The Dead Can't Speak by M. A. Comley

Author:M. A. Comley [Comley, M. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Crime
ISBN: 9781090747471
Google: eilJwwEACAAJ
Publisher: Independently Published
Published: 2019-03-18T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Nearly an hour and a half later, the satnav had directed them to a small mid-terraced house in a cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Birmingham. Sara had debated passing the chore over to the local force but had decided against it, preferring to deal with the parents herself. She needed answers, the type you couldn’t rely on another force that wasn’t wrapped up in the case, to provide.

Sara swallowed down her anxiety as she and Carla approached the tiny house. The front garden had no lawn. It consisted of mostly grey slate and dotted here and there with plants that needed very little care to look after, such as different varieties of grasses. Isn’t that what Japanese folk call a Zen garden? Whether it was Japanese or Chinese, it got Sara thinking about what to do with her own garden in the summer. It wasn’t as if she needed a lawn for a dog; she didn’t intend ever getting one of those, not with the hours she worked. It wouldn’t be fair on the poor animal.

“Are you okay?” Carla asked, ringing the bell to the side of the front door.

“Sorry, miles away. A welcome distraction for what lies ahead.”

Carla nodded her understanding. They listened to the safety chain being attached before the front door eased open. A tiny woman peered through the four-inch gap.

“Hello?” she asked, her accent oriental.

Sara poked her ID through the gap so the woman could study it closely. She handed it back and closed the door, removed the chain and opened it. She bowed, adding a glimmer of an uncertain smile.

“I’m DI Sara Ramsey, and this is DS Carla Jameson. Would it be possible to come in and see you for a few moments, Mrs Ming?”

The woman nodded, bared her yellow teeth and stood back behind the door. Carla and Sara stepped into the hallway and waited for her to show them into a room. The house smelt like a Chinese takeaway. It was nearing lunchtime—had they disturbed her dinner?

“Come,” she motioned with her withered hand for them to join her as she walked through the house to the back room.

There they found a tiny, dated kitchen. Sara reckoned the cupboards hadn’t been replaced since back in the sixties.

“You sit. I make tea.”

“Mrs Ming, there’s no need for you to do that. Please, take a seat. Do you speak much English?”

“English, yes, I like English. Love England. Living here, all I wanted as child.”

Sara pondered going any further seeing the woman’s level of English sounded restrictive. “Do you have a husband, Mrs Ming?”

“No. Husband died, many years past.”

“Any other relatives living with you perhaps?” Sara knew that foreign families tended to be larger than British ones. Their cultures ensured their elderly were cared for properly in later life. She put Mrs Ming at around sixty-five, possibly older.

The woman bared her yellow teeth again and nodded. “My son. He good son. He live here, too.”

“Is he here now?”

She shook her head, the smile evaporating for an instant.

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