It took a solid thirty seconds of Wendy standing with her finger pressed on the doorbell for Queenie Kinsella to hear it. Once the noise of the vacuum cleaner had finally wound down and she’d trotted over to the door and opened it, Wendy was already wishing she could leave.
‘Queenie Kinsella? I’m Detective Sergeant Wendy Knight and this is—’
‘Detective Sergeant Luke Baxter,’ he added, interrupting.
‘Ah yes, Terri spoke to your friend on the phone earlier. Do come in, won’t you? I’m sorry if I didn’t hear the bell at first,’ she said, continuing to talk as she waddled through into the kitchen. ‘It’s this blasted hoover. Can’t hear a thing over it. Always having to run it round, too. Gets harder and harder to keep a house clean as you get older, see. I thought it’d be easier after my Alf went, but if anything the blasted place has got dirtier. He was always tracking muck through the house, leaving pistons and spark plugs and god knows what in the sink. Mucky bugger, he was.’
‘Must be very difficult,’ Wendy offered.
‘Oh, it’s alright. Wouldn’t have it any other way, I suppose. I’ve got my friends and family and I’ve still got my work. Rare to be able to do what I do at my age, but I’ve always loved it. I love the gossip and the chat, and meeting people. I think that’s what keeps you going. Want a cup of tea?’
‘Please,’ Wendy replied.
Luke, for once, agreed.
‘Not much left in the way of family, mind. There’s only Terri, who you know, and my son, Paul. He owns the shop next door to Terri’s. They pop in whenever they can, but they’re so busy with their work. You know what it’s like, being young people yourself. I suppose that’s why I still work at Terri’s place, in a way. Get to spend time with the both of them. Or at least be in the same place as them, anyway.’
‘Your work, Mrs Kinsella. You work mornings, is that right?’ Wendy asked, trying to steer the conversation.
‘That’s right, love, yes. I usually get there about ten o’clock. The shop opens at nine, but get there a bit later as I like to watch my morning telly. Plus I can only really do about three or so hours a day, so if I get there at nine I’d have to be gone by twelve and a lot of my customers can only make it on their lunch breaks, see. Busy old world.’
Even though Wendy was doing her best to direct the conversation, Luke Baxter’s backside had barely touched the kitchen chair before he’d jumped in and tried to take control.
‘Do you know your clients well?’ he asked.
‘Some of them, yes. We have a good old natter most of the time. I think a lot of them feel like they can talk to me, you know. An older person. The voice of experience, maybe,’ Queenie said, breaking off into a laugh which sounded more like a cackle.
I’m surprised they can get a word in edgeways, Wendy thought. Before she could say anything, Baxter had jumped in again.
‘Are these women customers of yours?’ he said, taking four photographs out of his inside jacket pocket and putting them down on the table, forcing Queenie to put down the sugar jar and trot over to take a look.
‘Ooh, yes. All of them. Nice girls. Troubled, but then isn’t everybody?’
‘Do you know their names?’ Wendy asked, getting in before Luke.
‘I know everyone’s name, love,’ Queenie replied. ‘You don’t do a job like mine in a town like this without knowing everyone. That drunk looking one is Lindsay. Lindsay Scott, I think. No, Stott. Yes, with a T. The one there is Keira Quinn. Nice Irish name. Always remember that. She doesn’t come in that often, though. Same with this one. Another Irish name, I think. Roche. Emma Roche.’ She chuckled as she picked up the final photograph. ‘Ah, yes. Marla Collingwood. She practically lives in the shop. One of our more regular customers. Lovely lady.’
‘Mrs Kinsella, I’m afraid Keira Quinn and Lindsay Stott died a few weeks back,’ Wendy said.
‘Oh, I know that, love. I might be old, but I’m not senile. I seen the papers like everyone else.’
‘You just don’t seem too shocked, that’s all.’
‘What, after a month and a half? Sweetie, I’m eighty-four next month. I’ve seen my fair share of death. Takes a lot to faze me.’
‘Did you not find it a bit odd that two of your customers died within a few days of each other?’ Wendy asked.
‘Not especially, no. It happens. We have hundreds of customers. Probably more. Want a drop of brandy in your tea, love?’ she said, gesturing to Luke.
‘No thanks. I must ask you to keep this confidential for now, but Emma Roche and Marla Collingwood also died recently.’
Wendy shot Luke an icy glare. This had not been discussed or authorised. Knowing Queenie Kinsella’s loose tongue, it was highly unlikely that what he’d just told her was going to stay within these four walls.
‘Oh. Well that is a terrible shame. And all so young. Tell me, were the other two murdered as well?’
Wendy tried to hold Luke’s eye contact as if to say Don’t commit to anything.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Luke replied.
‘Oh. Well your lot are going to be busy, then, aren’t you?’ Queenie replied. ‘By my reckoning, that makes it a serial killer. I seen some programmes on it.’
‘It does, yes,’ Luke said.
‘We’re not certain the deaths are connected yet,’ Wendy interjected. ‘We’re still investigating. But we’re looking for links. And as you know, all four women were customers of yours so we needed to speak to you to find out more about them and what might link them.’
‘Well, I don’t know, love,’ the old woman replied, sitting down and stirring her tea. ‘I mean, they were all nice girls. Troubled. Maybe something caught up with them.’
‘How do you mean?’ Wendy asked.
‘Well they all liked a drink, for starters. But who doesn’t?’ She cackled again. ‘They weren’t your typical office workers, if you see what I mean.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t,’ Baxter replied, pressing Queenie for more detail.
‘Let’s just say that I know at least two of them used to work as ladies of the night, so to speak. Not your usual grotty kind. Private work, I mean. That Marla used to drink a lot. Sometimes she would’ve been in the pub all morning before coming in. I don’t know where she got her money. She’d spend a fair packet in our shop, to be fair. I think she tried to paper over the cracks, if you see what I mean. And that Emma’d had trouble. Apparently her husband had been a bit of a wrong’un. They’d broken up and he’d buggered off back to Ireland, thank God.’
‘You seem to know a lot about them,’ Wendy said.
‘Oh yes. You get to hear about all sorts of people’s problems in my job. I think that’s why a lot of people get their hair cut so often. It’s not the hairdo they want, it’s the shoulder to lean on. You get some right sorts come through our shop. All sorts of life stories. It’d amaze you, it really would. One woman, right, called Amanda, she comes in probably about once a month or so. Lives down on the Hampton Road. Now she used to be a bloke called Derek. Get that! None so queer as folk.’
It struck Wendy that Queenie’s loose tongue might perhaps have done more damage than she realised.