It was a long time till morning.
I had a flash of inspiration as I brushed my teeth, first thing on Tuesday. Janice Brookes had a sister. Maybe they looked alike. Very alike. Like twins. Some families are like that, aren’t they? The same genes coming to the fore. Janice Brookes was the victim, Mrs Hobbs would turn out to be her bereaved sister. I got very excited following this train of thought. Ignoring the strange coincidences it implied, like Mrs Hobbs’ sister getting killed near Cheadle. The theory relieved me of the guilt and paranoia that had mushroomed around me. I rang Mrs Hobbs. No reply. She’d probably be busy helping with the funeral arrangements. I was clutching at straws. Sometimes, there’s nothing else to clutch at.
The police knocked that one on the head straightaway. They arrived, unannounced, just as I’d got the kids into the car. It was the man with the suntan, moustache and glasses who’d sat in the background while I was questioned at JB’s. With him a young sandy-haired bloke with sticky-out ears, reminiscent of Tintin. I asked them to wait a moment and fled inside to rouse Ray so he could do the school run.
The two men followed me into the kitchen. We all sat down round the oval table.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Miller and this is Sergeant Boyston. You are Sal Kilkenny?’
‘Yes, We met last week, actually.’
‘Busy, aren’t we?’ Said without a trace of humour. ‘Now, you contacted us regarding the murder of Miss Janice Brookes.’ Tintin made notes, while Miller did the talking.
‘Yes, well, if it is her.’ I had an unnerving flash of déjà-vu. The last time the police had sat in my kitchen I’d just had a brick through the window, a prelude to a knife through the shoulder.
Miller looked puzzled. I dragged my brain back to the present.
‘I thought it might be her sister. You see, I knew her as Mrs Hobbs. The woman I met, she looks like this one,’ I pointed to the paper, ‘but the wrong name. I thought if they were alike, her and her sister, then…’
The Sergeant sniggered.
‘I can assure you,’ said Miller, ‘that they do not look alike. Perhaps if we start at the beginning.’ He smiled, but his flecked brown eyes held no warmth.
I told them about Mrs Hobbs and the job she’d asked me to do. I related that I’d found Martin and that he’d wanted no contact with his family. I left out the details of his abuse; after all, that had nothing to do with Janice Brookes. I described how upset she’d been when I told her Martin didn’t want to see her.
