Broken Dolls Read Free Page B

tomorrow.’
    ‘Or you could get diagnosed with lung cancer and die a slow, lingering, painful death.’
    I flashed Hatcher a tight grin. ‘Or maybe not. My great-grandpa smoked two packs a day and lived to be a hundred and three. Let’s hope I take after him, eh?’
    Graham Johnson’s house was opposite the Six Bells. Like all the other houses along this stretch the front door opened directly onto the sidewalk. One of Hatcher’s people had phoned ahead, so Johnson was expecting us. The living-room curtain fluttered down as we walked up to the house, and the door swung open before Hatcher had a chance to hit the bell. Johnson stood in the doorway, a Jack Russell yapping and bouncing hyperactively around his ankles. He was average height, average build, and his head brushed the top of the low doorframe.
    According to the police reports, Johnson was seventy-five, and every single one of those years was etched into the lines that creased his worn, worried face. What little hair he had left was as white as mine and there were large bags under his rheumy blue eyes. He moved fluidly for his age, though, no stiffness despite the fact it was thirty degrees outside. Regular exercise rather than vitamins and joint supplements. Johnson didn’t strike me as someone who would go down the vitamin route.
    ‘Come on in.’
    Johnson stepped aside to let us into the living room. The dog was going nuts, yapping and twirling and chasing his tail. The old guy shouted a sharp ‘Barnaby, quiet!’ and the dog shut up and bounced onto a chair, a guilty look on its face. I crushed my half-smoked cigarette out on the sidewalk and followed Hatcher inside. The dog’s eyes followed us across the room. Johnson ushered us towards the sofa and we sat down. The small fire burning in the grate warmed the room and cast a cosy orange glow.
    ‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
    ‘A coffee would be great,’ I said. ‘Black, two sugars, thanks.’
    Hatcher declined, and the old guy disappeared into the kitchen. I settled back on the sofa and checked out the room. My initial impression was that it was preserved like a museum exhibit. I’d noticed Johnson’s wedding ring when he answered the door, and I’d also noticed that the living room had been decorated by a woman. What I hadn’t noticed was a wife.
    There were dusty ornaments on every spare surface, faded floral cushions on the chairs and sofas, faded floral curtains at the windows. An ancient framed wedding photograph had pride of place on the mantelpiece, and there were family photos everywhere, lots of smiling kids and grandkids. The hairstyles and clothes dated the photographs, with the most recent being about four years old. That’s when Johnson’s wife must have passed away.
    Johnson came back with two steaming mugs of coffee, handed me one, then settled down in the chair next to the fireplace. My coffee was strong and packed with caffeine. Just how I liked it.
    ‘Can you tell us how you found Patricia Maynard?’ Hatcher asked.
    ‘That was her name then,’ he said. ‘You know, I must have spoken to a dozen policemen since Monday night and no one bothered to tell me her name. Then again, I didn’t ask, so I guess it’s my fault as much as theirs. It doesn’t seem right, though. Not finding out what she was called.’
    ‘Mr Johnson,’ said Hatcher.
    The old guy snapped back into the here and now with a visible start. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
    Hatcher waved the apology away. ‘Can you tell us what happened?’
    ‘I was taking Barnaby out for his late-night walk. This would have been about ten. I take him out the same time every night. I actually take him out to the park two or three times a day. If I didn’t he’d wreck the house.’
    ‘This was to Verulamium Park, right?’
    ‘That’s right. Verulamium Park. You probably passed the entrance on the way here. Anyway I got to the end of the lake and that’s when I saw the woman. The reason I noticed her