A Delicate Truth A Novel

poor man made of himself. No alcohol involved to help him on his way, which they say is unusual. But that’s Jeb for you. Not a man to let his hair down. Never was.’
    ‘And no farewell note?’ Toby asked.
    ‘Just the gun in his hand and eight bullets left in the magazine, which makes you wonder what he thought he would do with the others after he’d shot himself, I suppose,’ Harry replied in the same informative tone. ‘Same as him using his wrong hand. Why? you ask yourself. Well, of course there’s no answer to that. There never will be. He was left-handed was Jeb. But he shot himself with his right, which could be described as an aberration. But Jeb was a shooter by trade, they tell me. Well, he’d have to be, wouldn’t he? If Jeb had put his mind to it, he could have shot himself with his own foot, could Jeb, according to what I’m told by Brigid. Plus the fact that when you reach that point you’re not accessible to rational argument, as we all know.Which is what the police said, very rightly, in my opinion, me not being an expert by a long chalk.’
    Toby had found a pockmark as wide as a tennis ball but not so deep halfway up the wood cladding and midway down one side, and was tracing its outline with his finger.
    ‘Yes, well now,’ Harry explained, ‘a bullet like that has to go somewhere, which is common sense, though you wouldn’t believe it watching some of the films they make these days. It can’t just vanish into thin air, can it, not a bullet? So, what I say is, fill the hole with your Polyfilla, rub it down, paint it over, and with any luck it won’t notice.’
    ‘And his tools? For his leathercraft?’
    ‘Yes, well that’s an embarrassment to all concerned, his father’s tools are, Toby, same as his ship’s stove, which was worth a bob or two of anybody’s money. First on the spot was the fire brigade, I’m not sure why, but clearly somebody summoned them. Then along come the police, then the ambulance. So you don’t know whose light fingers were to blame, do you? Not the police, I’m sure. I’ve great respect for our guardians of the law, more than what Brigid’s got, to be frank, her having been one. Still, that’s Ireland for you, I suppose.’
    Toby supposed it was.
    ‘He never grudged me, mind. Not that he had the right. You can’t expect a woman like Brigid to do without, can you? I’m good to her, which couldn’t always be said for Jeb, not if we’re honest.’
    Together they closed the tailgate, then together hauled the tarpaulin back over the van and together tightened the guy ropes.
    ‘I think Brigid wanted another quick word with me,’ Toby said. And for a lame explanation: ‘Something to do with Paul that she felt was private.’
    ‘Well, she’s a free soul, is Brigid, same as all of us,’ Harry saidheartily, patting Toby’s arm in comradeship. ‘Just don’t listen too hard to her views on the police is my advice. There’s always got to be somebody to blame in a case like this, it’s human nature. Good to see you, Toby, and very thoughtful of you to come. And you don’t mind my saying this, do you? I know it’s cheeky. Only, should you happen, just by chance, but you never know, to bump into somebody who’s looking for a well-maintained utility vehicle converted to a high standard – well, they know where to come, don’t they?’
     
    *
     
    Brigid was curled into a corner of the sofa, clutching her knees.
    ‘See anything?’ she asked.
    ‘Was I meant to?’
    ‘The blood was never logical. There was splashes all over the rear bumper. They said it was travelled blood. “How the hell did it travel?” I asked them. “Through the fucking window and round the bloody back?” “You’re overwrought, Mrs Owens. Leave the investigating to us and have a nice cup of tea.” Then another fellow comes over to me, plain clothes from the Met, posh-spoken. “Just to put your mind at ease, Mrs Owens, that was never your husband’s blood on the bumper. It’s red lead. He must have been doing a repair job.” They did the house over too, didn’t they?’
    ‘I’m sorry? Which house?’
    ‘ This fucking house. Where you’re sitting now, looking at me, where d’you think? Every bloody drawer and cubbyhole. Even Danny’s toy cupboard. Searched from top to fucking bottom by people who knew their business. Jeb’s papers from the drawer there. Whatever he’d left behind. Took out and put back, in the right order except not quite. Our clothes