The meanest Flood

dress.’
    ‘Last time I saw someone wearing them he was waiter.’
    ‘Or ballroom dancers, they wear them sometimes. But the shoes weren’t dancing shoes.’
    ‘And you think this was the murderer?’ Marie asked. ‘Why?’
    ‘He wasn’t in the street when Ben went outside. The only place he could have been was in Katherine’s garden.’
    ‘Another boyfriend?’
    ‘No. She would have mentioned it. She was with Pete Lewis at the time and she didn’t two-time. Katherine had morals.’
    ‘But did you ask her about it?’
    ‘Yes, I asked the next day. She didn’t know anyone who wore a trilby. And it wasn’t that important, we let it drop, forgot about it. It only came up again when Katherine was killed.’
     
    Marie liked Jade Chandler. A strangely old-fashioned girl, open and straightforward. She reminded her of an era when falling in love wasn’t complicated by the spectre of children on alternate weekends. The other neighbours were not so helpful. When Katherine was alive they’d distrusted and envied her, especially the string of assorted men she’d brought back to her house, and obviously equated her death with some unthinking and ancient code of just deserts. Neighbours from Hell, the kind of people who thought you got AIDS from homosexuality.
    Braid. A killer with braid down the seam of his trousers. This was the first indicator they had had. Before they had been looking at everyone in the world. Now the field had narrowed down.
    Marie parked the Montego in the NCP car park on Mount Street and walked to the offices of Shaw & Shaw -Let Us Let It - Estate Agents and Letting Agency, which was situated on a corner position in a dark street behind the Playhouse. There was a receptionist with bright red lipstick who answered the phone and an office boy with one of those mouths that won’t close.
    ‘Can I speak to either of the partners?’ Marie asked.
    The receptionist pursed her painted lips and said, ‘No. Not without an appointment, I’m afraid.’ She wore a floral-pattern dress with a grey cardigan draped around her shoulders. She had just missed being attractive and dressed to accentuate the fact.
    ‘I’m only here for the day. I wanted to talk to someone about Katherine Turner.’
    ‘You can talk to me, if you like. And Saul. You don’t mind talking about Katherine, do you, Saul?’
    The boy was a contortionist. He managed to shake his head in such a way that his bottom jaw remained stationary. A minor Vesuvius was erupting on his forehead.
    ‘It’s up to you,’ the receptionist continued. ‘Mrs Shaw’s been up to here since Katherine, well... you know. Katherine dealt with the rented properties and now Mrs S has to do it all herself.’
    ‘And Mr Shaw?’ Marie asked.
    ‘Well, he’s out of it, isn’t he? Hasn’t been to the office for years. If he walked in today I don’t know if I’d recognize him. He’s got that disease... turns you into an old codger. Mrs S has someone come in at home to see to him while she’s running the business.’
    ‘Did you know Katherine Turner well?’
    ‘Well as anyone, I should think. We saw more of her before the accident than we did of Mrs S.’
    ‘Why do you call it an accident?’
    ‘It sounds nicer, don’t you think? The other word’s more violent.’
    ‘Murder. She was murdered.’
    ‘I don’t like saying it. Neither does Saul, do you, Saul?’ He swallowed some air but the fly-trap remained open. Marie saw him ten years down the line, a captain of industry, a magnate in the tradition of Robert Maxwell, Nick Leeson, Jonathan Aitken and Lord Archer. Perhaps he was Mrs S’s nephew or the son of a friend? Another instance of the old school tie and nepotism saving British industry from any form of change or innovation. Vesuvius threw out a fine spray of lava when he shook his head.
    ‘Did she talk about boyfriends?’ Marie asked.
    ‘She talked about Ruben all the time. Ruben this, Ruben that. You would’ve thought he was Prince Charming to hear her go on about him. But he came to collect her from the office a couple of times and he was, well, you know.’
    ‘No,’ Marie told her. ‘I don’t know. What was he?’
    ‘Common,’ said the receptionist. ‘You wouldn’t’ve given him a job. He looked like a criminal.’
    Dear God, Marie said to herself. What kind of work is this, where you have to talk to morons all day long?
    ‘I was thinking about other boyfriends,’ she said. ‘Did she ever mention a dancer or a