‘I don’t understand why anybody would want to kill them,’ said Holly, into a tissue. ‘I know they hadn’t lived there very long but they seemed normal. Deirdre spent most of the time either pottering in the garden or walking her dog along the beach. A few older ladies would drop in from time to time, with a cake. I think she held the odd coffee morning. She was in the WI, you know …’ She sniffed and dabbed delicately at her nose. ‘Clive kept himself to himself. He would also walk Hulk …’ I raised an eyebrow and she laughed. ‘I know. Odd name for a dog that looks like a teddy bear. I think they wanted something masculine. It was plain to see he loved that dog. I’d sometimes bump into him on the way to the newsagent’s where he’d always go to collect the Radio Times on a Saturday morning, or coming back from the pub as I was putting out the bins. He always said hello. They weren’t loud people. They didn’t play music or bang around the house. They just seemed …’ she stared up at me with woeful eyes ‘… decent.’

After I’d finished interviewing them, Jack took Peter outside so he could photograph him standing in the front garden, with the Wilsons’ cottage in full view behind him. I stood watching, hoping the rain would hold off long enough for Jack to get a decent shot. The house was no longer cordoned, but seven or eight bunches of flowers had been left to wilt in the Wilsons’ neat front garden. While Jack was busy repositioning Peter and snapping away, I wandered over to take a closer look at the Wilsons’ house. The curtains were closed but the place was tidy, with garden gnomes and stone animals dotted around the front garden and between the well-tended plants. There was a Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the living-room window and a wrought-iron umbrella stand in the corner of the front porch. I wondered if anybody had been in there to clean away the blood in the hallway.

Then I drifted over to the flowers. Most of the messages attached had faded in the rain but there was one from Deirdre’s granddaughter, Lisa, with To a wonderful Gran scrawled on a card attached to a drooping bouquet of lilies and another from ‘the ladies at the WI’ on some wilting peach roses.

I was about to walk away when I saw a bunch of carnations that looked fresher than the rest. The card wasn’t signed, but I could tell there was writing on it. I crouched to get a closer look. Written in large block capitals were the words ‘THIS WAS ONE BULLET YOU COULDN’T DODGE.’

Intrigued I ripped it from the cellophane wrapping and, before anyone noticed, I pocketed it.

Chapter 12

12

Jess