‘Jeff? Dead? Well, it was to be expected, I suppose. He was a very sick man.’
‘He was, Mrs Hibbert.’
‘Call me Helen. I’ve never liked being called Mrs Hibbert. Makes me sound like his mother.’ She took a deep breath, a mouthful of vodka and tonic. ‘And God, that’s one thing I never wanted to be like.’ Helen Hibbert shuddered at the thought.
Jessie James couldn’t see this woman as anyone’s mother. She would hate the competition for attention. In the car on the way over to Jeff Hibbert’s estranged wife’s flat, Jessie had put forward her version of what Helen Hibbert would be like. It was a game she often played with Deepak, a way to get him not to rely on profiles and generics, make his own mind up, think laterally, outside the box. She sometimes tried to make it competitive, put a bit of money on it, see whose description was closest. Loser bought lunch. He hardly ever bit. It didn’t stop Jessie from trying, though.
‘I reckon she’ll be like him,’ Jessie had said. ‘Middle-aged, dumpy. Short hair, cut like a bloke. Big lumpen face. Like a farmer’s wife. Or a farmer. Kitted out in Barbour’s finest.’
Deepak, driving, had surprised her by volunteering an opinion. ‘Dead wrong,’ he had said.
Jessie smiled, genuinely curious now. ‘Makes you say that?’
‘You’re thinking in terms of generics,’ he said. ‘Letting prejudices get in the way.’ He gave her a quick glance. ‘Ma’am.’
‘Oh, am I now? Well, what’s your highly individual, non-prejudiced opinion, then?’
‘Younger than him, definitely.’
‘You reckon?’
‘And blonde.’
‘Why blonde?’
‘You asked for my opinion, ma’am. I think blonde. But not necessarily naturally.’
‘Obviously.’
‘She’ll be more outgoing, more flashy than him. He’ll have had a hard time keeping up with her.’
‘Really? And on what do you base these non-prejudicial assumptions, then?’
‘Police work, ma’am. Their house has seen better days. So had their marriage. What ornaments there are in the place were quite expensive at one time. A woman’s taste, not a man’s.’
‘Not my taste.’
‘Or mine. But someone liked them enough to buy them. I think she’s got big blonde hair, dresses flashily, spends a lot on make-up, beauty treatments, that kind of thing.’
‘Because that’s the kind of woman who would buy those ornaments?’
Deepak nodded. ‘Are we betting lunch on this?’ A small smile played on his lips.
I’m encouraging my junior officer, she thought. It’s my job. ‘Why not?’
Deepak had been spot on. The flat was along Common Quay, in the newly gentrified waterfront area of Ipswich. She had buzzed them up when they told her they were police officers and it concerned her husband, held their warrant cards up to the video entryphone to prove who they were.
In the lift, Jessie had smiled at Deepak. ‘Doing well so far … ’
Once inside, Jessie realised immediately that she owed Deepak lunch. Helen Hibbert had deliberately arranged herself for their visit. She sat in the corner of her flat, one tanned leg crossing the other, a view of the Ipswich waterfront behind her, as if she was, literally, above all that. She was perfectly made up, her nails just manicured. Jessie imagined her nails always looked just manicured. Her dress and shoes were designer, Jessie noted, and, as Deepak had said, she was blonde. Her face, like her body, was composed. Helen Hibbert had been younger than her husband but not by much. It was clear that, despite all the treatments she had received, her skin was loosening, the crow’s feet were lengthening and it probably took her longer each day to keep looking as she did. Time was catching her up.
She had offered them drinks, gesturing to her own sparkling vodka tonic.
‘I know you might think it’s early, but really, it doesn’t matter. It’s cocktail hour somewhere in the world.’
Jessie had told her about her husband and how they had found him dead. And Helen Hibbert had performed a near note-perfect grieving widow act.
‘Poor Jeff.’ A sigh. ‘Poor, poor Jeff … ’
Poor is right, thought Jessie, thinking of the squalor he had lived and died in. Must have been some divorce settlement.
‘There was something about his death,’ said Jessie, as airily as possible.
Helen Hibbert’s eyes narrowed. Became beady, shrewd. She stared at Jessie as if her words were about to make her lose money. ‘What d’you mean? He had cancer.’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Jessie. ‘But that didn’t kill him. He was murdered.’
She watched the woman, registering, recording her reactions. Helen Hibbert seemed genuinely shocked. Appalled, even. Jessie tried to read all the conflicting emotions that ran across the woman’s eyes. She couldn’t find empathy.
‘Did … What happened?’
‘An intruder, as far as we can see,’ said Deepak, leaning forward. ‘Perhaps he didn’t expect to find anyone in. Perhaps … ’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps they struggled. Jeff lost. We don’t know. Yet.’
‘Is there anything you can tell us, Mrs Hibbert?’
‘Like what?’
‘Did he have any enemies? Was he in debt? Did he owe money? Would someone have robbed him, killed him, over money?’
‘He was robbed?’
Deepak again. ‘We think robbery may have been the motive.’
‘What did they take?’
‘We’re not sure,’ said Jessie. ‘Perhaps it would help if you could give us an inventory of his belongings.’
‘I don’t know what he had.’
‘A laptop, for instance?’
Helen Hibbert’s eyes narrowed once more. Something was going on there, but Jessie couldn’t work out what.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I have no idea.’
Jessie and Deepak shared a look. Jessie tried again. ‘Did he … ’ They heard a sound from another room. Jessie looked quizzically at Helen Hibbert. ‘Someone else here?’
‘A friend,’ she said, eyes darting to the door. ‘Been staying over.’ She stood up. ‘I think I’ve answered enough questions for one day. This has been very traumatic for me. Please leave now.’
Jessie tried to talk to her again, but the shutters had come down.
Outside on the pavement, with gulls wheeling about in the fresh spring air, Jessie stared up at the flat.
‘I hate being lied to,’ she said. ‘And we were being lied to. Question is, about what, and why?’
Deepak nodded. ‘That’s two questions, technically.’
‘Pedant.’ She turned to him. ‘Anyway, I owe you lunch. Well done.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘Non-prejudicial profiling. Works well.’
He walked towards the car, a smile emerging on his face. ‘And I saw a photo of her in his wallet.’
‘You bastard … ’ Jessie followed. Smiling.