4. The Woman at Number 4

Interviewing the widow,

DS Dave Wright pulled his DI’s car to a standstill outside the address given to him. It was (or had been) a bog standard post-second world war council house with a path leading from a wooden slatted gate to both the Daniels’ residence, and its neighbour on the right.

“Here we are, number 4,tidy enough looking place,” he grunted.

“And that woman looking out of number two’s back door must be the school secretary,” added the DI, “come on, let’s see how Mrs Daniels is. I doubt she’s heard the bad news yet, so we must be understanding.”

“Wouldn’t a wooden top have been given the job os telling her?” asked Dave.

Sheila shook her head. “I said that we would. That it would be best if I gauged her reaction to the news myself.”

“Clever,” admired Dave, and she smiled at him. “It’s not just you with the bright ideas,” she said teasingly, “come on.”

The two of them made their way down the concrete path to the front door of number four and she rang the bell while he smiled sweetly at the bell-push’s obvious little camera.

“Comb your mop,” smiled the DI, noticing.

The door was opened by the most miserable of women by the look of her, dressed in what looked like charity shop cast-offs and with a tangled mop of grey hair that looked as if it might benefit with a shampoo and set.

“Mrs Daniels?” asked Sheila.

“Well?” grunted the other woman, nodding,“do you know where Joe is? You are the feds, aren’t you?”

“I’m Detective Inspector McFyffe and this is Detective Sergeant Wright,” she said, trying not to sound too brisk, “may we come in?”

“He’s in trouble again, ain’t he? I tell him, I do, but he’d take more notice of that mangy old cat,” she mumbled, pointing at a cat lying in peace on an ancient low stool propped against the banister rails of a staircase leading untidily up.

She led them into the front room where she invited them to sit on a cluttered three piece suite, which they did while she remained standing.

“Well, out with it!” demanded Mrs Daniels, “or am I going to die of impatience waiting to hear what the fool’s been up to next?”

“Sit down, please,” invited Sheila.

Mrs Daniels perked up at that. “You rozzas only say that if there’s bad news in the air,” she said, “don’t say that Joe’s got himself in hospital?”

Dave shook his head. “Would that he were,” he said rather too bluntly, “but I reckon you should steel yourself for some bad news…” He glanced at his DI as if to suggest that he knew how to talk to people like Mrs Daniels.

“You’ve not got him locked up again?” demanded Mrs Daniels.

Sheila put one hand out to restrain her DS before he could make the situation any worse. “I’m afraid not,” she said quietly, “I’m afraid to tell you that his body was discovered this morning.”

“What? The silly bugger’s dead? And you call that bad news? Well if that’s what you’re saying I’ll see if he’s left a bottle of bubbly in the cupboard so’s we can celebrate properly!”

DI McFyffe was somewhat alarmed by the reaction to news of her husbands demise. She was used to women wailing and gnashing their teeth and not celebrating in so obviously a joyful way

“I don’t think you understand, Mrs Daniels,” she said, trying not to sound too firm, “but Joe’s dead. The pathologist confirms it.”

“I got your message the first time!” replied Mrs Daniels, “and as you might be able to determine, I’m as happy as happy can be when I hears it! Joe Daniels is dead! Thank the Lord for that! He was never much good, and then he decided there was money to be made in politics, so he entered the voting race last year! He lost, of course. Lost his deposit, which cost me my bingo money that week!”

“You seem to be quite happy about it,” suggested Dave, “Why’s that? I mean, there’s falling out and quarrelling, and then there’s celebrating a death! And they’re as different to each other as chalk is to cheese.”

“There’s no need for you to tell me that,” retorted Mrs Daniels, still apparently smiling at the news of her husband’s death, “He was probably asking for it. Probably said one cruel thing too many to the wrong people. Where was his body found? In that school cellar?”

“What makes you ask that?” put in the DI hastily before Dave could spoil the interview by asking the wrong questions.

“Well, he went there, didn’t he? Every week. For his meetings. They didn’t know, them at the school, but he had a key for the side door, the one off Bloxham Street, and they all went there, the ne’er do wells, the pot-heads, the bullies from the four corners of Brumpton. I knew they did. I followed him once, just to see what the silly bugger was up to, and half a dozen, maybe seven or eight, other wasters went in there with him. Then I saw a light go on and from the way it looked I could tell it was low down, and guessed it was a cellar. And when I challenged him he told me it was just that, and then he gave me a black eye!”

“You mean he hit you?” asked a horrified DI.

“All the time. It was his favourite game, punching me. I reckon he married me because the gym charges too much for access to punch bags!”

“Then why did you stay with him?” asked Dave when he saw that his DI was struggling for another question.

“For better or worse, for richer, for poorer…” intoned Mrs Daniels.

“We’ll need to have a more serious chat soon,” Sheila told her, “but first we’d best leave you in peace.”

“Are you going past the Fox and Hounds?” asked the grieving widow, “’cause if you are, can you give us a lift? Drop us off there, maybe, so’s I can have a celebratory half of lager?”

“I suppose so,” sighed Sheila, “but we’re going right now.”

“That’s okay. Come on then!” grinned the recently widowed Marjorie Daniels, “the lad’s at school, that’s our Ian,. Hope he don’t see too much of his dad there. He might not like the eight of dead bodies. Especially dead fathers! Oh, the devil of it!”

And the three of them traipsed out of the house, past Jessie Bonham who appeared to be waiting for the two police officers, and to their car.

© Peter Rogerson 05.01.25

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