she found she needed very little sleep. She lay in bed most nights thinking about her life, about what the Lord had given her and what He had withheld, about the lives and doings of her family and neighbours, about sin and retribution and kindred subjects. She was never bored. Last night after she had heard, she had thought about her daughter, about her life and death, so perfectly in accord with each other, and no doubt ordained that way by a Higher Power. She imagined Lill’s face blue with strangulation, then remembered it thick with pancake make-up, mascara and lipstick. There was a rightness about the comparison that pleased her and brought a thin smile to her face. Lill had lived vilely and died violently. Mrs Casey stolidly turned back the bedclothes and began the process of getting up. Now nodoubt there would be interviews and questions. The police would be round. That was only right. They had their jobs to do. But she did not expect them to discover the murderer of Lill. She had an odd idea that the murderer of Lill enjoyed the protection of the Lord.
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    The Hodsdens gathered downstairs, haggard, pale grey around the eyes. Debbie’s right eye had something more than mere greyness round it, and she felt the flick of an eye as one of the policemen noticed it. That was the new policeman, the one from Cumbledon, come to take over the investigation.
    They all looked at him, the one who had not been there in the horrible, frenzied session late the previous night. He’s very good-looking, Debbie thought. And he was too, in a self-conscious way. Very fair hair, damped down close around his head. Blue eyes—so much more policeman-like than brown. A rounded, regular sort of face on a sturdy neck. He looks a capable sort of chap, thought Fred. He coughed portentously and came forward to shake him by the hand.
    â€˜We’re all hoping you’re goin’ to find the rotten bastard that killed our Lill,’ he said.
    The policeman nodded, rather superior. Of course he was going to find the bastard that killed their Lill, seemed to be his message. Brian suddenly thought: he looks stupid. He hides it well, but really he’s rather dim. Brian analysed his feelings, not quite sure whether to be glad or sorry. One thing he was certain of: he did want to know who it was had killed Lill. That didn’t mean he wanted them punished.
    The policeman cleared his throat and looked around him, using his clear, blue, frank eyes in a way he often practised in front of the bathroom mirror. Female shoplifters often went weak at the knees and confessed in the face of that gaze. The Hodsdens looked suitably impressed,which gratified him.
    â€˜My name is McHale,’ he said, in a voice resonant with officialdom. ‘I’ve been called in to take charge of this case. Believe me, I realize what a distressing time this must be for you. But I expect you’d like to know how far we’ve got.’
    â€˜Aye, we would that,’ said Fred, who seemed anxious to make an impression on McHale as head of the family, something he never had been.
    â€˜Well, as you know, your wife—your mother—was strangled along Balaclava Road, just up from the little cutting that takes you through to Windsor Avenue here.’
    â€˜Snoggers Alley, that’s what we calls it,’ said Fred.
    â€˜Really . . . ?’ (The pause suggested he found the Hodsdens rather common.) ‘Where she was strangled there’s a garden wall jutting out on to the pavement, making a dark little corner. It’s very likely the murderer hid himself there—if he aimed to surprise her, that is, which seems likely. The killing took place, we would imagine, somewhere