The Widow

The cab journey takes a long time. A younger me would have sat there with my guts twisting, thinking of that meter ticking. All those pennies trickling away. I'll say this for being the wrong side of forty: you really do give fewer shits. Sometimes, something needs doing, and thats all there is to it.

The driver pulls over, I pay up and get out.

It's a nice, tidy house in the suburbs. Big, neat garden. Some enormous dog woofing inside. I ghost up the path and knock.

The woman who answers the door looks like grieving widows everywhere. People say everyone grieves differently. Well, they're full of shit. I've seen enough grief in my time. I've taken my turn informing the next of kin. Death devestates you.

She lifts her chin and says,

"Can I help you?"

I almost put my flat, leaking size nines init right then. I nearly open with, "Mickey said..." He told me not to do that.

I take off my hat, and try again.

"I'm Mickey's old partner." I say by way of introduction.

"Oh!" Something in her face clears, like understanding is settling on it.

"I heard about your sad news," I say. "I'm sorry for your loss." The platitude doesn't taste any better this time.

Tears are threatening to spill from her eyes, and I feel indecent looking at them. I distract her with the obligation to be hospitable.

"May I come in?"

"Oh, of course," she says, and moves aside.

She leads me through to a comfortable, if dated, sitting room, and offers me tea. I accept gravely, having slipped into dealing with next of kin mode. Old training has taken over.

The dog is still barking. It's even bigger than I expected. It looks like a German Shepherd, if a German Shepherd was crossed with a wolf and a bear.

It's boring in this dull, chintzy room by myself, with that damn dog staring at me. My feet squelch on the thick carpet. Maybe I should have taken my shoes off in the hallway? Yesterday's socks, soaked in rainwater. Sure that'd smell delightful.

When she comes back with a tray, it rattles, belying her composure.

"You knew my Michael on the force, then?" She puts it down on the table.

"Yes. He spoke fondly of you." Why did I say that? Grief is a yawing chasm for morons to throw pebbles into.

Until he showed up in my decrepit office late last night, we hadn't spoken in years. He'd hardly said a word about her when I saw him this morning.

She's busy doing something or other with sugar tongs. The dog has stopped barking, finally, and now he's pacing to and fro, still staring at me, huge ears pricked forward.

She hands me a slice of cake, and I'm grateful. Not only because it's my breakfast, but also because this gives me something to get my teeth into while I think of a way to tactfully bring up the case I want her to want me to investigate. I'm cursing my old partner for giving me so little information. Who has been murdered? Is it the same person she's grieving for?

In the end, I blurt it out, just like that.

Look. I said I'd done my time and received some training. That doesn't mean I was any good at it.

The widow goes pale.

"I thought you said you knew Michael, " She's gone dead pale, and her voice shakes.

"I do. I mean. I did. A long time ago. I heard you'd experienced a loss, and I wanted to help."

Are all old coppers lying bastards like me?

She pulls out a hanky and dabs at her tears. Seems she feels as awkward displaying them as I feel seeing them.

"It's Michael," she says, openly crying now. "It's Michael that's d... di..."

I feel the blood drain from my face.

"Oh f... God, I'm so sorry,"

I must be going insane. That's the only explanation. Clinically, criminally insane.

"When did it happen?"

"Last night..." She tells me how he never came to bed. She thought he'd fallen asleep at his desk again, so she went to his study and... Each detail brings a fresh wave of tears.

So we were both asleep at our desks last night...

That bastard dog is sitting up now, still staring at me.

Definitely insane.

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