‘Well, you could ask DS Khan. He’s got to be somewhere around – or maybe you can call him.’ Hawthorne tried to look sympathetic. ‘We’ve already spoken to Lynda Kenworthy and to your neighbour, Roderick Browne.’
Hawthorne had mentioned enough names to persuade her. ‘I can only give you ten minutes,’ she said. ‘I have to pick up my children from playgroup at two.’
‘We won’t need any more time with you than that,’ Hawthorne assured her.
Gardener’s Cottage was misnamed. There might have been a cottage here in the eighteenth century when a gardener had been employed to look after the extensive grounds of Rievaulx Hall, but what had replaced it was hardly a cottage, more a sizeable family house. The front door opened into a hallway that had almost too much space, with a high ceiling and a cantilevered staircase leading up to a galleried landing. The style was a tasteful mix of modern and traditional: glass panels hemming in the stairs, exposed beams in the walls. Everything seemed neat and ordered until she led them into the kitchen, which told the real story of the Beresfords’ home with its piles of unwashed dishes, the toys, dolls and children’s clothes everywhere, the Marks & Spencer ready meals defrosting on the counter, the unwatered plants flopping in their pots and unpaid bills stacked up beside the toaster.
Gemma Beresford waved them both to a solid farmhouse table. Dudley rested his elbows in front of him, then removed them when he realised they had lightly stuck themselves to the surface.
‘You’ll have to forgive the mess,’ she said. Her voice was low and husky. ‘This has been quite a week and I’m not even talking about the murder. Our cleaning lady hasn’t been in. She says she’s depressed. Honestly! You’re not allowed to question mental health issues these days, but it’s getting beyond a joke. And we don’t have our nanny either.’
‘What’s happened to her?’ Dudley asked.
‘Nothing. Kylie’s a wonderful girl and she keeps the whole ship running. That’s what the children call her. Captain Kylie! Her room’s at the top of the house . . . like a crow’s-nest.’ She looked at the mess all around her. ‘You can see for yourself what it’s like when she’s not here. She was called away at the weekend.’
‘What happened?’
‘When she joined us – that was two years ago – she was doing part-time work for a charity and she didn’t want to leave it. Age UK.’
‘Old people,’ Hawthorne muttered helpfully.
‘Yes. She’s one of their volunteers and she’s befriended a very elderly lady in Hampton Wick. That’s just a few miles from here. Anyway – would you believe it – on Sunday evening, Marsha was attacked. That’s her name. Marsha Clarke. It’s absolutely shocking. She’s eighty-five years old, but someone was waiting outside her house and hit her with a baton or something and now she’s in Kingston Hospital. But the thing is, she has three cats and absolutely nobody to support her. Social services were no use, so Kylie agreed to stay in her house and look after the animals until Marsha is well enough to come home. Goodness knows how long that will be. But that’s typical of Kylie. She’s from Australia and has no relatives over here. I suppose she sees Marsha as a sort of grandmother figure.’
All of this had come out in a rush, as if Gemma had been desperately waiting to tell someone – anyone – about her misfortunes.
‘That’s why I have to collect the children,’ she added, glancing at her watch. ‘They hate it when we’re late.’
‘How old are your kids?’ Dudley asked.
‘They’re twins. Claire and Lucy. They’re four.’
‘Did Marsha Clarke have money on her when she was attacked?’ Hawthorne asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Gemma was puzzled by the question.
‘I was just wondering about the motive.’
‘I don’t think she had any money taken from her. The police think it may have been racially motivated. Marsha is a woman of colour.’
Dudley scribbled the information into his notebook. ‘So right now you’re on your own,’ he said.
‘Well, my husband, Tom, will be back this evening. He’s a GP. He works in Richmond.’
‘How is your husband?’ Hawthorne asked. He sounded genuinely concerned.
‘He’s very tired. He’s overworked. But he’s well. He’s fine.’
‘I understand he often argued with Giles Kenworthy. In fact, I’ve been told that just a short while ago, he threatened to kill him.’
Gemma Beresford blushed, the colour visible even under her make-up. ‘Who told you that?’ she demanded.
‘Is it true?’ Hawthorne countered.
‘It’s true about the parking. Giles Kenworthy was extraordinarily inconsiderate. Quite apart from his camper van, which is an eyesore and never goes anywhere, he had four cars: a Porsche, a Mercedes, some sort of American thing and a Mini Cooper. Who needs four cars in this day and age? His garage only had space for two of them, so he often parked outside, blocking us in. When I came out just now, I was checking to make sure the driveway was clear. He may not be here any more, but I’ve got into the habit.’
‘Did it make your husband very angry?’
