James Carol - The Quiet Man

‘I know that you’re working with Anderton,’ Winter whispered.

Jefferies hesitated for a moment. There were a whole load of trust issues at play here. The question at the forefront of his mind was clearly, ‘Friend or foe?’

‘It’s a reciprocal arrangement,’ he said eventually. ‘Anderton is one of the best detectives I know, and this case is one of the most challenging I’ve ever seen. We need her on this. If you ask me, she should never have been cut loose. And for such a bullshit reason, too. It was like everyone lost their senses for a moment. By the time they got them back it was too late.’

‘We need a copy of Gifford’s picture.’

‘No, what you need to do is get Anderton to check her cell phone more regularly. I’ve already sent his passport photo through.’

They stopped in front of the old woman’s house. She was still in her lawn chair. Her focus had changed, though. Instead of watching what was happening further along the street, her attention was now fixed on Winter and Jefferies.

‘Are you coming, or waiting here?’ Winter asked.

Jefferies looked over his shoulder. Anderton and Freeman were talking. At a casual glance it appeared that they were being civilised enough, but look a little closer and it was a different story. Freeman was just about keeping his rage in check, while Anderton looked like she might actually be enjoying herself.

‘Like I said, my orders are to watch you like a hawk, so I guess I’m tagging along.’

‘I’m handling the questions.’

‘Fine by me.’

Winter walked along the path then cut across the lawn to where the old woman had set up camp. She had her hand on her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun and was tracking their progress. They stopped in front of her. There were ridges and wrinkles etched into her ancient face. The backs of her bony hands were covered with liver spots. She had to be at least ninety. Her dress was faded from too many turns through the washing machine, but her sunhat looked new. It was made from straw and had a bright yellow ribbon tied around it. Her wedding ring was so dirty and scratched it appeared black rather than gold. She tilted her head and looked up at Winter. Her eyes were bright. Eyes that didn’t miss a trick. There was a small table next to her chair. A jug of iced tea was set on top of it. Her glass was half full and there was a yellow straw sticking out of it.

‘So, did he kill his wife?’ she asked.

‘What makes you say that?’ Winter asked back.

She let out a burst of laughter that sounded more like a witch’s cackle. ‘Because it’s the quiet ones you have to watch, ain’t that right? At least, that’s the way it seems on TV. Do you watch CSI ? I love CSI . I never miss an episode.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Mary-Kate Franklin. And what’s up with the white hair? Did you see a ghost or something?’

‘If by “something”, you mean a faulty bit of DNA, then I’d have to go with the something.’

She gave him the look. At least she tried to. The sun was behind him and making her squint.

‘What was your impression of Mr Gifford?’ he asked.

‘Well, he was always polite enough, but they say that as well, don’t they? It’s always the quiet, polite ones. Am I wrong?’

‘No, Mrs Franklin, you’re not wrong.’

‘You know something, I like you, young man. You’re very polite.’

‘I’m quiet, too.’

She let loose with another burst of witchy laughter, then said, ‘You think he killed her, don’t you?’

‘Nobody’s saying that anyone is dead, Mrs Franklin.’

‘Oh, she’s dead all right. You know, I always wondered what happened. One day she was there, the next she wasn’t. It was suspicious, that’s for sure. Mr Gifford said that they’d split up and she’d moved out, but I always had my doubts.’

Winter took out the photograph that he’d stolen from the attic and unfolded it. He held it in front of Mrs Franklin. She squinted, then started making impatient grabbing motions with her fingers. Winter handed it over.

‘Do you recognise this woman?’

‘Of course I do. That’s Mrs Gifford.’

There was no hesitation. No doubt whatsoever. She handed back the photograph and Winter folded it into his jeans pocket.

‘What was her first name?’

‘Cathy.’

‘And what was she like?’

‘Quiet as a church mouse.’

‘Scared quiet?’ he suggested.

‘No, more shy quiet. I always had to ask her to speak up. My hearing’s not as good as it once was.’

‘Did you see her much?’

‘Most days. She always asked about my garden. I got the impression she was lonely.’

‘How come?’

‘Because I never saw any of her friends or family visit. She didn’t work, either.’

‘You know for a fact that she didn’t have a job?’

‘Of course I know that for a fact. I wouldn’t be telling you otherwise. I once asked her what she did for a living. This was back when she first moved in. She told me that she did the accounts and bookings for her husband. He’s a photographer, you know. He does weddings.’

‘You mentioned that Mr Gifford was quiet too. What sort of quiet was he?’

Mrs Franklin leant forward and picked up her glass. She wedged the straw between her lips and took a long, slurping sip. ‘Heavens, where are my manners? Can I get you gentleman a drink?’

‘We’re good, thanks.’

‘Are you sure? It wouldn’t be any trouble. And I make a pretty mean ice tea, even if I do say so myself.’

‘I’m sure, but thanks for the offer.’

Mrs Franklin took another sip and put the glass back down. ‘You were asking about Mr Gifford.’

Winter nodded. ‘I wanted to know what sort of quiet he was.’

‘Actually, he wasn’t that quiet. I’m not saying that he was the life and soul of the party, but he was no shrinking violet, either. Not like Mrs Gifford. He was really quite charming, and not in a sleazy way. He could be funny, too. He was good at putting you at ease. Which makes sense, given his job. He’d need to put people at ease there.’

Mrs Franklin went quiet. A troubled expression flitted briefly across her face and then she was smiling again.

‘You just thought of something,’ Winter said gently. ‘What was it?’

‘I was just thinking about this one time when I was talking to Mrs Gifford, and Mr Gifford was there, too. This must have been about four years ago. I was upset because one of my friends had died. What I remember is the way that Mr Gifford was looking at me. He was just staring like he’d never seen a woman cry before. It was only for a second or two, but it made me feel uncomfortable. And then he was back to normal, trying to cheer me up. You know, I haven’t thought about that in ages.’

‘Did anything like that ever happen again?’

‘No, it was just that once.’

‘How long did the Giffords live here?’

‘It’s got to be six or seven years. Maybe a bit longer. They moved in after they got married.’

‘And when did Mrs Gifford move out?’

Mrs Franklin sucked in a sharp breath. ‘Now there’s a question. It wasn’t the year before last. I know that for a fact because that was when my Bertie passed.’ She stopped talking and smiled at a secret memory. A good one by the looks of things. ‘It was the year before that. Definitely the year before. I remember because 2012 was the year we went on a cruise. It was our diamond anniversary. Sixty years, can you believe that? Anyway, that was the last vacation we took together.’

‘When was your anniversary?’

‘June 16.’

‘Did Mrs Gifford move out before or after your cruise?’

‘It was the week before. I remember because I was busy packing when the moving truck arrived.’