The Bungalow-8

Continued from Chapter 7: The Bungalow-7 | ABCtales

It had been a more than usually trying day. The detective had called again, this time in the company of a second detective, at about half past eight in the morning. He’d quizzed him again about the walk with Hayley, the trip on the river the day after, the exact nature of the photos that he’s jettisoned into the river, going over the same ground as the night before last; Hawke supposed they were looking for inconsistencies in his account.

There’d been an awkward moment when the second detective had asked him to produce evidenced that he really had been trainspotting on London Bridge. Fortunately, he’d a book of locomotive numbers left by his young cousin. None of the numbers underlined in red were actually Class 700s – Timothy’s interest were the Class 66 diesels that operated the freight trains – but the policemen weren’t train buffs. The detective had simply returned the book to him with a slight shudder, not noticing that none of the Class 700 units had been underlined in Timothy’s red biro, only the Class 66s.

Now they were searching the bungalow. Hawke sat on the bench in the back garden, with the WPC watching him watching the white-suited Scene of Crime officers removing the contents of cupboards, tapping on walls, sifting through the untidy heaps of stuff in the garage. They’d looked in the now empty whisky box in the front porch. It didn’t seem to excite any special interest, though a dog team was expected at any moment. Hawke was glad, now, that he hadn’t tried the trick with the perfume. So far, they didn’t seem to have discovered the loose piece of parquet in the study or the removable section of floorboards underneath. And if they did, he’d explain it away as a one-time hiding place for valuables.

Nor had the divers yet found anything on the riverbed in Barking or, if they had, they weren’t telling. It would take them a while, Hawke reckoned, if they ever found anything at all, and even then there was a 50-50 chance they’d find the envelope with the photos, not the guns, at which point they’d presumably stop searching.

After 15 minutes, Hawke rose to his feet, abruptly. “Just going for a little walk. I’ll be at Auntie Hilda – Mrs Allendby’s next door if you need me.”

The WPC nodded: “Just keep your phone on.”

Hawke strode off down the path. He tapped gently on the window of the next door bungalow. The chain rasped back and the door opened, almost immediately. Auntie Hilda must have been looking out at the road. “Come in! Come in! We do live in strange times, don’t we?”

“Indeed we do. Me and Marjorie, we chose this spot, thinking it’d be peaceful; away from the big bad city and all that.”

There was tea already brewed in the big brown shiny pot. Auntie Hilda didn’t need to ask: milk, one and a half sugars. Hawke sat down in the threadbare pale green armchair, facing the window with its view of the field behind the houses. “Bit of a refugee from my own home at the moment. Police are crawling all over it. Sniffer dogs’ll be here next.”

“Good heavens!” Auntie Hilda ran her hands down the front of her floral patterned nylon housecoat and patted her grey perm, eyeing him, have shocked, half excited. “Surely they don’t suspect that you had anything to do with it?”

“Well, they suspect something. A couple of slightly unfortunate things happened. They’ve been watching me…”

“WATCHING you? Watching you doing what?”

“Oh, just on my little jaunt into town yesterday. It got them, kind of…interested. They started putting two and two together and making five.”

He drank a mouthful of tea. The: “Auntie Hild – did you hear anything that morning? An altercation…an argument of some sort in the lane? It’s just that Hayley said…”

“I heard raised voices. Someone kicking something, like a car or van…”

“Did you recognise who was shouting? Was it someone from round here?”

“Not really. But they were men, not women.”

“I see. What did you tell the Police?”

“Just that.” She put her cup down on the battered, ringed surface of the coffee table; Hawke had offered to re-polish it for her but she’d decline, saying it would see her out.

“Hawky – it was you shouting, wasn’t it?”

“What makes you say that?”

“The other guy was a pikey. Touting door to door for business, tarmacking, tree surgery…”

“Did you tell the police you thought it was me?”

“Hawky – I know you have a few…issues with these people. But no, I don’t think you’re capable of murdering someone. You’re a good man, Hawky, deep down.”

“A good man. Just done a few bad things.”

“You had no choice. Your were under orders.”

“Just like those Germans in the concentration camps.”

“That was different. Anyway, I just told them I didn’t recognise the voices.”

“Number 68A. Did she recognise anyone?”

“Not seen or spoken to Mrs Christie all week. You’ll have to ask her.”

“Perhaps I will.”

To be continued in Chapter 9