The Second Life of Sally Mottram

Harry glanced round the room, taking in the reticent chairs and the ebullient vases, and said, ‘Nice gaff. Nice room. Just trying to guess, who bought what?’

‘Harry!’ said Olive.

‘I embarrass her,’ said Harry complacently. ‘Sorry, doll.’

‘This is so kind of you,’ said Olive, forced into speech.

‘What are neighbours for?’ said Arnold gravely.

Jill was puzzled by a rather odd look that had passed between Olive and Arnold, almost an exchange of sign language. It was time to leap into action.

‘Now, what would we all like to drink?’ she asked.

‘A small sherry, please,’ said Olive shyly, half blushing at her boldness in asking for alcohol at all. I don’t want to be beholden, said her blush.

‘A gin and tonic, please,’ said Harry with a huge grin. Large one please if poss, said his grin.

‘Usual, Arnold?’

‘Of course,’ said Arnold complacently.

‘Right. I’ll just go and get them,’ said Jill, looking meaningfully at Arnold, for whom the look clearly had no meaning.

‘Let me help,’ said Harry hastily.

‘That’s very kind,’ said Jill, looking not at him but at Arnold.

When Jill and Harry had left the room, there was a moment’s silence. Olive broke it.

‘I thought, “Is it? It can’t be.” But it is, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Arnold. ‘Oh yes, Olive. It is indeed.’

THREE (#ulink_6383bde4-d9b5-54ea-a026-7302c17a112c)

Purely routine (#ulink_6383bde4-d9b5-54ea-a026-7302c17a112c)

The policeman had explained to Sally that because there was no suicide note they had to make certain inquiries. It was purely routine. Had she any idea why Barry had killed himself?

She had shaken her head.

Strangely, she had felt nothing. ‘Cry if you want to,’ a female officer had said. ‘Feel free.’ But she hadn’t been able to.

‘I’m afraid nobody can go upstairs,’ Inspector Pellet had explained. ‘It’s designated a crime scene. Purely routine.’

He had made gestures to the female officer to get Sally out of the way. He hadn’t wanted her to be in the house while they examined the rope, tested for fingerprints, searched for minute traces of thread dropped from clothes, or earth brought in on shoes. It wouldn’t be a thorough search, of course – there was really no doubt that he’d killed himself – but things had to be done by the book these days.

The female officer, PC Cartwright, had put her arm round Sally, to lead her towards the door of her own home. Inspector Pellet had turned and said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Mottram. We don’t need to bother you again tonight, and we have no reason to think that this is anything but …’ He had hesitated. He hadn’t wanted to say the word. He’d been to a two-day seminar on Tact and Consideration in the Isle of Wight in 2007, and it had stayed with him. ‘… what it appears to be. However, an officer will want to talk to you in the morning, when you’ve …’ He had been about to say ‘had a good night’s sleep’ but had realized that this was unlikely. He had abandoned that sentence and had asked, uneasily, ‘And … um … we … um … we might have to ask to borrow your computer. So … um … if you’re needing to use it …’ He had let that sentence go unfinished too.

‘I don’t use the computer,’ she had said.

‘Ah!’

Inspector Pellet had winced. He had realized that the emphasis he had put on that ‘Ah!’ might carry with it the implication that, in the knowledge that she would never be able to discover them, it was therefore possible that this seemingly innocent lawyer had thought it safe to save large numbers of horribly indecent photos of young children and domestic pets, or of the wives of fellow lawyers caught in flagrante. Or both. In truth the inspector was a nice, sensitive family man and had driven himself close to depression due to his attempts to follow what he had learnt at the seminar all those years ago.

Luckily Sally had been so shattered and so bewildered, and also so innocent, that she had been completely incapable of picking up any implications, let alone ones so extreme. PC Cartwright had led her out of her own front door, pushing her in such a direction that she would have risked dislocating her neck if she had attempted to turn to take one last look at her husband hanging there.

When they were outside, PC Cartwright had asked her, ‘Have you any children you could go to?’

‘Well, my daughter, I suppose,’ she had said.

‘Right. Good. And where does she live?’

‘New Zealand. That’s the only bugbear.’

PC Cartwright had looked at her in astonishment.

‘I probably won’t,’ Sally had added.

‘No. I meant … now. For a couple of hours like, while they … till you can return.’

‘Oh. Of course. I’m sorry. I was being stupid.’

‘No, not at all, lovey. You’re in shock.’

‘Yes. Yes, I am. No. No, I haven’t. My son’s in Barnet.’

‘Neighbours?’

‘Well … It’s not the most … um …’

‘… sociable street in Potherthwaite?’

‘No. And my husband isn’t … wasn’t … oh God … oh God …’

‘Now now. There there. There … um … surely there must be somebody?’

‘Well, there’s the Hammonds, but … I think they’re in Tenerife. Peter Sparling’s around, I saw him earlier with Kenneth. I could go to them, I suppose.’

‘Oh. Right. Well. Good. I’ll take you. Can you walk it?’

‘Oh yes. It’s only five houses.’

PC Cartwright had led Sally slowly along the road. If there had been any passers-by, they might have thought she was disabled.

‘I’m sure they’ll look after you,’ she’d said, and then she’d lowered her voice, as if she hadn’t wanted her progressive views to be overheard by any colleagues who might be lurking in the bushes. ‘Gays can be very considerate and understanding. It’s with the female hormones, I suppose.’

‘Gays?’