‘He has been interviewed.’ Richard answered. ‘And we’re continuing to investigate him.’
Emma handed out the tea, her mouth still set with disapproval. She leant against the counter with her mug while the others sat at the table.
‘This press conference, Mrs Tulley, tomorrow morning, we’d like you to be there, to issue an appeal for help,’ Janine said.
Lesley Tulley looked shocked at that, started to speak, thought better of it, tried again. ‘What would I say?’
‘We can help you prepare something later. We’ll keep it simple.’
‘Do they do any good?’ asked Emma. ‘These appeals?’ Still in protective mode, defensive on her sister’s behalf.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Richard. ‘We tend to get a significant increase in information coming in from the public afterwards.’
Janine turned to Lesley Tulley. The woman’s face was impassive, eyes lowered, cup to her lips. ‘We should also get forensic results back tomorrow. I’m expecting those to move things forward a great deal. Without witnesses the forensic evidence is going to be vital – it will tell us, I hope, where we should be concentrating our energies. As yet, we’ve not found the knife that was used. Do you know if Matthew kept a knife in his shed at the allotment?’
Lesley ducked her head, paled and pressed a hand to her mouth.
‘Are you all right?’ Janine didn’t want her throwing up again.
‘I just keep thinking that someone did that. Why did someone do that?’ She exhaled. ‘I don’t know if he had a knife, I never went there.’
‘Are there any knives missing from home?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Would you check?’
‘Now?’ Emma scowled.
Janine nodded. ‘Please.’
Lesley Tulley put her hands on the kitchen table and pushed herself to her feet. She opened drawers and cupboards and stared into them. ‘There’s nothing obviously missing.’ She swayed on her feet.
‘Lesley, you haven’t eaten anything yet, have you? You must try something.’ Emma told her.
Janine signalled to Richard. ‘We’ll start upstairs. We’ll make a note of any items we need to remove,’ she told Lesley. ‘You might prefer to wait down here?’
Lesley nodded. Janine was relieved. It was harrowing enough to know someone was pawing through all your possessions without having to observe it.
They began in the main bedroom, it looked like something from a furniture showroom, smart and sterile. The room smelt of vanilla and lavender. Janine noticed the tiny bowl of pot pourri on the dressing table. High quality stuff. Not the sort you get in the supermarket for next to nothing, that smells like toilet cleaner.
They were looking for anything amiss, anything unexpected, signs of illegal activity illicit affairs, financial problems. Looking also for a knife with a five inch blade, semi-serrated and some jog-pants. It wasn’t an official search, for that they’d need a warrant, so they wouldn’t be ripping up carpets or dismantling furniture. More a general look about.
It wasn’t a hard house to search; quite the opposite, everything had its place. Drawers held neatly folded underwear, cupboards opened to reveal their contents without need for rifling through. Janine was impressed with Mrs Tulley’s wardrobe; everything of impeccable quality, classic styles that would resist the fickle trends of fashion, nothing trashy or worn out.
Matthew Tulley’s clothes divided into work (suits and shirts) and home (Land’s End and Hawkshead). A penchant for check shirts and corduroy trousers. The books on his bedside table told them nothing new. The Organic Gardener and A History Of Britain. At her side a guide book to Singapore, a copy of Elle.
She and Richard took a side of the room each and worked systematically, replacing items carefully. She opened a drawer in the dressing table, found a selection
of fancy underwear. Silk and satin slips, lacy bras and pants, camisoles, black suspender belts. She checked beneath them. Nothing. She picked up a pair of scarlet briefs, slippery fabric edged in cream lace. They were crotchless. She folded them quickly, suddenly embarrassed.
‘The Lemon asked me if I really thought a woman was capable of such a thing.’
Richard smiled.
‘No imagination,’ she said.
Richard’s phone rang. He took the call. ‘The message that she left on the sister’s phone is still there,’ he told Janine, ‘very precise: ‘it’s only half past nine’.’
‘Neatly establishing time of day.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Too neat?’
‘No motive.’ He reminded her.
Richard Mayne knew, like a catechism, that there were three elements to look for in a murder case – motive, opportunity and preparatory acts. As yet Mrs Tulley wasn’t known to have any motive for killing her husband (unlike Ferdie Gibson who had plenty), and they hadn’t established any preparatory acts. As for opportunity she had access to knives like the rest of the population but whether she had the strength to gut a man was anybody’s guess. People could surprise you. Until the CCTV tape showed them otherwise, she had the opportunity to return to Whalley Range and commit the crime. One out of three, maybe. Not great odds but you had to start somewhere.
On the landing Richard searched through the airing cupboard and came away empty handed. There were three other bedrooms, one of which was used for storage. All the boxes were neatly labelled; Christmas Decorations, China Tea Service, Velvet Drapes (Brown), Ski-clothes. A random check in some of the least accessible ones showed that each contained precisely what was written on its label.
‘No point in going through them all,’ Janine said. ‘If and when we get a warrant…’
Of the other two bedrooms, one was being used by Emma whose hastily gathered belongings were still half in her overnight bag, and the other room with its twin beds looked as though it had never been used.
‘Hello, Paula,’ said Shap. ‘Can I have a word?’
He’d been at Steel quarter of an hour, sitting on one of the high metal stools at the bar, sipping a strong lager and listening to chit-chat on the other side of the counter. Waiting till he was ready.
She frowned slightly. Broke off from stacking glasses on the shelves. ‘Do I know you?’
Shap flipped his identity wallet open. ‘DS Shap. Just a routine enquiry. We’re trying to get in touch with Dean Hendrix. Thought you might know where he was.’
‘Dean?’ she said, frown deepening.
‘Yes, Dean. Your boyfriend.’
She pressed her lips together. ‘What’s it about?’
‘Nothing to worry about,’ said Shap, ‘we’re talking to everyone who lives in Denholme Avenue, see if they saw anything in connection with the murder there yesterday. Matthew Tulley. Your old deputy head, eh?’
‘Oh, right.’ She nodded, wary but not panicked. There was a faint rattle as the beads in her hair knocked against each other.
‘So, if you can tell us where we can find Dean?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘Not at your place then?’
‘No.’
‘That usual? You not knowing where he is?’
She stared at him, eyes guarded. Be like pulling hen’s teeth now. ‘His place of work?’ Shap asked.
‘He’s freelance,’ Paula said, ‘he hasn’t got a regular place.’
Could mean anything, freelance. Good, bad or indifferent. ‘Off working somewhere then, is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ Paula said. Glancing to the left, two customers waiting. ‘I’ve got to get on.’
‘He’ll be in touch though?’ Shap lifted his eye brows. ‘Not dumped you, has he?’ Half-smile on his lips. She said nothing. ‘If you hear from him get him to give us a bell.’ He put his card on the bar, raised his glass in salute and drank it down. She pocketed the card, moved away to serve the couple. Shots of tequila, slices of lime, salt.