‘Yes, we separated. We were already separated then but that’s the last time I saw him.’
‘And where was that?’ Janet asked.
‘In Bury,’ she said, ‘we lived in Bury, we ran a shop there. Had a shop. Until…’ she sighed, fisted one hand and gripped it with the other. No wedding ring, Rachel saw. ‘… he drank it away,’ she said, ‘the business, the marriage, everything. In 1999, I told him the kids didn’t want to see him again, and neither did I. Not unless he sorted himself out.’
‘He left the family home?’ said Janet.
‘Yes, about two years before.’
‘Where was he living in 1999?’
‘In his car,’ Mrs Kavanagh said. ‘The children, they dreaded his visits.’
‘Was he violent?’ said Janet.
‘No,’ she said hastily, ‘no, never that. Maudlin, weepy, or sometimes the opposite, laughing when things weren’t funny. It was too much for them to handle. He tried to stop a few times, the drinking, but it never lasted. You know, I thought he was probably dead already, his health… but you said a fire?’
‘Mrs Kavanagh, I’m sorry to tell you he didn’t die of natural causes. We’re treating his death as suspicious.’
‘Suspicious?’ Frown lines deepened on her forehead.
‘We’ve launched a murder investigation,’ Janet said. ‘The man who we believe to be your husband was shot and killed and left in the building, which was then set on fire.’
‘Shot?’ she said, her brow creasing.
‘Yes,’ Janet said.
‘Why on earth would anyone shoot Richard? He’d never hurt a fly.’ She looked bewildered.
‘To your knowledge, was Mr Kavanagh ever involved in any illegal activity?’ said Janet.
‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have a clue, anything like that, people would run rings round him. He was – he could be gullible, trusted too easily.’
‘He lied about his drinking?’ Rachel knew how it went, alkies, addicts – lying and secrecy came with the territory.
‘Badly,’ Judith Kavanagh admitted. ‘He was a painter.’
‘Decorator?’ Rachel said.
‘No.’ She gave a sad smile. ‘Artist, oils. Barely anyone makes a living at that so we had the shop: art supplies, photocopier back in the days before everyone had a printer at home. We made enough to live on, I worked as a receptionist for an optician. Then,’ she sighed, ‘he’d be off to the pub at lunchtime, or after work, or he’d have a bottle under the counter. He started losing control, messing up the orders.’
‘You never divorced?’ Janet said.
‘It didn’t seem important and then, as time went on, I wouldn’t have known where to find him. We moved here later that year, ’99. My dad had died and left me some money and I put it into this place.’