Dead Man's Time

time. Time he wanted to spend, yet, in his chosen career, he was painfully
aware it was time he would not always have.
    Since Noah had been born, Grace had spent much less time with his son than he’d hoped, because of the demands of work. If he got lucky, and there were no major crimes committed, he might
have this weekend relatively free. He was the duty Senior Investigating Officer and his week was due to end at 6 a.m. on Monday. Normally, all SIOs hoped for a high-quality murder – one which
would hit the national press, enabling them to shine, to get on the Chief Constable’s radar. But right now, Roy Grace hoped for a silent telephone.
    That wasn’t going to happen.

7
    The old lady heard the knock on the door for the third time. ‘I’m coming!’ she called out. ‘Bejazus, I’m coming!’ She lifted the saucepan of
boiling water and green beans off the hob, grabbed her wheeled Zimmer frame, and began making her way across the kitchen.
    Then the phone started ringing. She hesitated. Her brother rang every day at 7 p.m. on the dot, whether he was in England or France, to check she was okay. It was 7 p.m. She grabbed the phone,
with its extra-large numbers for her failing vision, and shouted, over the
Emmerdale
theme tune blaring from the television, ‘Hold on a minute, will you!’
    But it wasn’t her brother’s voice. It was a younger man with a silky purr. ‘I only need a moment of your time.’
    ‘There’s someone at the door!’ she shouted back, fumbling with the TV remote to turn the sound down. Then she clamped her arthritic hand over the mouthpiece. Despite her years,
she still had a strong voice. About the only thing left of her that was still strong, she rued. ‘You’ll have to wait. I’m on the phone,’ she hollered at the front door. Then
she lifted her hand. ‘I’m back with you, but you’ll have to be quick,’ she said with her Irish lilt.
    ‘A good friend of yours told me to call you,’ the man said.
    ‘And who would that be?’
    ‘Gerard Scott.’
    ‘Gerard Scott?’
    ‘He said to say hello!’
    ‘I don’t know any Gerard Scott, for sure.’
    ‘We’re saving him two thousand five hundred pounds a year off his heating bill.’
    ‘And how would you be doing that?’ she asked, a tad impatiently as she stared at the door, worrying about her beans staying too long in the hot water.
    ‘We have a representative working in your area next week. Perhaps I could make an appointment at a time convenient for you?’
    ‘A representative for what, exactly?’
    ‘Loft insulation.’
    ‘Loft insulation? Why would I be needing loft insulation?’
    ‘We are England’s leading specialists. The insulation we put in is so effective it will have fully paid for itself in just nine years from savings on your fuel bills.’
    ‘Nine years, you say?’
    ‘That’s right, madam.’
    ‘Well now, I’m ninety-eight years old. That would be a high-class problem, I’d say, for me to think I’m going to be worrying about my heating bills when I’m a
hundred and seven. But thank you kindly.’
    She hung up, then carried on towards the front door. ‘I’m coming! I’m on my way!’
    Her brother had been trying to convince her for a long time to sell the house and move into sheltered accommodation, but why the hell should she? This had been her home for over fifty years.
Here she had lived happily with her husband, Gordon, who had passed away fifteen years ago, had raised her four children, who had all predeceased her, and had created the once beautiful garden,
which she still continued to work in. All her memories were in this house, as well as all the fine paintings and antiques she and her husband had collected during their lives – guided by her
brother’s discerning eye. She’d been uprooted once in her life, and it was not going to happen again. She was adamant that when she left this place she loved so much, it would be feet
first.
    Her only concessions to her brother’s concerns were the panic button that hung from a cord around her neck, and the housekeeper who came twice a week.
    She peered through the spyhole in the front door. In the light of the summer evening she saw two middle-aged men in brown uniforms, with identity tags hung from chains around their necks.
    She removed the safety chain and opened the door.
    They smiled politely. ‘Sorry to disturb you, madam,’ the one on the right said. ‘We’re from the Water Board.’ He held up his identity