Death of a Cave Dweller by Sally Spencer Page A

asked.
    â€œThey haven’t got a phone, sir,” the constable replied.
    No, of course they wouldn’t have a phone, Woodend thought. Nobody on this estate would have a phone – unless their jobs required it.
    â€œSo I’ll be goin’ in cold, will I?” he asked.
    â€œOh no, sir,” the driver replied. “I got one of our fellers to pop round on his beat an’ say you’d be comin’.”
    Woodend smiled gratefully. “Good lad,” he said. “I expect your boss has told you to stick to me like glue, hasn’t he?”
    Constable Bates coloured slightly. “I was . . . er . . . told to offer you all possible assistance, sir.”
    Woodend chuckled. “You’re wasted in the police force, son. The diplomatic service is the place for you. Does this ‘all possible assistance’ include comin’ into the house with me?”
    â€œNot as far as I know, sir. I think that I’m just expected to wait outside for you.”
    â€œI’m not familiar with this area, but I imagine there must be a cafe somewhere near here,” Woodend mused.
    â€œThere is, sir. A bloody good one.”
    â€œHmm,” Woodend said. “I expect to be in that house for half an hour. Now we both know you’re not supposed to go away, but we also both know that if you did, I’d be unlikely to find out about it.”
    The driver smiled. “Thanks, sir.”
    â€œWhat for?” Woodend asked innocently.
    He made his way up a crazy-paving path bordered with flowers, and lifted the highly polished brass knocker on the front door. The man who answered his knock was probably around forty-five years old, but he looked considerably older.
    â€œYou’ll be that detective from London,” the man said.
    â€œThat’s right, Mr Barnes,” Woodend agreed.
    â€œYou’d better come in then.”
    A woman was hovering in the hallway. As with her husband, the strain of the recent days clearly showed in the lines on her face, but she did her best to look welcoming as she introduced herself.
    The grieving parents took Woodend into a front parlour which was probably only ever used for entertaining guests.
    â€œWould you like a cup of tea?” Mrs Barnes asked.
    â€œThat’s most kind of you,” Woodend told her, more because he knew it would help to put her at ease than because he actually wanted a drink.
    Mrs Barnes disappeared through the door, and after a few awkward seconds, her husband muttered something about helping her, and excused himself.
    Left to his own devices, the chief inspector examined the room. The fitted carpet was patterned with red and yellow swirls. There was a piano up against the wall which faced the window, and a fan made of wallpaper in the empty fireplace. Large plaster spaniels gazed at him from the hearth, and souvenir ornaments from Blackpool stood proudly on the mantelpiece. Three plaster ducks of differing sizes – and in full flight – occupied one part of wall opposite the fireplace, and a stylised, sentimental print of a small child with huge eyes filled much of the rest. The place reminded Woodend of his own front room.
    The couple returned, Mr Barnes carrying the tea tray, as if he doubted his wife’s ability to lift it.
    â€œDo sit down. Please,” he said, as he laid the tray carefully down on the coffee table.
    Woodend lowered himself into one of the imitation-leather armchairs, and Mr Barnes plopped down heavily on the sofa opposite him. The tension in the room was so thick it could have been cut up and used to make bricks.
    Mrs Barnes bent down over the coffee table. “Milk and sugar?” she asked Woodend.
    â€œYes, please,” the chief inspector replied. “I’m sorry about your son. I’ve got a kid of my own, not that much younger than your Eddie was, an’ if anythin’ happened to her, I don’t know what I’d do.” He paused. “But