A quick shaking of hands and they retreated to their cars. Got in. And drove away.
Soon as they were gone, Logan marched up the drive to the front door. Gave Tufty’s arm a thump with the back of his hand. ‘Are you planning on sulking all day?’
Tufty poked the bell again, setting something buzzing inside the house. ‘I’m not sulking. I’m disappointed.’
‘You’re disappointed?’
‘Calamity or Isla: I could understand them not getting it, but I thought you were interested in the…’
The door clunked then swung open.
A woman glared out at them from behind a pair of large square glasses. Long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail with a sprinkling of grey at the roots. Teeth bared. Already going at full volume: ‘IF YOU VULTURES DON’T GO AWAY, I’M CALLING THE POLICE!’
Tufty raised his eyebrows. ‘Hello, Katie.’
‘Ah.’ She closed her mouth. Grimaced. ‘Officer Quirrel. Sorry. I thought you were that pair of…’ Then she stared at them, eyes widening. Bit her bottom lip. Wiped her hands down the front of her green-and-white striped apron. ‘Oh God, they were right. It is him isn’t it? The body they found in the woods? It’s Martin.’
She staggered back a step, blinking at the wood laminate flooring. Holding onto the doorframe.
Tufty held out a hand. ‘Katie, does Martin have a tattoo on his left shoulder? Maybe a dolphin or a whale or something?’
‘What?’ Mrs Milne pulled her chin in, wrinkling her neck. ‘No. No he doesn’t. He doesn’t have any tattoos. Why would he have tattoos?’
Logan stepped forward. ‘Then it’s not Martin, Mrs Milne: the man we found yesterday had a tattoo.’
She sagged where she stood, letting out a long breath. ‘Oh thank God.’ Another breath, one hand against her chest. ‘Look at me. Sorry. Come in. Please.’
The hallway was light, airy, with framed photos and scrawled crayon drawings lining the walls.
Mrs Milne led them through into the kitchen, where a little boy sat at a rustic table, both hands wrapped around a tumbler of orange juice. Blond hair, red sweatshirt, white shirt, black trousers. Plaster cast on his right arm. The smell of frying butter filled the air.
‘Would you like a tea, or coffee, or something? Or pancakes? I’m making for Ethan.’
The little boy stared back at them through glasses like his mother’s.
Logan slipped out of his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. It dripped onto the slate floor. ‘Tea would be lovely. But don’t worry, Constable Quirrel can make it. Can’t you, Constable?’
A nod. ‘Don’t want to stand in the way of Ethan’s pancakes.’
‘Oh. That’s very kind.’ She went back to the hob while Tufty poked about in the cupboard above the kettle.
The place must have cost a fortune. It was big enough for a full-sized dining table, a central island with hob and sink, fitted units around the outside in what was probably oak, granite work surfaces, slate tiles on the floor, a massive American-style fridge freezer. One of those fancy taps that did boiling water. Bit of a difference from Logan’s – cobbled together out of whatever was cheapest at B&Q and Argos.
There were about a dozen more crayon scribbles in here, most of them featuring what looked like potatoes with arms and legs, but instead of being stuck to the fridge door like in a normal house, they were displayed in elaborate wood-and-glass frames.
Logan settled into a seat and nodded at the little boy. ‘That’s some cast you’ve got there, Ethan, what happened to your arm?’
He stared back in silence.
OK…
Mrs Milne shook her head. ‘I love him to bits, but he can be a clumsy wee soul sometimes. Can’t you, Ethan?’
A shrug, then Ethan went back to his orange juice.
‘He’s a bit shy.’ She ladled batter into the frying pan and pulled on a gleaming smile. ‘So, who’s for pancakes?’
Logan wandered over to the window, rolling up a pancake – smeared with butter and raspberry jam – as if it were a fine cigar. Bit off the end and chewed.
Outside, Ethan slouched through the rain, good hand held in his mother’s. The cast on his other arm pressed against his chest. A scarlet people-carrier idled at the kerb, and as they reached it the driver’s window slid down, revealing a large woman with a Lego-bob haircut who smiled at them.
Mrs Milne bent down and kissed Ethan on the cheek, wiped the lipstick away, and saw him into the back of the car. Made sure he was belted in. Then stood there, in the rain, waving as the car wound its way out of the small development, onto the road, and away. Stood there a moment or two longer. And finally turned and trudged towards the house again.
Tufty appeared at Logan’s elbow. Had a sip of tea from a mug with Winnie the Pooh on it. ‘Doesn’t seem like a very happy kid.’
‘His dad’s vanished.’
‘True.’
Another bite. ‘And then there’s the broken arm.’
‘I was forever falling out of trees when I was five.’
‘Let me guess: you landed on your head a lot.’ Logan frowned out at the rain. ‘Get onto Social and see if anyone’s raised any flags about Ethan. Doctors, hospitals, teachers. Exactly how “clumsy” is he?’
‘Sarge.’
A clunk, then a rattle, and Mrs Milne was back looking as if she’d just been for a swim. She grimaced at them. ‘Poor wee soul’s having a hard time at school. Some of the kids think it’s fun to wind him up, because Martin’s missing. Can you imagine anything so cruel?’ She dabbed at her long black hair with a tea towel. ‘Yesterday, someone told him Martin’s run off with a younger woman. That Martin doesn’t love him any more.’ She shuddered. ‘Well, you know what kids are like. Horrible little monsters.’
Tufty beamed at her. ‘Sorry to be a pain, but could I use your loo? Too much tea.’
‘Out into the hallway, second on the right.’
‘Thanks.’ And he was off, unclipping his Airwave handset as he went. Not exactly subtle.
Idiot.
Logan polished off the pancake. Sooked his fingers clean. ‘Do you know if your husband has online banking? And if he does, can you get access to it?’
‘Martin hasn’t run off with some tart. He wouldn’t do that to us.’ She looked away, lowered her voice. ‘He loves us.’
‘Mrs Milne? The banking?’
‘Of course – we’ve got joint accounts.’ She went over to the Welsh dresser and opened a drawer. Pulled out a small laptop. ‘Oh, you should have heard them when we got married: “He’s far too young for her”, “He’s a toy boy”, “She’s such a dirty old lady”, “Must be like he’s shagging his mum”.’
The laptop went on the kitchen table. Then whirred and beeped into life.
‘Kids aren’t the only monsters.’ She logged in. ‘Suppose that’s where they get it from.’
Logan took the seat next to her. ‘You said Ethan was clumsy sometimes?’
‘Hold on, it wants to install updates…’ Mrs Milne hunched over