‘Was he happy there?’ Gently asked.
‘I thought he was,’ Mrs Lister said. ‘He used to be talking about it always. And he went to evening classes in Castlebridge.’
‘Is that how he came to have a motorcycle?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That was mostly the reason. He had a scooter on his sixteenth birthday, but Castlebridge is twenty-five miles from here.’
‘And then what happened?’ Gently asked.
‘Well, he seemed to lose interest,’ Mrs Lister said. ‘He dropped the classes. He dropped a lot of his old friends. He became moody and secretive, bored when he was at home. I thought perhaps there was a girl in it. I tried to get him to confide in me. Then there was this awful slang and the passion for jazz records, and the silly clothes he used to wear. I kept hoping it was simply a phase. He wouldn’t talk to me about it.’
‘He made other friends, didn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘though not the sort I approved of. He brought them home once or twice, but he soon stopped doing that. I’m to blame I suppose. I ought to have concealed what I thought of them. But I couldn’t help it. They were terrible. I don’t think some of them ever washed. And there they sat, in his room, playing jazz records and smoking. Till the small hours, sometimes. I had to say something.’
‘Do you remember who they were?’ Gently asked.
‘I’m not sure I knew their names,’ she said. ‘But I remember the Elton boy coming. And Elton’s sister. And Dicky Deeming.’
‘Jack Salmon. Frankie Knights.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t remember. Only Dicky. I thought that Dicky was old enough to have known better. But he’s a writer, of course, so he might have been slumming after material.’ She made a face. ‘If you can call this bungalow a slum,’ she added.
‘How old is Deeming then?’
‘Oh, thirty-ish,’ said Mrs Lister. ‘He looks younger because he’s boyish, short hair and that. He writes for the little reviews, I’m told, and does book notices and things. He’s our only local author. That’s why I remember him.’
‘And Johnny was specially friendly with him?’
‘Oh, quite infatuated,’ she said. ‘For a time, you know. A spell of teenage hero-worship. Dicky was what Johnny wanted to be. Cool, I think is the term they use. A rebel against all convention, a jazz expert and etcetera. For a time he was always around with Dicky. Then Dicky faded out again.’
‘Was there any reason for that?’ Gently asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Mrs Lister. ‘It was around that time, or soon after, that he fell so heavily for Betty Turner. Poor girl. She little knew how it would end, her romance with Johnny. But I think she may have displaced Dicky. I remember thinking so at the time.’
‘He was genuinely in love with her, was he?’
Mrs Lister nodded several times. ‘He was like his father. Fell with a bang. Very like his father, was Johnny.’
‘Did you approve of Betty Turner?’
‘I didn’t disapprove,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have picked her, she’s a sad little trollop. But I thought she was a healthier influence than Dicky. If she’d loved Johnny too.’
‘She didn’t love him?’ Gently said.
‘No,’ said Mrs Lister, ‘she didn’t. It was just a crush on her side.’
Setters shifted in his chair. ‘They were engaged, weren’t they?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They were engaged. But it wasn’t serious with Betty. If you want my frank opinion they wouldn’t have lasted for much longer. She was very pettish just lately. Johnny was much concerned, poor child.’
‘Was Elton the trouble?’ Gently asked.
‘He may have been,’ said Mrs Lister. ‘I know she used to be fond of Elton and sometimes she teased Johnny about him. I’m not sure. She was pettish and listless. She’d just grown tired of Johnny, I think.’
Gently sat silent for some moments. Mrs Lister was biting her lip. The wing of the armchair shaded her face, her eyes were hooded but staring fixedly. Now the sun had gone in. The light in the room was greyer.
‘I’ve seen your statement,’ Gently said, ‘about what happened last Tuesday. But I’d like you to go through it again, just in case there’s anything you forgot.’
She shuddered. ‘I’ve told you everything,’ she said.
‘I’d be grateful,’ he said, ‘if you’d face it.’
She nodded weakly. ‘I know I must. You’re very kind. I’ll try.’
‘First,’ he said, ‘did it differ in any way from your usual Tuesday programme?’
She thought a little. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I can’t remember anything different.’
‘You got your youngsters up, did you, got the breakfast and so forth?’
‘Mrs Jillings got the breakfast,’ she said. ‘Mrs Jillings is my daily.’
‘Then did you all have breakfast together?’
She shook her head. ‘Johnny had his first. He had to be at the site at eight. He was working on the Ford Road project.’
‘Did Johnny seem much as usual?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘What I saw of him. Except perhaps he was a little short with me. But I’d been used to that, lately. He rang Betty.’
‘What about?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t listen,’ she said. ‘I thought he was arranging about the evening, you know, the jazz thing in Castlebridge. He used to go there every Tuesday.’
‘Did he usually ring her about it?’
‘I don’t remember,’ she said. ‘He used to ring Betty a lot.’
‘So then you saw him off, did you?’
‘I saw him get his bike out,’ she said. ‘I was dressing Jean in the kiddies’ bedroom. I gave him a wave but he didn’t see me. Then, well, it was much as always. I drove the kiddies to school. Mrs Jillings did the ironing while I prepared the things for lunch. Then I drove down to town, did some shopping, went to Leonard’s for coffee. It can’t be of importance. Only to me, that is.’
‘Johnny came home to lunch, did he?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘at about twenty to one.’
‘Was that his usual time for lunch?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘They leave off at twelve-thirty.’
‘Was there anything you noticed at lunch?’
‘He was quiet,’ she said. ‘He had nothing to say. And usually he read the lunchtime paper. I thought he was brooding about Betty. I tried to talk to him about it. I could have helped him, I know. I’d give anything now.’ She stopped. ‘He snapped at me,’ she said.
‘What made you think he was brooding over Betty?’
She paused. ‘Woman’s intuition,’ she said. ‘But no, that’s not quite true, really. I’d seen him worrying over her before. I watched him the more because he’d gone so far from me. I sometimes knew what he was thinking. Poor Johnny. Poor Johnny. But all the time I was with him really.’
‘So you’d begun to lose him,’ Gently said, ‘when you lost your husband.’
She nodded silently. Her hand lifted and fell again in her lap.
‘It’s been all one tragedy.’
‘All one,’ she said.
‘These kids,’ Setters said. He wrung his hands, making the joints crack.
‘Was there anything else about lunch?’ Gently asked.
She was on the point of shaking her head. She changed her mind. ‘One thing,’ she said, ‘since you want to know every detail. He went to his room when he came in. Before he washed or did anything. I thought perhaps he’d gone to fetch something, but he was carrying nothing when he came out.’
‘Did he take something in there?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘he’d nothing with him. Or it was something very small which he carried in his pocket.’
‘Have you noticed anything in his room?’
‘No, nothing,’ she said.
‘You’ve been in there since Tuesday?’
‘Once,’ she said, ‘I went in.’
‘Let’s go on from after lunch.’
She leant her head on the wing of the chair. ‘It was one of those blank afternoons,’ she said. ‘Nothing happened much at all. After the washing-up I did some mending, Peter’s socks, Jean’s gym-slip. Then I looked at the TV, but there was nothing on that. So I pottered about in the house till it was time to fetch the kiddies. They’d had their tea and were out playing by the time Johnny got back. He was angrier if anything.’