LITMIR.BIZ

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pleasant.

      A thin, wiry woman in her mid-sixties opened the door and smiled at Matilda.

      ‘Prue McKenzie?’

      ‘Yes,’ said the woman, surprising Matilda with the deepness of her voice.

      ‘Detective Sergeant Matilda Kennedy, please may I come in?’

      The initial jovial welcome vanished in an instant, the woman’s calm appearance fading into a look of panic and dismay.

      ‘Is it Jeffrey? Dear God, tell me what’s happened. It’s not one of the children?’ The woman’s deep voice had been replaced by a high pitched squeal close to hysteria.

      ‘Let’s go inside Mrs McKenzie. It’s about your friend Moira Sackville.’ Matilda put her hand on the woman, whose body trembled.

      ‘Moira? What’s happened?’

      ‘Let’s go in.’ She followed the woman into the immaculate space of her house. All gleaming polished wood floors, and white walls adorned with original paintings. Mrs McKenzie led her through to a large living room. Two patterned sofas sat next to each other, creating an L shape.

      ‘Please take a seat, Mrs McKenzie.’

      The woman slumped in a chair like an unruly teenager.

      ‘I’m afraid Mrs Sackville died last night in her apartment.’

      McKenzie’s face drained of colour. ‘Died,’ she said, her voice a whisper. ‘How? You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious.’

      ‘I’m afraid we’re treating her death as suspicious,’ said Matilda, sitting down next to the woman.

      ‘Eustace?’

      ‘Mr Sackville is fine, though he has received some injuries.’

      The woman murmured, placing her hand to her mouth. ‘Injuries? Oh my God, she was murdered?’ Her shaking intensified.

      Matilda placed her hands on the woman’s shoulders, trying to calm her.

      ‘Can I get you a drink of water?’

      The woman shook her head. ‘Please, tell me what happened.’

      ‘I’m afraid I can’t go into too much detail,’ said Matilda, remembering the strict instructions she’d received from Tillman about not disclosing the nature of the murder.

      ‘In other words, she’s been murdered,’ said McKenzie.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Matilda. ‘Please let me get you a drink.’

      The woman nodded towards a door. Matilda found a glass beaker in a kitchen twice the size of her flat. She let the tap run, trying to calm her own trembling hands. She returned to the woman. ‘Here you go, drink this. May I call you Prue?’

      The woman, drinking in large gulping noises, nodded.

      ‘Thanks, Prue. I need to ask you some questions. I’ll try not to take too long. I understand you were very close to Mrs Sackville.’

      The woman smiled. ‘We were like sisters,’ she said. ‘Didn’t have any other family, you see. It was just her and Eustace. They called each other orphans. Both sets of parents had died before they met each other at university. They found each other and have been together ever since. She couldn’t have children so it’s just been them, and me.’

      ‘You met Mrs Sackville at university?’

      ‘Yes, we were both studying English together. She’s a librarian.’ She went to correct the tense and Matilda placed her hand on her shoulder again.

      ‘Is there anyone I can call for you?’ asked Matilda.

      ‘It’s okay, I’ll call Jeffrey in a minute. What else do you need to know?’ Matilda was impressed by the woman’s change of tone, how she attempted to delay her own grief so she could help.

      ‘I just need to know some more details about Mrs Sackville… Moira. We don’t know much about her at the moment. Her husband is still in hospital.’

      ‘My God, is it serious?’

      ‘No, he will be okay.’

      ‘I need to visit him, is that possible?’

      Matilda wrote down the address and ward number where Eustace was staying. ‘You may want to leave it until this evening as he’s still a bit drowsy.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘What can you tell me about Moira? What sort of person was she?’

      ‘She was such a lovely woman. She’d do anything for you. I do a lot of charity work and Moira was always there to help, baking cakes, attending functions, always giving me as much support as possible. She was one of those people, you know, you could tell anything to.’

      ‘I imagine it sounds a crazy question, but did she have any enemies? Anyone who’d want to hurt her?’

      Prue laughed – a short, sharp snort, a mirthless sound. ‘She was a librarian, enemies didn’t normally come with the territory. Though even in small places like that there’s politics, hierarchies, that sort of thing. She used to tell me about the pedantic people who worked there. Not all of them, mind you, just one or two. Some of the council staff who paid visits, the mad bureaucracy. She hated all those aspects. All she cared about were the books. I think that’s why she got on so well with Eustace. They both loved words.’

      ‘So she never told you of any trouble? Where she felt under physical threat?’

      ‘God no. Just petty things. No one would want to harm her, why would they?’

      ‘What about Eustace? Did you get on well with him?’

      ‘He’s a nice enough guy. I haven’t really been able to socialise much with him despite him being married to my best friend. He was, he is, how should I put it … awkward in the sort of social situations we move in.’

      The comment was meant to be harmless, throwaway, but Matilda saw a glimpse of the real Prue McKenzie in her words.

      ‘In what way, awkward?’ she asked.

      ‘My husband is a QC, you know, a barrister.’

      Matilda nodded.

      ‘So a lot of our friends are, how shall we say, from the higher echelons of society. Moira could deal with that side of things, her family were well-to-do and she was left a lot of money. Eustace doesn’t come from that sort of world and he didn’t really try to blend in.’

      ‘In what way? Was he just quiet during functions, that sort of thing?’

      ‘Yes that and, it’s sounds ludicrous, but he never put any effort into his appearance. Moira was fed up with it but she was sort of resigned.’

      ‘Would you say they had a happy marriage?’

      ‘I suppose so, but dynamics change over the years. You’ll find that when you reach our age.’

      Matilda didn’t need to reach any age to understand that. ‘Do you think Eustace could have had any enemies?’

      ‘It’s possible, given the sort of world he moved in – investigating criminals and whatnot. I didn’t really know much about his work and Moira didn’t like to share. Why do you ask?’

      ‘It’s only our first day of our investigation, we’re just looking at all avenues at the moment.’

      The woman seemed to have regained full composure, as if the death of her closest friend was a mere shock to the system which she’d already overcome. Matilda could tell she had something further to say, but rather than ask, she waited. The painful silence was alleviated by the ticking of the antique grandfather clock and the distant sounds of builders working on the nearest loft conversion.

      ‘There was one thing,’ said

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