Dying to Know by Keith McCarthy

having their entertainment provided for free, because they could be fairly confident that, merely by looking out of their front-room windows at the right time, they would see something that would keep them talking and reminiscing for many hours. His car alone – a bright-red Hillman Avenger that sounded less like a means of road transportation and more like a Lancaster Bomber with smoker’s cough – told you that here was no normal human being; when one added in the fact that he suffered from recurrent bouts of lunacy in which he indulged in various obsessions, then they need never be bored again.
    It wouldn’t have been so bad, had it not been Pollards Hill. Every town has a Pollards Hill; it’s the place that, when you’re young, your parents talk about in hushed tones, a place to aspire to when you’re living in an end of terrace two-up, two-down and life’s a bit of a drag. Such places are always infested with huge numbers of retired dentists, solicitors, chiropractors and military men, and these are people who can glower, tut-tut, head-shake and whisper like no others. They frequently had opportunity to do this with my father in their midst, but, that afternoon, the circus had really come to town.
    They assembled in small groups and couples, some just outside their front doors, some by their front gates, and boy did they gawp. Just looking around as I walked along the road from where I had parked the car, just behind a baker’s van (there were so many police cars I could barely get within a hundred yards of the house), I saw so much prurience, so much naked nosiness, so much desire for scandal, I could smell it in the air, as if the drains had overflowed.
    I made my presence known to a policewoman who was standing at the garden gate next to Dad’s looking bored. She wasn’t about to let me in, but she signalled to a colleague who, in turn, went through the open door of the house. Masson appeared shortly afterwards to beckon me in. As I walked along the path, I waved and tried an unconvincing smile at Leslie and Jasmine who were standing, hand in hand, peering over the decrepit wooden fence that separated their property from Dad’s.
    In the hallway, Masson asked, ‘How’s your father?’
    â€˜Not good. He’s being transferred to Atkinson-Morley; they may operate.’
    Masson nodded and actually looked genuinely sad.
    Like my father’s house, the hallway we were in was large but, unlike his, this one was crowded. It was also dark and therefore not unlike Lightoller’s retail establishment. Also like that, there were a lot of old things; most of these looked to me like junk, but I know nothing of antiques. We were standing just inside the door and from there I could see that over by the foot of the stairs there had been some sort of struggle, for several items of chinaware lay smashed on the carpet, amongst which were some brass ornaments and the remains of a carriage clock.
    I asked, ‘What’s going on, inspector?’
    The sadness was switched off, the tartness returned. ‘Mrs Lightoller has gone the same way as her husband. She’s been murdered.’
    â€˜With a sword?’ It was a genuine question but perhaps Masson thought it sounded facetious; certainly he glowered a lot.
    â€˜No. With a hammer.’
    I could not stop myself wincing slightly. ‘I heard some ludicrous story that you thought my father might be involved.’ I tried proffering this in a light tone, a sort of ‘you’ll agree that this is absolute tripe, I’m sure’ voice. Masson was having none of this.
    â€˜I do.’
    The same photographer I had seen at Lightoller’s shop came heavily down the stairs. ‘All done. The prof’s just finishing up.’
    Masson grunted by way of affirmation and then turned back to me as the photographer squeezed past us and nearly knocked a strangely hideous porcelain shepherdess to the