entitlement makes people do some pretty shitty things.’
He considered it for a moment. ‘This shitty, though?’
‘It feels personal, doesn’t it?’
‘I think so.’
Ferreira slapped her palm on the tabletop. ‘I should have pushed her more. She just seemed so
comfortable
about it all. She said she only called to get a crime number for the car insurance, then I turned up and it was like she was really reaching for things to complain about because I’m sitting there with my notebook out and she didn’t want to look like a time waster.’
‘What about the follow-up calls?’ he asked.
‘She didn’t want to talk. I tried three or four times but whenever I rang she insisted she was really busy with Holly. I didn’t question it, she was obviously under pressure looking after her on her own.’
‘She must have said something.’
A man came out of the pub, shouting into his mobile as he fumbled a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket with his free hand. He moved away to the other end of the terrace but Zigic saw that he kept watching them as he laughed and swore in a polished accent which didn’t sound entirely natural.
‘I honestly wondered if she was making it up to get her husband’s attention.’
He snapped back to Ferreira. ‘You know how rare that is?’
‘Of course I know! And I know you’re never supposed to think it, but her whole attitude was out of step with someone who’s being harassed. She wasn’t scared, she wasn’t even angry – how can you not be angry?’
‘Not everyone has it as their default response.’
Ferreira stubbed out her cigarette. ‘You didn’t see her.’
‘No, I didn’t, so I’m relying on your impressions now.’
‘She wasn’t taking it seriously. That’s my impression. She was a knackered, sad woman – with plenty to be pissed off about in life and a lot to deal with, but whatever hassle she was getting didn’t seem to be impacting on her.’
‘Until now.’
‘You’re assuming it’s all part of the same thing,’ she said, a little defensively. ‘Dawn had a life beyond caring for her daughter.’
‘I thought you reckoned she was isolated.’
Ferreira scowled at him, annoyed at being caught out. ‘You know as well as I do, dead woman, first port of call we should be looking for the boyfriend.’
Zigic drained his Coke. ‘Or talking to the ex.’
4
Nene House was separated from the village by a hundred yards of dusty and rutted farm track, almost far enough away to stop the insistent barking of their canine residents floating across the grass fields and up to the neighbouring cottages, but not quite.
It was a rambling old place, surrounded by tin-roofed dairy sheds and tumbledown stables, a twin-gabled sprawl, half of it painted white with a sagging pantile roof, the rest stone built and recently re-thatched. It made for a disconcerting first impression, a sense of disjointedness which was only increased by the sight of the breeze-block kennels; the newest, most solid-looking buildings on the site.
As they approached the front door a woman emerged from the side of the house, heavy footed in her wellingtons, a shovel slung over her shoulder. A quintessential farmer’s wife, blonde hair tied back from a scrubbed-clean and weathered face, small eyes in a permanent squint against the elements.
‘Hi, I’m Sally, are you dropping off?’ Her smile died when she noticed Zigic’s warrant card. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Mrs –’
‘Ms Lange.’
‘Ms Lange, I’m afraid there’s been an incident,’ Zigic said. ‘A very serious one, with Dawn and Holly.’
She dropped the shovel. ‘Are they okay?’
‘I’m sorry, no, they were both killed.’
Her hands went to her face, blue eyes widening above her grubby fingertips and Zigic thought he caught the briefest, merest, hint of pleasure in them.
‘I’ve got to tell Warren.’
She ran off towards the kennels, shouting his name, and Zigic saw a man look up from where he was
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley