Page 65 of Making a Killing

‘Sounds good.’

She beams. ‘In that case,avanti, Asante.’

***

Gislingham has to knock three times but the door is eventually opened by a woman. She looks forty-five but he reckons she’s probably only late thirties. And she could take most of those extra years off easily enough if she made any sort of effort, but she looks too tired to give a shit. She’s in sweat shorts and a T-shirt without a bra, her hair scraped up tight in a high ponytail, revealing two inches of dark roots. Predictable: Barry Mason always went for the same type when it came to women – blonde and buxom. As far as Gis can see, all three of his partners have had to resort to bleach for the former, but this woman certainly doesn’t need any artificial assistance when it comes to the latter. In fact, he thinks, making sure to focus on her face, a little scaffolding in that department wouldn’t go amiss.

‘Yeah, what?’

Gis flashes his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Chris Gislingham, Detective Constable Sarah Stillwell. We’re looking for Barry Mason – I believe he lives here?’

She folds her arms. ‘What do you want Baz for? He ain’t done anything.’

‘We’re not saying he has, Miss –?’

‘Linda.MsLinda Dunlop. This is my house.’

Stillwell tries a smile. ‘There really isn’t anything to worry about, Ms Dunlop. We just need to talk to him for a few minutes.’

The woman eyes them for a moment, openly hostile.

‘On the other hand,’ says Gis jovially, ‘if he’d prefer to come to the local police station, I’m sure they have a room we can use.’

Her eyes narrow. ‘So where are you lot from, then?’

No flies on her, evidently.

‘We’re Thames Valley, Ms Dunlop. Based in Oxford, which is where –’

‘– Barry used to live. Yeah, I know.’

She stares at them for a moment, then evidently decides that anything to do with Oxford is before her time and therefore no skin off her nose either way. She sighs. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’

There’s the sound of music thudding from the floor above as they make their way through to the kitchen along a dingy passageway piled the whole length with builders’ clutter. Bags of mortar, tins of paint, random lengths of wood. Gis remembers the house in Oxford: no crap like this there – Sharon would have thrown a fit. And in any case, Barry ran his own show back then – he probably never got his hands dirty. In any sense.

The door at the far end’s been taken off, and there’s a red-and-blue bead curtain hanging in its place. Gis has never seen one of those outside old TV sitcoms. The kitchen looks like it’s in the midst of a refit – half the walls are bare plaster, tiles are stacked in one corner and there are flat-pack cupboards still in their plastic leaning against the washing machine. The garden is paved over, but the dandelions are going gangbusters between the cracks.

‘Doing the place up?’ asks Stillwell brightly, looking around.

The woman sighs. ‘It’s been like this since bloody Christmas. Bathroom’s the same. He starts things then can’t be arsed to finish ’em. Drives me up the bloody wall.’

Gis can see from Stillwell’s face that she has more than a mite of sympathy for Dunlop there. Janet would too, as Gis well knows. Definitely a woman thing.

‘Is Mr Mason home?’

Dunlop goes to the fridge and pulls out a can of lager, then flicks a finger down towards the garden.

‘He’s in the shed. Probably looking at porn.’

Gis shoots a glance at Stillwell. Hardly an auspicious start, all things considered. Maybe Dunlop doesn’t know what Barry did time for? Surely she’d never have said that so casually if she did.

She’s watching them now, cradling her tinny. ‘You didn’t think I knew, did you?’

‘Knew what, Ms Dunlop?’

‘That he’d been banged up. And why.’ She stands up a little straighter. ‘Well, I do. I also know he didn’t do itandwho did. If he wants to go down there and look at that stuff that’s fine by me – keeps him out of my hair. And if you’re wonderingwhathe’s looking at, it’ll be bog-standard tits-and-arse with maybe the odd threesome thrown in. Trust me, there’s nothing pervy about Barry.’

There’s not much you can say to that, thinks Gis, who doesn’t even try. He just nods towards the garage, ‘Mind if we go and have a word?’

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