Page 20 of Hang on St. Christopher

“That’s very clever. You’re very professional,” Mrs. Franklin said.

I looked at Crabbie. “Mrs. Franklin says we’re very professional,” I said.

“I heard.”

I leaned in conspiratorially to Mrs. F. “This is me and Sergeant McCrabban’s first case in a while. We’re actually a bit rusty, so any help that you can give us would be greatly appreciated.”

“I’ll do all I can,” she said, genuinely appreciating my honesty.

“So he didn’t speak about siblings, parents, or old girlfriends?” I reiterated.

“No, but he was a handsome man, though. I imagine he left a few broken hearts along the way when he was younger.”

“Did he charge a lot of money for his artwork?” Crabbie asked.

“A hundred pounds for a portrait.”

“That seems reasonable,” I said.

“And if you weren’t happy with it, he didn’t make you take it. He just got out the white spirits and reused the canvas.”

“He sounds like a very even-tempered man.”

“The very words I would have used. Philosophical.”

“Did he have any hobbies? Golf, sailing—anything like that?”

“None that I knew about.”

“And I know I’ve asked this already, but are you sure he never mentioned any enemies?”

“None that he talked to me about.”

“Did it not seem strange to you that he never spoke of his family at all? He must have come from somewhere.”

“I don’t like to pry, and he didn’t offer the information. Maybe Kenneth would know. He was over there once a week. He did Mr. Townes’s lawn as he didn’t have a mower of his own. He was only renting, so I suppose he never got ’round to buying a mower, and Kenneth didn’t mind. Good exercise for him. Doctor said he needed to get out and about. He talked to him a few times.”

Mrs. Franklin got up, opened the living room door, and yelled upstairs:

“Kenneth! It’s the police! It’s about Mr. Townes.”

“I’m watching the snooker, amn’t I?” a voice bellowed down the stairs.

“It’s the peelers, Kenneth. They need to speak to you!”

A long pause and then a reluctant “All right. But this better not take long. It’s live.”

Kenneth came down the stairs. He was a large, balding man in a white shirt and brown cardigan. His Freddie Jones in David Lynch’sDune–style eyebrows were upturned at a thirty-degree angle, giving a delightful surprised/indignant look to his countenance.

“I’m Detective Inspector Sean Duffy; this is Detective Sergeant John McCrabban. We’re investigating the death of Mr. Townes across the road.”

“I didn’t see anything. I was watching the snooker. It’s the finale. It’s the UK masters.”

“Your wife says that you went over occasionally to mow Mr. Townes’s lawn,” I said.

Mr. Franklin gave Mrs. Franklin a betrayed look.

“So I did. What of it?”