Kissed a Sad Goodbye

then asked, “Did you take your usual route?”
    “We always go the same way, don’t we, girl?” said Brent, and Sheba’s tail moved again in assent. “Up from the bottom of Stebondale Street, into the park at the Rope Walk, across and up the other side.” He shook his head. “Bloody construction mucking things about. Can’t hear yourself think.”
    “That’s along East Ferry Road?” asked Kincaid.
    “Farm Road, we always called it. There were still farms round about when I was a boy, though you’d not think it now. I remember when we lived in Glengall Road, before the bombings—”
    “Mr. Brent,” Kincaid interrupted gently. “Tell us what happened next.”
    George Brent took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and rubbed it slowly across the polished dome of his head as he watched Sheba, now happily digging in a patch of the small flower bed at the edge of the patio. “You’re a right devil, aren’t you, girl?” he said softly, then met Kincaid’s eyes. “Most mornings I stop at the ASDA for a cuppa, meet my old mates, you know, though Harry Thurgar for one is getting a bit past it... but I was too late this morning, so we went on along the top.”
    His gaze strayed again, back to the dog. “I let her off the lead—she’s always after rabbits, or what she thinks is rabbits. Then I heard her whining, and when I caught up to her...”
    At the word “rabbits” Sheba sat back on her haunches and cocked her head expectantly, then moved to her master’s side. Her long, elegant profile made Gemma think of the paintings of dogs on Egyptian friezes. Hadn’t the Egyptians believed that dogs followed their masters to the underworld?
    “Did you touch the body, Mr. Brent?” she asked.
    “No, I... Well, maybe I did, just a bit, to see if...”
    “But you didn’t move her?”
    Brent shook his head. “All I could think then was to get help, I don’t know why. Ran to the ASDA, silly bugger; too old to run like I used to. Used the phone to ring 999.”
    “You waited for the police?” asked Kincaid.
    “Didn’t know they’d send Janice Coppin, did I?” Brent scowled and Sheba responded with a low humming in her throat. “Treated me like a child, or a dimwit. She’s no better than she should be, that woman, and her husband’s a no-account—”
    “Dad, that’s enough,” said Brenda. “And Bill’s her ex-husband now, you know that.” She looked at Kincaid and Gemma. “If that’s all...”
    “Just a couple of questions more, Mrs. Hubbard.” Kincaid turned back to her father. “Had you ever seen the woman before, Mr. Brent?”
    “I... I’m not certain.” Mopping his head again with the handkerchief, George Brent seemed suddenly to age, as if his uncertainty weighed heavily.
    “You don’t have to be sure.” Gemma smiled to put him at ease. “Just tell us where you think you might have seen her.”
    Brent said hesitantly, “At the shops, just along the road. That hair, so lovely... but I never quite saw her face.”
    “Recently, Mr. Brent?”
    Gemma heard the hint of excitement in Kincaid’s deliberate drawl.
    Brent shook his head. “No, I... My memory’s not what it used to be. I think it was nearer the spring, maybe Easter. I’m sorry,” he added, as if he’d seen the disappointment in their faces, but Gemma had the distinct feeling that the old man hadn’t told them everything he knew.
    Kincaid rose. “You’ve been a great help, Mr. Brent. And we’re going to let you have your lunch now. There’s just one more thing. You said you walked Sheba yesterday evening—did you go the same way?”
    “Have to put her on the lead to stop her, wouldn’t I? Like a clockwork dog round that path, she is.” Brent chuckled at his own wit.
    “What time was this?”
    “Nine o’clock news was just coming on. Hate to miss the news, but it’s too dark after.”
    “And you’re sure the body wasn’t there?”
    Brent bristled. “I’d have seen her, wouldn’t I, even in the dusk. I’m not bloody blind.”
    “Of course not, Mr. Brent,” Kincaid reassured him as Gemma stood. “And we do appreciate your time.”
    As they turned to go George Brent called after them, “You tell that Janice she’s a silly cow. Our Georgie would never have left her on her own with a pack of rotten kids.”
     
    REG MORTIMER SELDOM DRANK. A SOCIAL pint occasionally, or a glass or two of wine with dinner, but urgings to more than that he usually fended off with a smile and an offhand