But the media pack had mostly dispersed. When he arrived there were only two of them left, a weedy youth with an adenoidal look who was from the East Acton Times – a lowly subsidiary of the Acton Gazette – and a very young, plump girl with a camera whom he didn’t recognize, and took for a freelance. They were beguiling their lonely vigil by chatting to each other, and getting on so well they barely glanced up as Atherton drew up in front of a house two doors down. Mind you, neither did the policeman on duty, who seemed too sunk in lethargy to care about movements outside his own immediate line of sight.
So it was balm to the Barretts’ souls when Atherton introduced himself and asked if he could ask them questions. Or rather to Mrs B’s soul – she practically abducted him into the over-furnished, over-stuffed sitting room, barking out an order to Mr B, neat and over-dressed in suit and tie and highly polished shoes, to fetch the tea. The kettle must have been on the boil and the tray already laid, for it all arrived in double-quick time, after which Mr B subsided in one of the armchairs and sat mute, stroking the black-and-white cat which ambled in from the garden and jumped on to his lap.
Apart from appealing to her husband from time to time for confirmation, which she never waited for, Mrs Barrett ignored him. She had stuff to say and she was going to say it.
‘I never liked them,’ she said, ‘and I never trusted him. Thought himself so superior, that Mr Wilding! Thought himself better than everybody else, that’s the truth of it.’
Atherton got it: the greatest damnation you could offer in this present age. To think yourself better than other people was the sin of sins.
‘I suppose he was educated,’ Mrs Barrett conceded with the deepest reluctance, ‘but so were other people. My husband was an accountant, you know – weren’t you, Gordon? Well, a bookkeeper, which is the same thing. Double entry. Forty years with the Co-op – they’d have been lost without him. They gave him a plaque when he retired. Anyway, if Mr Wilding was such a great businessman, how come he lost his business? Everyone knew Wildings. Up Telford Way, it was. My sister worked there at one time, and my niece, and one of my cousins was a machine operator. I never worked, of course. My hubby couldn’t do with a wife at work, could you, Gordon? And I was married straight from school. That’s another thing – she didn’t have anything to brag about, that Mrs Wilding. Just a typist, she was, though she called herself a secretary. And he was already married when she got her hooks into him. Ramshackle business that was, whichever way you look at it. But I was sorry for her, if you want to know. I wouldn’t have wanted to be married to that man. Something very sinister about him, that’s what I always said, didn’t I, Gordon?’
‘In what way, sinister?’ Atherton managed to ask. The armchair was so old and soft he had sunk almost to the floor, and his knees were in danger of banging his chin whenever he moved. There was no way he could get his teacup to his lips, so he went without. Shame, because he was thirsty. It was a hot day outside, and while the room was on the shady side of the house, it was absolutely airless and smelled faintly of dust. It was like being trapped inside a Hoover bag.
Mrs Barrett bridled and touched her hair. ‘Too good to be true! That’s what I always said. What was he hiding? All that do-gooding and churchiness. And High Church at that! Bells and smells and bowing and scraping. I can’t be doing with all that mumbo jumbo. Plain vanilla, that’s how we like our religion, don’t we, Gordon? Next door to Catholics, his lot. All that fancy dress, robes and hats and gold embroidery. Hypocrisy, that’s what I call it. Sheer hypocrisy. If I want to worship my God, I can do it naked in a field, that’s what I always say.’
Atherton tried not to imagine this. ‘So you think he wasn’t really a Christian?’
‘Well . . . I don’t say that,’ she said with the air of one determined to be fair at all costs. ‘He may have been a Christian. But he thought himself better than us, and that’s not a very Christian attitude, is it? Refused our invitations – our Christmas drinks party, Gordon’s birthday, any number of things. Barely gave you the time of day when you passed on the street. And the way he treated that girl of his! Wouldn’t let her join in anything! When my nieces were staying, I always asked her to come over, because it must have been lonely for her, being the only child. But he wouldn’t let her. My nieces weren’t good enough for his daughter, oh no! Wouldn’t let her go anywhere or do anything. Watched and spied on, she was, all the time, which isn’t natural for a girl. No wonder she got into trouble.’
‘Did she?’
Mrs Barrett was short-circuited for a moment, and then resumed indignantly. ‘Well, if you don’t call getting murdered by a sex-fiend “getting into trouble”, I don’t know what is! I wouldn’t have liked one of my nieces to be seen in public dressed like that. Ida Sharp on the corner said she spoke to someone who knows someone who was there when she was found. That Zellah Wilding was dressed like a tramp, she said, with a skirt so short it left nothing to the imagination. And what was she doing there at that time of night, that’s what I want to know? So the Wildings have got nothing to be snooty about. My nieces would have known better than that, wouldn’t they, Gordon?’
‘Now, dear,’ Mr Barrett began in mild reproof.
But she was off again. ‘And what does he do in that shed of his all night, night after night? Charity work my foot! There’s something suspicious going on in there, you mark my words. Night after night I see the light on, and his shadow moving about, two in the morning sometimes. Built it right down the bottom of the garden, so no one could see in – and he’d no right to that land. Calls himself a Christian but he’s not above breaking the law when it suits him. I had a word with him about it when he took down the fence – or Gordon did, didn’t you, Gordon? And he said he had to do it because the weeds were invading his garden. As if his garden’s any better than anyone else’s! And complaining about our poor Lucky every time he sets foot in it. Chased him with a garden hose, he did once. I’d a good mind to report him to the RSPCA. Mrs Delancey on the other side lost her cat, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he hadn’t killed it and buried it somewhere. Always digging in his vegetable patch. I said as much to Mrs Delancey, and she agreed with me. She never liked him either. He shouted at her once about her Sooty – a poor old lady like her! You could hear him right across the garden. He had a temper on him all right, despite claiming to be a Christian.’
‘Was he violent towards his wife and daughter?’
‘Well,’ she hesitated. ‘I can’t say for sure if he was violent, but I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve heard him shout at them many a time. And the life he made that poor girl lead, with no friends and no fun, that was tantamount to abuse, wasn’t it? No, there’s something queer about him, that’s for sure.’
‘Now, dear—’
She turned on him. ‘What about his night wanderings, then? What’s a decent man got to do with roaming around the streets at night? If he wasn’t in his shed, he was out in his car. Picking up prostitutes, as like as not. It’s always those churchy sorts that are the worst.’
She had gone too far for her husband. He must have tensed, for the cat shot off his lap as he said with surprising sternness, ‘Now, Ruby, that’s enough!’
Not as far as Atherton was concerned. ‘What’s that about roaming the streets?’