Greywater. Mr David Dalby

time and Softwood didn’t strike her as the sentimental sort.

      “His son.” Hazel said.

      “Oh.” Softwood said, “You should have said.”

      Hazel hadn’t thought there was any good reason to specify which Charlie Harris as the senior was long dead.

      “What’s he done?” Softwood said.

      “I take it you don’t read the newspapers.” Hazel said.

      “There’s I don’t know how many tonnes of newspapers out there. I see so many of the things in my working day I don’t need to read what’s in them. What are you claiming young Charlie has done?”

      How much the old man really knew was open to question, but Hazel thought he knew exactly what was going on. She said, “He’s got himself into trouble with a group of very bad men. The Symes brothers.”

      To give the old man credit he never blinked. His face was a complete blank. It looked a natural blank as well. If she’d not seen how many villains he had working for him Hazel would have believed him when he said, “Who’s that?”

      “He’s a bad man.” Hazel said, playing along. “He took over from Charlie Warren a few months ago.”

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Softwood said in a voice that would have convinced any jury. “But young Charlie is a good boy really.”

      No he’s not, Hazel thought, He’s a bastard with a string of convictions ranging from petty theft to car crime to GBH. Young Charlie is too keen with a knife and his fists. He’s not a good boy but he is a very stupid one. “You’ve known him a long time then?”

      “Oh yeah. I knew his father. And his mother, lovely woman she was, A teacher you know. Very refined.”

      Hazel didn’t know and was determined to find out because she had no intention of believing anything this old reprobate told her. “Is she still alive?”

      “No that was a terrible thing. She died soon after he was born. Cancer it was. Breast cancer, I think,” He shook his head. “Terrible it was. She lingered for a bit and then went. Lovely funeral she had. All her friends were there.”

      “You knew her friends, Mr Softwood?”

      “Eh?”

      “Ms. Harris’ friends. You knew them?”

      “No, not me. I don’t travel in those refined circles.”

      Hazel knew quite a few teachers and refined wasn’t a word she’d use to describe them. “What was her name?”

      “Mrs Harris.”

      “Yes, what was her name.”

      “Mrs Harris.” Softwood said again with a straight face. Hazel knew very well the old man was playing his game with her. He also knew she knew. But he also knew that she wasn’t going to do anything about it because he was a small, elderly man, who looked much more frail than he really was. Hazel suspected he was strong and wiry and very robust underneath his old man act.

      “Did she have a first name?”

      “Who?” Did she just catch the merest glimpse of a crafty smile? It might have been her imagination. But then he was, very clearly, enjoying this whole encounter.

      “Did Mrs Harris have a first name?”

      “Oh yes, she did.” He nodded firmly. He gave her a small smile.

      “May I know what it was, Mr Softwood? May I know what Mrs Harris’ first name was?” Hazel wasn’t going to let him get to her. She spoke calmly and casually, as if she were unaware of his deliberate unhelpfulness.

      “Susan.” He said, “Her name was Susan Harris.”

      “Thankyou.”

      “Well you only had to ask.” He said, smiling at her. His teeth were neat, even clean, and very likely false. “Or was it Sarah?”

      Now even Price looked up from his notebook. He’d already written Susan Harris down. He slowly wrote Sarah and put a question mark after it.

      Softwood waited until he had finished writing, “It might have been Sandra.”

      “We’ll find out.” Hazel said, closing down this part of the game.

      “Suit yourself.” He shrugged slightly.

      “Where is Charlie Harris….”

      “I just told you…”

      “The one that isn’t dead.” Hazel said, “Your former partner’s son. Where is he, Mr Softwood?”

      “I dunno. I see him at Christmas and his birthday….sometimes….Maybe he went abroad.”

      “He didn’t go abroad.” Hazel said.

      “Didn’t he?” The old man looked convincingly blank. “Well wherever he is he’ll be with some blonde.”

      “Which blonde?” Hazel said.

      He shrugged again, “The world was full of blondes for young Charlie. So many blondes.”

      “Such as who?” Hazel said, “Who was his latest blonde?”

      “I don’t know. He never told me which was which. Blonde hair, short skirts, big boobs. That was a blonde to him.”

      “He must have mentioned a name.” Hazel said, playing her own game. If they give a name it gives the police a good reason to go away. “Surely you can think of one.”

      “Oh yeah.” He said, as if he suddenly remembered a name, “Tracy.”

      “Tracy?” Hazel said.

      “Tracy Smith.” Which was as likely a name as Richard Softwood. But Hazel noticed Price wrote it down.

      “Anyone else?”

      Yeah.” He was on a roll now, “Julie Brown.” He said, “Helen Taylor.” He seemed very pleased with himself. “How’s that, Sergeant Vernon?”

      He’d just given her three very common names and no addresses. It would keep the police busy for a week trying to find these women, if they existed.

      They probably did exist in large numbers and, Hazel suspected, none of them knew Charlie Harris.

      “You wouldn’t know where any of them live, of course.”

      “Sorry.” He said, not sounding sorry at all.

      Been nice to meet you, Mr Softwood.”

      “I enjoyed meeting you as well, Sergeant Vernon.” He said. He continued to smile until they had left his office and them the mask slipped and he became very serious, reaching for the smart phone and scrolling through the numbers. He pressed one and waited a moment as it rang. Then he picked up the landline type phone and pressed the call button, “Have the detectives left the premises? Good. Thanks.” He closed down the call and turned his attention to the smartphone. “Eddie, I just had the police here.”