Dying Bad by Maureen Carter

fifty would be Caroline’s guess. The greying pageboy wasn’t flattering and the deep lines etched into a gaunt sallow face couldn’t all be down to laughter. ‘You must be Mrs Hunter? Isobel?’
    â€˜That’s right.’ Suitably unassuming Caroline shook hands, made eye contact, took in the woman’s black slacks, grey fleece, pearl earrings. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Mrs Hemming.’ The reporter had flattened her vowels a tad and once she’d caught more of the woman’s delivery, she’d aim to match that too.
    â€˜Come through. I was about to make tea.’ Slim and slight, Alice Hemming could pass as a teenager from the back. Over her shoulder, she called out with an over-bright comment, ‘You’ll have to take us as you find us.’ Why did people always feel the need to say that kind of stuff? Caroline didn’t care if houses were dives as long she came up with something. That said, from what she saw the place did need a little TLC. Décor was tired, paintwork chipped, skirting boards scuffed. Money could be tight, she supposed. Or interior design not a priority. A piano was being played downstairs somewhere, thick hardbacks lined two of the hall’s walls and baking smells wafting from the kitchen were to die for.
    â€˜You look younger than I expected.’ Mrs Hemming flashed a polite smile as she indicated one of six high stools round a breakfast bar. ‘I’ll pop the kettle on then just finish off here if you don’t mind?’
    â€˜Of course.’ Caroline had a quick nose round while the woman busied herself at one of the work surfaces. ‘It’s good of you to give me your time.’ The L-shaped room was red tiles and terracotta, old pine and copper pans, light glinted off nine or ten serious looking knives clinging to a magnet on the far wall. Two loaves cooled on a tray, Mrs Hemming walked to the Aga carrying tins with two more. ‘Wow!’ Caroline gushed. ‘You make your own bread?’
    â€˜Well spotted.’ The barb was deserved, but her half smile softened the sting.
    â€˜Sorry. That wasn’t the brightest remark.’ Caroline gave a sheepish grin. The dumb question had been deliberate, a delaying tactic and a diversion.
    Straightening from the range, Mrs Hemming leaned against the rail, arms folded. ‘How old did you say your daughter is?’
    Glad that worked.
Caroline would’ve preferred a bit of bonding before getting down to business. ‘Fifteen . . . the same as Amy.’ Though Mrs Hemming’s only daughter was just thirteen when Ram took her on what could be called her first ride. After nine months’ forced unprotected sex with numerous strangers, Amy had her first abortion. A tame social worker had helped Caroline with the homework: apparently the Hemmings’ marriage was in trouble; he’d now moved out, lived in a bedsit; three sons were away at uni.
    â€˜Is this her?’ Caroline asked. The school photograph on the fridge showed a little girl with blonde pigtails, blue eyes, shy smile. ‘So pretty.’
    â€˜It’s an old photo.’ Mrs Hemming ran fingers through her bob. ‘She’s . . . grown since then.’
    â€˜Is Amy here, Mrs Hemming?’
    She paused a few seconds, head tilted. ‘That’s her on the piano.’ It sounded like a Beatles’ song to Caroline. Odd choice for a teenager, Amy was a mean player though. ‘It’s the first time she’s touched it . . .’
Since Ram got his hands on her?
Whatever was on Mrs Hemming’s mind, she didn’t voice it. ‘I’ll get that drink.’ With her back to Caroline she said, ‘I’d rather we talk first before seeing if Amy wants to meet you. She’s been through . . . a lot.’ That was one way of putting it. Hell and back another.
    â€˜Of course. I understand.’
    â€˜Do you?’ She cast a withering glance over her