‘No, we’re separated,’ she said.
That makes things slightly easier, thought Rachel.
‘We’re investigating a major incident and I wonder if you could look at an item of jewellery to see if you recognize it,’ Janet said.
Judith Kavanagh coughed, increasingly uneasy. ‘Yes of course,’ she said.
Janet took the ring in its sealed evidence bag and handed it to Mrs Kavanagh. The awkward smile faded from her lips, her posture altered, her shoulders sank. ‘It’s Richard’s ring, his wedding ring.’
‘Thank you,’ Janet said. ‘Please would you describe him for us.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘How tall is he?’ Janet said.
‘Six foot two.’
‘And he was born in 1952 so he would be sixty years old now?’
‘That’s right,’ Judith Kavanagh said.
Rachel looked around the room, saw family photos of a wedding, not Mrs Kavanagh’s, a son or daughter’s perhaps?
At Rachel’s insistence that their own wedding be simple and planned with a minimum of fuss, she and Sean had not had a professional photographer, but he had arranged for a mate of his to take photos of them before everyone got half cut and Sean had got one printed and framed.
Mrs Kavanagh’s other photos showed a couple with a baby, a young man in a gown and mortarboard. None of the man who was their victim.
‘What’s this all about?’ Mrs Kavanagh set the bag containing the ring down on a side table.
‘Mrs Kavanagh, I’m so very sorry to tell you that the body of a man was recovered from a building in the Manorclough area of Oldham, near Manchester, on Wednesday night,’ said Janet. ‘We believe that man to be your husband. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he is dead. We will be doing all we can to make a positive identification but the man was of the same age and height as Mr Kavanagh and he was wearing that ring.’
‘Oh, my God,’ she said, colour draining from her face.
She was shocked but not overly emotional, which Rachel was thankful for. When they were sobbing their hearts out it was hard to get the information needed to push on with the investigation. It was common to have to go away and come back later. Often as not, grieving relatives would be tranqued up to the eyeballs by then and hard-pressed to remember left from right, let alone their loved one’s movements over the previous days and weeks.
‘If you feel up to it we would like to ask you some questions. Could you tell us when you last saw your husband?’ Silence. ‘Mrs Kavanagh?’ Janet prompted.
‘1999,’ she said.
‘1999?’ Janet flicked her eyes at Rachel, who pulled a face. If they’d been estranged for thirteen years they might not learn much from Mrs Kavanagh.