Kissed a Sad Goodbye

Where the dirt farm road met paved street, a large, metal-barred gate stood propped open. A rusty padlock hung from a chain looped through its leading edge.

“Doesn’t look as though it’s been closed recently.” Kincaid rubbed the toe of his shoe against the dusty road surface. “No sign of scraping or dragging that I can see.”

Gemma touched the pitted surface of the gate. “So the murderer could have driven her into the park.” She looked round at the council flats lining the paved cul-de-sac. “But in this area you’d surely run a risk of being seen even in the middle of the night. Nosy neighbors.”

“They might remember seeing an unfamiliar car, even if they thought it was just teenagers looking for an uninterrupted cuddle.”

Smiling at his choice of words, Gemma touched his arm briefly as they turned towards the street. “How delicate of you, Superintendent. Where do we find Mr. Brent, then?”

He consulted the map. “This is Pier Street. It should take us right into Manchester Road if we continue along it.”

The council houses they passed as they walked were built of the gray concrete blocks typical of the sixties, but most appeared well-kept. Front doors stood open in the midday heat, and although the bead curtains hanging in most doorways afforded inhabitants a bit of privacy, they allowed cooking odors an easy escape. Gemma sniffed appreciatively at the scent of garlic mingled with spices not quite as familiar.

Some of the tiny front gardens had been paved over entirely, others had a few pots and hanging baskets or revealed a small attempt at a plot of flowers, but the garden of the flat they approached would have made a garden center green with envy. Every inch of the eight-foot square was filled with something blooming, and as they came nearer Gemma saw that one would have to squeeze through a gate held ajar by a mass of purple clematis.

She checked the number over its door. “Mr. Brent, I believe.”

“The inspector said something about his prize flowers.”

“An understatement.” No bead curtain covered this doorway, and as they brushed their way down the narrow path, the smell of roasting meat competed with the cloying scent of the flowers. From inside, a telly blared forth the theme from Grandstand.

Kincaid tapped on the doorjamb, waited a moment, then called “Hullo!” over the din.

“Just coming,” answered a woman’s voice. She appeared from the rear of the house, wiping her hands on a flowered pinny. “Can I help you?”

“We’re here to see Mr. Brent.”

Grimacing, the woman said, “Hang on a moment while I turn this racket down.”

As she slipped through the sitting room door, they saw a flash of television screen, then the noise stopped.

Returning to them, she nodded. “That’s better. Bloody thing drives me crazy. Now, what did you say you wanted?”

“Mr. Brent,” answered Gemma. “We’re from the police. We’d like to talk to him about this morning.”

The woman’s face instantly creased with concern. “A terrible thing. Dad’s been that upset, it’s taken me the whole morning to get him settled. I had to promise him roast chicken and potatoes, in this heat, and now you want to get him all riled up again.” She was small and wiry, with cropped hair kept black with the help of the dye bottle. Beneath the flowered pinny she wore stretchy trousers and an open-necked tee shirt.

Kincaid smiled. “I’m sorry, Mrs.—”

She touched her hair, then held her hand out to Kincaid. “Hubbard. Brenda Hubbard, née Brent. I’ll just—”

“Bren!” a man’s voice called from the back of the house. “Who is it, Bren?”

Brenda hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “It’s the police, Dad. They’ve come to see you.” Stepping back, she led the way into the sitting room.

Gemma instinctively drew in her arms as they entered, for the small room was stuffed so full of things that movement was restricted to a narrow path through its center. The fringed lamp shades competed with the poppy-sprigged wallpaper, which shouted in turn at what was visible of the bold floral carpet. Souvenir-type knickknacks and family photographs jostled for space on every flat surface, but the photos held the advantage by spilling over onto the walls.

Brenda Hubbard looked back at Gemma, then gestured at the photos. “I tell Dad there’ll be no room for him one of these days, but he can’t bear to part with any of them.”

Pausing, Gemma examined a group of particularly ornate frames atop a bookcase. “School class?” she asked, pointing at the photo in the largest.

Smiling, Brenda said, “Family. There were fourteen of us. Thirteen girls and a boy, the last. Mum was determined, I’ll give her that.” She briefly touched a photo of a faded, sweet-faced woman surrounded by children, then moved on.