‘CVs,’ said Sidrah. ‘As in write them up for people.’ Her voice was brisk and professional.
‘I’m sorry, I interrupted your working,’ said Liz.
‘You didn’t. I wasn’t,’ said Sidrah. ‘I was looking on Rightmove as it happens.’
‘You’re thinking of moving?’ said Liz.
Sidrah nodded. ‘This place,’ she said and stopped.
Instinctively Liz glanced out the window, across to the Old Barn. ‘Because of what happened?’ she said.
‘Oh no!’ Sidrah shook her head. ‘No, nothing to do withNeville – and yet, maybe it made me think how lonely this place is … Nick and I.’ She cast a reflexive glance at the mantel where sat a photo of herself entwined round a cheery-looking rather red-faced man. ‘It was our dream – move out here, run the business from home. Nick was from York originally; he always loved it round here. And we had an idea living in a village would be like it is on the telly.’ She sighed a deep, sad sigh. ‘But now it’s just me.’
Liz nodded understandingly. ‘There’s some really nice places in Ripon and Thirsk,’ she said. ‘Sowerby, just down from us has some lovely properties.’
‘Actually,’ said Sidrah, ‘I’m more looking round Solihull. Home. With my family and my bezzies. Where all the Prosecco bars are! Don’t get me wrong – I’m sure it’s lovely here.’ She smiled sadly. ‘But knowing what I know now – well, moving here was a mistake. Anyway.’
She set her glass down and looked expectantly at Liz. Liz braced herself. How on earth to manoeuvre the conversation round to the subject of the Old Barn and its late occupant? As it turned out, however, there was no need.
‘I’m guessing you’re here about Nev?’ said Sidrah.
Liz felt flustered, opened her mouth to deny this, then all of a sudden realised the woman was smiling at her.
‘One thing you learn in the CV business, babes,’ she said, ‘is how to cut out the see are ay pee. I’ve been gabbing with your mate Zippy. She said you were asking questions.’
Liz wanted to say something along the lines of ‘she’s not my mate’, but then realised Zippy Doodah had, in her own way, undoubtedly done her a favour. ‘We were just wondering one or two things,’ she said. There was now no pretence whatsoever of this being a visit about hydrangeas, so Liz Newsome Detectivator reached into her bag and brought out the photos she’d printed off.
‘These people,’ she said, arranging Chloe and Caro Miranda on the sparkling glass coffee table. ‘Have you ever seen them before?’
‘Oh my God!’ Sidrah’s eyes widened and she bit back an excited laugh. ‘Are these the people who were shouting at Neville?’
‘Possibly,’ said Liz.
Sidrah stared at the two photos with avid interest. ‘No,’ she said, almost sadly, Liz thought. ‘No, I’ve not seen either of these two.’ She held up the picture of Chloe, as if willing some spark of recognition to ignite. ‘No,’ she said again. Putting it down she noticed a third sheet, still in the folder, the picture of Son. ‘Is this someone who knew him too?’ she said.
Liz nodded, was about to say it was a woman they were looking for but Sidrah was looking at Son’s amiable image with a puzzled frown.
‘I don’t think I know him,’ she said, ‘Just for a sec he reminded me a little bit of that funny woman.’
‘What funny woman?’ said Liz Newsome Detectivator.
‘The woman who had been staying in Nev’s holiday let,’ said Sidrah. Liz recalled what Thelma had told her. ‘You spoke to her, didn’t you?’ she said.
‘She spoke to me,’ said Sidrah. ‘When she was leaving. About four o’clock. The afternoon when it all happened. I was in the garden and she came over and started talking to me about my plants.’
‘She didn’t,’ said Liz, ‘say anything about seeing anyone watching the house? Maybe hanging round the snicket?’
‘She didn’t say anything about seeing anyone,’ said Sidrah. ‘But that doesn’t mean she didn’t. Mind you, I’m more likely to see anyone hanging around. I’m out in the garden that much.’ She shook her head and took a reflective sip of her elderflower. ‘She was a funny little thing.’
‘Oh?’ Liz Newsome Detectivator took a glorious sugary gulp of her drink. ‘Funny in what way?’
Sidrah frowned. ‘It’s hard to say,’ she said. ‘There was just something about her. She was a bit drab, if you know what I mean – greeny-brown-coloured clothes,’ she said, unconsciously fingering the scarf. ‘Like an old person would wear.’
Or a gimmer.Liz thought of her beloved olive-green gardening fleece but said nothing.
‘And the garden!’ Sidrah frowned. ‘That was weird. She came over and started saying how nice it looked and how hard I must work, and how she had a garden at home – and then she said she liked my hydrangeas.’
‘Your hydrangeas?’ Liz frowned. ‘Surely it’s the wrong time of year for them?’
