Local Poet_He Killed Her, but Who Was She? by Paul Trembling

Author:Paul Trembling [Trembling, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, Suspense
ISBN: 9781782642305
Goodreads: 32592919
Publisher: Lion Hudson Plc
Published: 2016-10-21T00:00:00+00:00

There was only one Willdyne Street in England, according to all the search engines I’d tried, and it was ten minutes’ walk from the library. A quiet suburban backwater no different from hundreds of others – except that Laney Grey had once called it home.

It hadn’t changed much from the description in her poem. The street name had been relocated and was now twenty feet up on the wall. It hadn’t kept it from being defaced in just the same way as its predecessors. The “d”, the “n”, and the “e” had been spray-painted out, no doubt to the vast amusement of the kids who did it. Old jokes don’t die; they are just disinterred and resurrected by each new generation.

The corner shop had reopened as a mini-market. But the rest of the street seemed unchanged. Even number 15 still had its blue door and brass knocker, with a doorbell to the side.

I used the knocker.

There was a long pause, during which I debated knocking again or hurrying away. Before I came to a decision, a lock clicked and the door opened a short distance. There was a chain on it, I saw, and not far above the chain a clear brown eye.

“Is that the police again?” An old lady’s voice, warm with Caribbean tones but shaded with apprehension.

“No, I’m not the police.” It must have been a copper who had told her about Laney. Perhaps she feared that there was more bad news; I hastened to reassure her. “I only want to talk with you for a minute. You won’t know me, but my name’s Robert Seaton.”

There was a pause while the eye looked me up and down. “I do know you, boy.” The door closed, the chain rattled off, and it opened again, but wider.

She was a small woman, not much over five feet high and fine boned with it. Or you might say skinny, if you were being blunt. Neat dark clothing, dark wrinkled skin beneath crinkled grey hair, and a gentle smile that I couldn’t understand if she was a relative of Laney’s and if she did know who I was. I felt it had to be spelled out, in case some misunderstanding now made things worse later on. “I’m the person who was driving the van that –”

She stopped me with a raised hand. “The van that killed Laney. Yes, I know. I’m Roshawn Skerrit. Her grandmother. You’d better come in, Mr Seaton.”

She led the way into the room next to the front door. It was as small and neat as she was herself, though with a slightly formal feel to it. As with many people in this part of town, she probably did most of her living in the kitchen and dining room at the back of the house, reserving the “living” room for special guests and formal occasions.

Paradoxically, this made me feel more at ease, since I’d been raised in a similar tradition. I wasn’t surprised when she announced that she was going to make some tea, without asking if I would like any.

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