The Widow Read Free Page A

bottle-of-milk thing before, but milkmen were a dying breed. She was very pleased with herself for getting through this door with such apparent ease.
    In truth, she hadn’t wanted to come in the first place. She needed to get to the office and finish her expenses form before her credit-card bill came through and cleaned out her bank account. But her news editor was having none of it.
    â€˜Go and knock on the widow’s door – it’s on your way in,’ Terry Deacon shouted down the phone above the radio news headlines blaring out beside him. ‘Never know. Today might be your lucky day.’
    Kate had sighed. She knew immediately who Terry meant. There was only one widow everyone wanted to interview that week, but she also knew it was a well-trodden path. Three of her colleagues at the
Post
had already tried – and she was sure she must be the last reporter in the country to knock on this particular door.
    Almost.
    As she reached the turning into Jean Taylor’s road, she automatically checked for other press and immediately spotted the man from
The Times
, standing by a car. Boring tie, elbow patches and a side parting. Classic. She edged her car forward as the traffic crawled along the main road, but kept one eye on the enemy. She’d have to go round the block again and hope he’d have left by the time she got back.
    â€˜Bloody hell,’ she muttered, signalling left and swinging down a side street to park up.
    Fifteen minutes and a flick through the dailies later, Kate put her seatbelt back on and restarted the car. Her phone rang and she dug deep into her bag to find it. Fishing it out, she saw Bob Sparkes’ name on the display and turned off the engine again.
    â€˜Hello, Bob, how are you? What’s happening?’
    Detective Inspector Bob Sparkes wanted something; that was obvious. He wasn’t the sort of bloke to ring for a chat and she bet herself the call would last less than sixty seconds.
    â€˜Hi Kate. Good, thanks. Quite busy – you know what it’s like. Got a couple of cases on the go, but nothing interesting. Look, Kate, just wondered if you were still working on the Glen Taylor case.’
    â€˜Christ, Bob, have you got me on CCTV or something? I’m just about to go and knock on Jean Taylor’s door.’
    Sparkes laughed. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not on the surveillance list as far as I know.’
    â€˜Anything I should know before I see her?’ Kate asked. ‘Anything new since Glen Taylor died?’
    â€˜No, not really,’ She could hear the disappointment in his voice. ‘Wondered if you’d heard anything. Anyway, I’d appreciate a heads-up if Jean says anything.’
    â€˜I’ll give you a call afterwards,’ she said. ‘But she’ll probably slam the door in my face. That’s what she’s done to all the other reporters.’
    â€˜OK, speak later.’
    End of. She looked at the phone and smiled. Forty-one seconds. A new record. She must tease him about it next time she saw him.
    Five minutes later she’d cruised down Jean Taylor’s newly media-free street and walked up the path.
    Now, she needed the story.
    Oh for God’s sake, how can I concentrate? she thought, digging her nails into her hand to distract herself. No – no good.
    â€˜Sorry, Jean, but would it be all right to use your loo?’ she said now, smiling apologetically. ‘Tea goes straight through you, doesn’t it? I’ll make us another if you like.’
    Jean nodded and rose from her seat to guide the way. ‘It’s through here,’ she said, standing aside so Kate could edge past into the peachy haven of the downstairs loo.
    Washing her hands with the perfumed guest soap, Kate glanced up and caught her expression in the mirror. She looked a bit tired, she thought, smoothing her unruly hair and tapping the bags under her eyes with her fingertips as instructed by the girl