strategically placed on the wooden desk. He teased a couple out knowing he’d need them at some point soon.
‘Take your time.’
Clive nodded. ‘I was pushing my wheelbarrow back from the allotment. I often use it to get my produce back home. It was full of broad beans, my first spring harvest. Whenever I have it with me I take the back route into the house to avoid dragging mud through the living areas. There’s a side alley that takes me directly to the lean-to at the back. I was busy unloading for a while before I realised something was wrong.’
‘And what made you realise there was something wrong?’
‘Nancy normally greets me. Gets the kettle on before I get in. If not straight away, within ten minutes of being there. There was nothing that day.’
‘Okayyy.’ PC Doyle dragged the word, making it longer than it should be. ‘When she didn’t greet you, was there anything else that seemed different? Anything else that you noticed?’
‘The inner door. The one between the kitchen and the lean-to. It was open. It isn’t usually open. Nancy feels the cold something chronic and was forever telling me off if I didn’t shut it.’
PC Doyle scribbled some notes. Referenced something else in his notepad before asking his next question. ‘Was there anything else that alerted you to there being something wrong before you went through the door?’
Everything was a blur. It was hard to synchronise just one memory of a door that he’d passed through a million times before. Clive tried to think about the room. He’d built the lean-to himself about fifteen years ago, early on in his retirement. It was a more homely version of a shed and was essentially his sorting station for all the activities that occurred at the allotment. He had his own sink there so he didn’t muddy the one in the kitchen and it was where he stored his boots and surplus potatoes. Nancy preferred it if he kept the house tidy. It was a room of functionality. It was Clive’s domain, with its purpose being to ensure marital harmony. It had been in its usual haphazard form that day: paintbrushes in jars of turpentine on the side, carrots waiting to be distributed, sacks of potatoes near the kitchen, onions hanging near the door. The wooden lolly sticks he was using to write the names of the varieties he was planning to plant were where he’d left them, the new seedling trays waiting to be used. None of these things seemed to be out of place in the image he was recalling.
He didn’t want to think beyond that. Why would he when it hurt so much?
‘Nothing was amiss in the lean-to, but…’ Thinking about it brought a chill to Clive. He’d tried not to think about it, especially since the horror of it all had landed him in hospital.
‘This is all going to help.’ PC Doyle gave an encouraging smile.
Would it? Clive wasn’t sure how, when it was never going to bring back Nancy.
‘There was a smudge on the door. A red streak, like someone had brushed paint on it accidentally.’
‘When did you notice that?’
‘You mean what time?’
‘Yes, and at what point after arriving home?’
Clive felt old. He knew at seventy-nine that he was, that was a fact, but he’d always kept active. If his newly diagnosed heart condition wasn’t enough to age him, this surely would.
‘I don’t know what the exact time was.’
‘Can you give an approximation?’
‘I don’t wear a watch down the allotment and I only have a battery-operated clock in my shed there.’ Clive didn’t understand why he felt the need to explain these things. He wasn’t guilty of anything. ‘I didn’t look at it before I headed home, but it would have been around three. The walk takes about ten minutes when the wheelbarrow is full and it would have been maybe five minutes after that. Why do you ask?’
‘We’re just trying to get a clear timeline. So we know what kind of time frame events occurred in.’
Events. The word jarred in Clive’s head. It wasn’t an event. Events were occasions to be celebrated: birthdays, Christmas, and sixtieth wedding anniversaries.
‘You mean when my wife was killed?’
PC Doyle cleared his throat. ‘We want to establish what happened.’
Clive began to choke up. He didn’t like the grumpiness that kept surfacing, replacing his normal manners. He just wasn’t sure how to remain polite when life had been so cruel. ‘I know, I’m sorry. I think it’s because this is