The Couple at No. 9(26)

‘How are you, Brenda?’ I ask.

‘Not good. I’m fed up with those journalists coming over all the time. Last week there was one in our back garden, taking photos over our fence. It’s just not on. It’s making my Jack’s acid reflux play up.’

‘I’m really sorry – I hate them being here too.’

‘We’ve lived here nigh on thirty year and have never known the like.’

‘I don’t know what they’re hoping to achieve. There’s no new information and there might not be for some time,’ I say. DS Barnes said earlier about trawling through missing persons between 1970 and 1990 to try to identify the bodies. It could take months.

‘And I’ve also had the police here last week asking questions,’ she bulldozes on, as though I haven’t spoken. ‘And I can tell you what I told them – we’ve been living here over thirty year, and if two people had been murdered and buried in the garden next door, well,’ she folds her arms across her chest, ‘we’d have seen. Nothing gets past me.’

That doesn’t surprise me.

‘Thirty years? So you arrived here in …’

‘1986. Bought it from a lovely old couple. They wanted to move to a bungalow near their son.’

‘You didn’t know my gran? Rose Grey? She wasn’t living here then, but she was the landlord. I don’t know if she ever came over or …?’

But she shakes her head. ‘Nope. When we moved in a Beryl and Colin Jenkins lived in your house and I don’t remember meeting any Rose Grey.’

Snowy pulls at the lead and I bend down to stroke him. ‘And after them was it Mr and Mrs Turner?’ I ask, recalling Mrs McNulty’s conversation in the corner shop.

Brenda glares at me, and just when I think she’ll refuse to say, she leans towards me, and I can tell, despite her prickliness, she’s enjoying having a gossip. She pulls her cream cardigan further around her skinny body. ‘The Turners – Valerie and Stan – moved in around 1988 or 1989. Had a dodgy son. Always getting into trouble.’

‘Do you remember the son’s name?’

‘Harrison. Yes, that’s it, I remember because of George Harrison. He was a wild one. Felt sorry for his mum and dad. They were older. Stan had very bad arthritis.’

‘Have you told the police this?’

‘Of course I have. I told them last week.’

I hope they’ve looked into the son. I make a mental note to ask DS Barnes.

‘Anyway,’ I say, trying to sound cheerful, ‘there are no journalists right now. Maybe they’re having a day off.’

But she harrumphs and scurries back inside, without saying goodbye.

Later, I recount my conversation with Brenda to Tom as we stand side by side at the sink, washing up our dinner things before Mum insists on doing it. She’s already rearranged the cutlery drawer. I filled him in on our visit to Gran when we were eating.

Mum’s gone up to her room to attend to her blistered feet. I don’t know why she insists on wearing heels everywhere. A silvery salmon skin sticks to the oven dish and I take out my frustration by scrubbing hard. I’m desperate for a dishwasher but God knows when we can start the building work again. It looks like it’ll be a long time before I have my dream kitchen. Even though the garden is no longer being treated as a crime scene and the police have said we’re allowed to continue with our renovations, the builders can’t come back for a few months because they’ve now started on another job. I can’t help wondering if that’s an excuse.

‘The son could be an interesting line of enquiry for the police,’ says Tom. ‘Maybe his parents helped him cover it up.’ I notice a fleck of white paint in his hair. He came home from work and instantly changed into his decorating clothes, saying, ‘I can just get in another lick of paint before dinner.’ The banister is nearly finished and then he wants to start on the little bedroom. But something stops me … Every time I go in there I feel strange. It’s only been since the bodies were discovered and I know it’s because the back window looks onto the garden and the gigantic hole. It’s just a reminder of what happened, that’s all. I know I’ll get past it. Once all this is over.

‘Gran mentioned a Jean and Victor today,’ I say. ‘I think she’s just getting confused but,’ I sigh, ‘for the first time it made me wonder if she knows something about those bodies. Like she’s trying to remember something. But after speaking to Brenda …’ I let my words hang in the air.

DS Barnes told us as we were leaving that the woman who sold the house to Gran, back in 1977, is long dead. She had no children but a sister whom they have spoken to. He added that they were following up with the two families who rented the house from Gran in the years between 1981 and 1990 but didn’t mention the Turners’ son. He also said they will be looking into Daphne Hartall and the other lodger. It sounds like they’re working hard to identify the bodies but he did say it would be a long process due to the state of decomposition. It sounds like a mammoth task.

‘It must be so hard for your gran. And hard to know if what she’s saying actually means anything or is just ramblings due to the dementia,’ says Tom, as he dries a plate. It nearly slips from his hand.

‘Careful! That’s one of our only unchipped ones.’