An enormous woman of seventy-plus opened the door. Her blotched ankles were swollen, her stomach jutted out generously and her jowls hung deep from her plump face. But hidden amidst all that flesh were two incongruous, rat-like eyes that stared fiercely at Charlie now.
‘If you’re selling something, you can piss -’
Charlie held up her warrant card.
‘It’s about Gareth. May we come in?’
The whole house stank of cats. They seemed to be everywhere and as if scenting danger they clamoured round their owner now, demanding her attention. She stroked the largest one – a ginger tom called Harvey – as Charlie and Jennifer broke the news to her.
‘Dirty little boy.’
Jennifer turned to Charlie, this unexpected response rendering her temporarily speechless.
‘Did you understand what we said, Mrs Hill?’ Charlie asked.
‘Miss Hill. I’ve never been a Mrs.’
Charlie nodded sympathetically.
‘Gareth has been murdered and I -’
‘So you keep saying. What did he do – try and run off without paying?’
Her tone was hard to read. She sounded angry, but was that distress punching through too? This woman’s armour was hard, toughened by years of disappointments, and she was hard to read.
‘We’re still investigating the circumstances but we suspect this was an unprovoked attack.’
‘Hardly unprovoked. If you wallow in the gutter…’
‘Where did Gareth say he was going last night?’ Charlie interrupted.
‘He said he was going to the pictures. He’d just got his benefits so… I thought he must have come in after I was asleep. I thought the lazy oaf was still in bed…’
Finally, her voice wavered, as the reality of her son’s death struck home. When her defences finally collapsed, they would collapse big, so Charlie carried on the conversation a bit longer, then excused herself to head upstairs. She had learned as much as she could and she wanted to be away from this woman’s sharp grief. Charlie knew she was weak to let another’s distress spike so sharply with her own sense of loss, but she couldn’t help it.
Pushing into Gareth’s bedroom, she tried to gather her thoughts. It was truly a sight to behold. Empty fast food wrappers littered the floor, lying in company with used tissues, old magazines and discarded clothes. The whole place looked and smelled dirty, as if someone had existed rather than lived here. It was stale. Stale and empty.
Gareth wasn’t an attractive man and he could hardly have brought girls back here anyway. The mess was bad enough, but would he have had the balls to parade another female in front of his mother, presuming he could have persuaded one to return home with him in the first place? Charlie thought not. His probation reports suggested he had learning difficulties and cripplingly low self-esteem. The evidence of his home life seemed to affirm that. This was a house that trapped people rather than protected them.
