Chapter 54
FIFTY-FOUR
She walked back to Trade Cottage the long way round, so as not to give Jamie the chance to berate her for going through the forbidden gate.
As she walked up the dilapidated drive – some of the potholes seemed to be growing, she noticed, and even joining together in places – she considered what she’d just witnessed.
Apart from Paul’s funeral, when the Finches had been on show, it was the first time she’d seen Jamie and his mother together.
It had been brief, but she couldn’t help thinking how directive he’d been with her – disrespectful, even.
Of course, he’d been angry. And he’d previously been a big beast at the IMF, used to telling people what to do.
But if Will had spoken to Kate the way Jamie had just spoken to Rosemary, she’d have pulled him up on it immediately.
Once again, she had the feeling that this wasn’t just a battle for Trade Cottage. It was a battle for its former owner, too.
A few minutes after she got home, there was a knock on the front door. It was Oliver Wray, the coroner’s officer, again.
‘I’ve now spoken to all the contractors who were here when Mr Finch died,’ he said, ‘and I’ve still not found anyone who saw you reacting to the sound of the shot. I’d like to take the clothes you were wearing that day, please.’
He caught her puzzled look and explained, ‘To test for gunshot residue.’
‘Oh . . . But I’ve washed them.’ For a moment, she wondered if that looked suspicious. But she hadn’t been able to shake the idea that some of Paul’s blood might have got on them.
‘If it was an ordinary wash, that doesn’t necessarily negate the tests. I’ll wait here, if that’s all right.’ Politely but firmly, he stepped inside the house.
She went to get the clothes. At least this should prove she had nothing to do with it, she thought. Or were tests like this more ambiguous than that? It was impossible to prove a negative, after all. She wondered if Rosemary had also been asked to provide what she was wearing.
When she came back downstairs, Oliver already had a clear bag open for her to put the clothes in. ‘We’ll need a DNA swab, as well,’ he added.
They went into the kitchen. It was as he was scrubbing the swab against the soft tissue inside her cheek, with her jaws open wide and feeling at her most vulnerable, that she heard a frantic banging on the front door and shouts from the men outside.
The drainage tanker, she realised, had been turned off – the noise of its pumps had stopped.
Through the window, she could see men in hard hats abandoning their diggers and running up the lawn.
‘There must have been an accident,’ she said, as Oliver put the swab into a container. ‘I’d better go and see what’s happened.’
‘Of course.’ He placed the container in a bag and wrote her name on it. ‘In any case, I’m done.’
She went to the front door. The drainage contractor, Mick, was there, his face ashen. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
But he was looking past her, into the house. ‘Is he still here – the coroner’s officer?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘We’ve called the police, but he’ll want to know about this.’ He hesitated. ‘We’ve found a body in the pond.’