me if Dorothy left the lot to a dogs’ home. Serve ’er right, it would.’
Dropping a sweetener into her cup and placing the sugar bowl on the table for Doreen, Rose was barely listening. She could have predicted the conversation. All she knew, all she instinctively felt, was that the police report was wrong. But what could she do about it?
‘I’ve heard she’d got a few good bits and pieces up there,’ Doreen continued confidentially, leaning forward to speak as if there was a chance of being overheard. ‘Well, you’d know more about that than me, you being an artist and all. Wouldn’t surprise me if that Gwen doesn’t go up there and help herself because I don’t suppose Martin realises what her stuff’s worth.’
Coming from Doreen it sounded callous but the same thought had crossed Rose’s mind, although Martin had reassured her when she dropped him home. ‘Ma had three sets of keys. I’ve got one. I’ll need it to feed the dogs.’ So, surprisingly, Rose was in possession of the only other keys. Had Peter not been trusted with them? He had not contacted her to ask for a set and she was glad if what Doreen said was correct. It’s none of your business, she chided herself and offered Doreen more coffee by way of changing the subject. As they drank it Doreen caught Rose eyeing the ironing still waiting to be done.
‘It’s all right, dear. Violet’s expecting me any time and she gets in a right to-do if the dinner’s served up late. I’ll be on my way if I can get the car out of the drive. I don’t know how you do it.’ Doreen patted her hand. ‘Give me a ring later.’
Rose watched her rounded figure plod down the path and out to where she had parked the ancient vehicle which took her from one cleaning job to another. Apart from Cyril’s pension it had been their only income since the mines had closed. With a sigh Rose picked up the iron. No sooner had she finished one blouse than a shadow fell across her. It was Jack.
‘Can I come in?’ He looked sheepish.
‘Yes. If you want coffee help yourself. I’m awash with it.’
He did so and sat down, uninvited. ‘Look, Rose, I apologise if I upset you, but are you really convinced she wouldn’t kill herself?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
Jack stretched out his long legs and stroked his chin. ‘We’ll have to wait for the inquest but we’re making discreet inquiries.’
‘Oh?’ Rose continued ironing, annoyed that he should turn up unannounced.
‘Mm, very discreet because there was no sign of forced entry and from all accounts nothing seems to have been taken. Her purse was there with money in it and—’
Rose stood still. ‘You mean you believe me?’
‘I’m not saying that, I’m simply saying that nothing points to it being anything other than suicide except that she wasn’t registered with any local doctor and it wasn’t paracetamol which she swallowed. And it seems a bit extravagant to find a doctor out of the area if you intend taking your own life because there’re enough drugs behind the counter of any chemist’s shop to do the trick.’
‘So?’
‘So, is there any chance of you nosing around? You know the family.’
‘I see. Once more I’m supposed to do your job for you.’ She flung her hair back over her shoulder angrily.
‘Oh, Rose, you’re always so defensive. I thought you’d be pleased. Do as you wish. I really came here to see if I could buy you a drink. I thought you’d need cheering up.’
He is very handsome, Rose thought, and I’m attracted to him, but if he can irritate me this much now, how much worse would it be if the relationship were more serious? She unplugged the iron, wondering if the job would ever be done. ‘All right then, but somewhere local.’
‘The Star?’
‘The Star’s fine.’
They made no overt signs of affection in public, it would have been out of character for them both. Instead they strolled down the narrow pavement of the hill in single file, stopping for a minute to watch a fishing-boat turn in through the mouth of the harbour. There was a cat’s cradle of masts alongside the north pier and the smell of fish was stronger there.
The bar was basic, designed for working men who came in in their boots, but the walls were covered with photographs of local boats, the sea sweeping over their bows or engulfing them altogether, white spume flying,