The Couple at No. 9(24)

The two floral armchairs positioned either side of the fireplace are occupied by men, both in open-necked shirts, smart trousers and a sheen of sweat on their faces. It’s even hotter in here than it is in the day room. The older of the two – mid-forties, Lorna suspects, with receding hair, blue eyes and a chiselled jaw – stands up when they enter. The younger man – late twenties, short and stocky with spiky hair the colour of dirty dishwater – remains seated. He’s drinking what looks like a chocolate milkshake from a see-through Starbucks cup.

‘I’m DS Matthew Barnes,’ says the older one, shaking their hands across the coffee-table. ‘And this is my colleague, DC Ben Worthing. We’re from Wiltshire Police CID.’ Ben nods to them all. She notices his gaze lingers on Saffy.

DS Barnes returns to his seat and Joy fusses around them all, ushering them into chairs opposite the officers, taking their coffee and tea orders. Lorna and Saffy flank her mother, who looks small in the chair and very confused, her fingers knitted together in her lap, her eyes darting between the two men, like a nervous child’s. Lorna reaches out and takes her mum’s hand for reassurance. She’s relieved when Rose lets her.

‘Now, I don’t want you to worry, Rose,’ says DS Barnes, kindly. ‘This is an informal chat. We’re just gathering information at this point. Like we’re doing with everyone connected to the property.’ He has a notebook and biro on the table in front of him. He opens the notebook and takes off the lid of his pen, ready.

Her mother doesn’t say anything, instead staring ahead, sipping the tea that Joy kindly brought in.

‘So, first, can I just have some information, Rose? Like your date of birth?’

Her mother suddenly looks panicked, lowering her mug. ‘I … um … July … no, August … 1939, I think …’

‘You were born in 1943, Mum,’ pipes up Lorna. She turns to DS Barnes. ‘The twentieth of March 1943.’

‘Oh, yes, yes, 1943. In the middle of the war, you know.’ Her mother takes another sip of her tea and smacks her lips together. Lorna glances over her head at Saffy, who stares back at her anxiously.

This is surely going to be a disaster. How can they proceed with this when her mum can’t even remember her own date of birth?

‘And you’ve been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s?’ asks DS Barnes.

Her mother doesn’t say anything so Lorna adds, ‘Yes, last summer.’

Saffy fidgets in her seat. Lorna notices she’s hardly touched her glass of water.

‘Thanks, Lorna,’ says DS Barnes, nodding to her without smiling. ‘So, Rose, my notes say you began proceedings to rent out the cottage in April 1981.’

She shakes her head. ‘I … don’t know.’

He refers to his little black notebook. ‘We know that your first tenant was in June 1981. A couple who rented the house from you for ten years. We’ve already spoken to them. But before that you lived at the property for nearly four years. Did anyone live there with you?’

‘I … had a lodger.’

This is news to Lorna. She sits up straighter. She notices Saffy does the same.

‘A lodger? Male or female?’ asks DS Barnes.

‘A female lodger. Daphne … Daphne Hartall.’ She says the name almost with relish, like she hasn’t said it in a very long time and enjoys the way it forms on her lips.

Her mother has never mentioned a Daphne before.

‘Can you remember what year this was?’ says DS Barnes.

‘I think 1979. No. 1980 …’ She slurps her tea noisily, some of which sloshes onto her pink jumper. Saffy’s hand hovers near the mug, ready to help her with it. ‘The last year I was in the cottage.’

‘And how old was Daphne?’

‘She was … she was the same age as me, I think. In her thirties. Or … maybe forty … I …’ her eyes dart from side to side ‘… I can’t remember exactly …’

‘And what happened to her?’

‘I … don’t know. She left. We lost touch.’

‘Were you friends?’

‘Yes. Yes, we were friends.’ She sounds grumpy now. The way she’d sounded with Lorna when she used to ask about her dad.

‘And did either of you have any … male friends around that time?’

Her mother moves suddenly and a splash of tea jumps from the cup and dribbles down her front.

Saffy is wearing a pained expression. ‘Here, Gran, let me take the mug,’ she says, relief flooding her face when she has it safely in her hands and has lowered it to the table.

‘Rose …’ prompts DS Barnes. ‘Male visitors?’

Her mother shudders. ‘No. No, we were scared – Victor.’

Lorna frowns. Victor again. Who is this Victor?

‘Why were you scared, Rose?’ DS Barnes asks gently.

‘Victor wanted to hurt the baby.’ She touches her soft stomach as though remembering what it was like to be pregnant. Does she mean me? wonders Lorna. She can’t mean me. She told me my dad died before I was born.

Her mother was always so over-protective when Lorna was growing up, insisting on meeting her from the school bus every evening, when all her friends were allowed to walk home by themselves. She never let her wander far, always making sure that she knew where Lorna was going and what time she’d be back, and if she was ever late she’d ring around her friends’ parents and it was so embarrassing that Lorna made sure she was always back on time. Is that why? Because she was scared of a man called Victor?