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questions but it had already been made clear that Janine would not be answering any questions after the official statemen t.  She nodded by way of thanks, turned and followed Millie out of the room.

Chapter 4
     
    Butchers, on door-to-door, had spoken first to the Palfreys at number 14, across the driveway from the empty house where the body had been found.  They had reported the flood but had absolutely nothing else to offer, though they were helpful as could be.  Both retired local government workers, they were distressed at the events unfolding on their doorstep and appeared guilty that they hadn’t seen or heard anything untoward that Butchers could write down.
    Second on his list were t he Staffords number 18, the property adjoining the house.  It was mid-afternoon and Butchers knocked several times before the door was opened by a middle aged man with a monk’s tonsure and a sour look on his face.  The householder was in pyjamas. 
    ‘ What?’ he demanded.
    ‘ Mr Ken Stafford?  DS Butchers, you’re aware of the incident nextdoor?’
    ‘ Yes.’
    ‘ We’re interviewing everyone in the vicinity,’ Butchers said.
    ‘ Can’t help you.  I didn’t see anything.’ Ken Stafford shut the door.
    Butchers f elt a flare of impatience.  Mardy-arse.  They’d a little kiddie dead in the house next-door and this idiot was being awkward about talking to the police.
    Butchers hammered a tattoo on the door again, twice.  He wasn’t going anywhere until he’d got what he came for.
    With a show of irritation, Ken Stafford let him in.
    Inside , the living room was cluttered and dusty.  The video game cases littering the carpet in front of the TV and console and a pair of battered skater-boy shoes in the middle of the room suggested a teenager lived there too.
    Butchers took in the photos, also dusty, on the wall.  Mum, dad and child, a boy.
    ‘ Can I talk to your wife, as well?’ Butchers said.
    Ken Stafford took his time replying, ‘She died.’
    Butchers cleared his throat, ‘Sorry.’  He indicated the photos.  ‘And the boy?’
    ‘ Luke, at school.’
    ‘ You say you’ve not seen anything suspicious.’ Butchers opened his notebook.  ‘What about regular comings and goings?’
    The man shrugged, no.
    ‘ Neighbours, builders?’
    ‘ Builders, that’s a joke,’ Ken Stafford said caustically.  ‘Permanent go-slow.  Don’t see them for days then they turn up at the crack of dawn.  I work nights.  But they don’t give a toss.’
    ‘ Can you remember when you last saw them?’ Butchers said.
    ‘ A week ago.  The Monday, McEvoy was around.  Is that it?’
    There was a noise from the hall and someone came in, shutting the door so hard the whole house rattled.
    The lad stood in the doorway, slight, skinny, dark hair , he’d piercings on his face among the angry-looking acne.  ‘Luke?’ said Butchers.
    ‘ The police,’ Ken Stafford said, ‘want to know if we saw anything.’
    Luke Stafford shrugged. ‘No,’ he said, ‘just the coppers and that this morning.’
    Butchers spent another ten minutes with the Staffords but made no further progress, nothing he could take back to the inquiry.  They were both miserable buggers, the lad you could understand, embarrassed at that age to be asked anything, but the father Ken, curt and short-tempered, just seemed bitter.  ‘If you do remember anything,’ Butchers said, as he was leaving, ‘seeing anything, hearing anything in the last ten days, please let us know.’
    ‘ Is it Sammy Wray?’ the kid said, his face flaming red, when Butchers moved to the hallway. 
    ‘ Waiting to confirm identity,’ Butchers said.  The standard reply.
     
    Work at Kendal Avenue was being carried out by a local builder Donny McEvoy and his mate Joe Breeley.  Donny McEvoy had come out to the site when the flood was reported and had been there when the body was recovered.  He’d left details where he could be contacted with the