The Cellar by John Nicholl

Author:John Nicholl [Nicholl, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books

18

Detective Sergeant Raymond Lewis had made an effort with his appearance. He sometimes did when he thought the situation demanded, although it was the exception rather than the rule since his wife’s leaving years before. Interviewing the wife of the serving local member of parliament, he’d decided, probably warranted the best of him. The chief constable had said as much in that oh-so-insistent way of hers. He didn’t appreciate the feedback one little bit as he stood in her overlarge office taking orders, but he acted on it, anyway. Policing was a top-down profession. There was no point in an argument he couldn’t win. Within reason, he’d do what he was told, anything for an easy life.

Lewis had shaved with a wet razor and soap in the police station’s men’s toilets, something he usually reserved for court appearances. He’d put on a clean shirt he kept hanging in his locker, albeit creased, and he’d added an old red polyester rugby-club tie to the mix, pulled loose at the collar. There was a fat stain on the tie halfway down, the remnants of a fried breakfast in the police canteen, but he ignored it. It was hardly noticeable unless you looked closely, which was good enough for him. He’d even considered polishing his well-worn brown leather shoes, something he hadn’t done for months, but in the end, he’d decided against it, cleaning them with a moist toilet wipe instead. There were limits to what was necessary, even when working with the toffs.

The DS knocked on the Williams’s front door with gradually increasing force until he saw the silhouette of a woman he correctly assumed to be Myra Williams rushing down the hall. There was a stiffness to her movements, as if she was struggling with the effort. Lewis was already holding his warrant card up in plain sight when she opened the door. The sound of classical music floated out from somewhere inside the house. He thought it might be Beethoven, but he wasn’t sure, and he didn’t ask. Eighties rock was more his style. He returned his identification to the inside pocket of his well-worn tweed jacket when she didn’t choose to look at it. Very few people ever did.

‘Good afternoon, my name’s Detective Sergeant Raymond Lewis, West Wales Police.’

She spoke with urgency, rushing her words.

‘Please come on in, Sergeant – I’ve been expecting you. My husband mentioned you’d be contacting me at some point today. Thank you for coming. I’m just making a hot drink – would you like one?’

He followed her back down the hall towards a large modern family kitchen located at the rear of the house. There were two double-glazed windows to either side of matching patio doors with a leafy garden view.

‘Call me Ray. There’s no need for formalities.’ It was something he often said to witnesses, never to suspects. ‘And yes, thank you. A hot drink would be lovely.’

Myra switched on a stainless steel kettle on a light oak worktop next to the cooker before turning to face him.

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