We picked our way round dog dirt all the way to the park, me cursing all the thoughtless dog owners and shouting warnings to Maddie. I let Digger off on the football pitch and he chased demons for all he was worth. Tearing here and there, swerving and changing direction. Maddie pedalled along the path ringing her bell.
We progressed slowly round the park, taking in the dilapidated duck pond with its flooded shores and crumpled railings, the children’s play area, the bowling green, the rose garden and the bit we call the wild wood. Here we stopped by a bench and had our picnic, throwing titbits to the squirrels. One was brave enough to take food from our hands. We made it home without an argument.
Sheila was baking. The smell! I was five and begging to lick the bowl, my tongue curling round the metal whisk dripping with sweet yellow goo, nose at table height watching floury hands pat pastry.
‘It smells wonderful. Do you do this often?’
‘Hardly ever,’ she laughed. ‘I used to bake twice a week when the boys were little. But not for years. I think it must be a nesting activity.’
‘Making the place your own?’
‘Yes.’ She opened the oven, removed a tray of scones and put in a cake tin. ‘It was totally on impulse. I was in the supermarket and I saw the flour and those little bottles of food colouring. I even bought cake tins. Didn’t know if you’d have them.’
‘Neither do I. If we do they’ll be up there in the cupboard – things we never use.’
Baking. Once all women did it. Lily and Agnes would have grown up knowing how to rustle up a Madeira cake or the recipe for parkin without blinking.
‘There was a message for you,’ Sheila said. ‘The police rang, they left the number, they want you to ring them.’
‘Thanks.’
It was Inspector Crawshaw. I dialled and waited. The phone rang on and on. At last it was picked up. I asked switch board to transfer me to Crawshaw. He was brief and to the point. ‘We’d like to have another word. If you’re in now I’ll send someone round.’
Sergeant Bell turned up twenty minutes later. By then Maddie was engrossed in helping Sheila. I left them in the kitchen and showed the sergeant into the lounge. Would Sheila let Maddie lick the bowl? What about salmonella? It all seemed more complicated these days.
Sergeant Bell flipped open her notebook, checked her watch and noted the time.
‘When we last spoke to you, you told us you’d not seen Mr Achebe since Thursday, the twenty-fourth of February,’
‘That’s right.’
‘And he’d not made contact since?’ Spoken slowly, making sure I considered the question carefully.