I made myself another herb tea. My belly rumbled, but I wasn’t going to throw any food at it. I slit open the envelope. There was a second one inside, addressed to Martin Hobbs, and a note. ‘Please take this to Martin.’ No name, no signature. I knew who it was from. A dead woman. I couldn’t deal with it. I foraged for my pocket and stuffed it all in there.
‘Lady of leisure,’ Clive brayed. I started and spilt my tea. I hadn’t heard him come downstairs.
‘It’s ‘flu, actually. I’m going back to bed.’
‘I’ve heard that one before. Fancy a day off, did we?’
‘Excuse me.’ I squeezed past him.
‘Hey, Sal,’ he bellowed up the stairs after me, ‘what’s the dog doing here?’
‘He lives here, He’s called Digger. I’ll explain later.’
I slept the day away, waking a couple of times from feverish dreams. Disturbing images melted away before I could grasp them. I surfaced briefly at six o’clock, to make more herb tea and wish the children good night. Ten minutes on my feet and I was ready to collapse. Back to bed, clasping my hot water bottle. I slept the clock round. It was only a twenty-four hour bug. I felt weak, a bit spaced-out, the following day, but well enough to eat. Ready, if not eager, to visit Mr and Mrs Hobbs. I scraped the burnt edges off the toast before Maddie spotted them. Mr Hobbs may well be at work but it’d probably be easier to talk to Martin’s mother alone. The neighbour hadn’t said anything about her working.
‘I don’t want to go to school, Mummy.’
‘You’ve got to, love, everyone goes to school.’
‘But I feel sick.’
‘I feel sick,’ Tom chimed in, beaming.
‘You ate three lots of Krispies, Maddie, no wonder you feel sick.’ Malingering or not? I never knew with Maddie. She tried it on every now and then. The last time I’d kept her off school, she’d bounced round the house like Tigger all day. She didn’t look pale. I felt her forehead. No temperature.
‘Ray’ll tell Mrs Cummings to keep an eye on you. Now get your coat.’
‘Aww.’
‘Come on, Maddie.’ Ray guided her out.
I rang the Coroner’s Court to see if they had any information on the inquest for Janice Brookes. They had. It was scheduled for eleven o’clock Friday, the following morning, Court number one. I’d be there. So would the family. A chance to make contact.
Before I could get back upstairs, the phone rang. It was Pete, Clive’s friend, though he didn’t sound all that chummy. Clive hadn’t been in touch about the money he owed him. Was he back? Yes. Had, I passed on the message? Yes. I began to feel I was to blame. I promised Pete I’d make sure that Clive knew he’d rung. I dutifully wrote a note and left it by the phone.
