“Stone’s address. In case you wanted to make contact. Or if you could steal an hour or two off work right now, we could drive over there together.”
DAMIANStone’s house turned out to be a small but pretty Victorian terraced cottage bordering the common in Frenton. Snug, Raine would have called the place. Maybe she had, if they’d been friends. Walking up to the front door, he had a moment of trepidation. Daniel must have noticed, because he stepped forward to take the lead. Would the occupant be more or less likely to open up with a uniformed officer present? Marcus had no idea. Moreover, in the time since the accident, Stone’s family may have already sold the house. Would the new occupants have any idea about the previous owner? At the very least they might be able to point Marcus in the direction of Stone’s family. Or maybe Stone had a girlfriend who still lived here and might have known nothing about Lorraine being in the car. How awkward would that be?
While Marcus had been lost in thought, Daniel had already rung the doorbell. Pretty chimes echoed faintly from inside. As the silhouette of a figure filled the large frosted glass door panel, Daniel removed his cap.
“Can I help?” asked the man, opening the door wide before looking suspiciously at Daniel and taking in his uniform.
Slight of build, the man was not unattractive, but had a slight stoop forward, as though he had been hauling heavy weights around on his back all his life. If Marcus were to guess, he’d put the man in his early to midthirties. As the man was dressed a little shabbily in a soiled tee and jeans, Marcus assumed they had interrupted him doing some gardening or maybe home maintenance.
“Sergeant Mosborough. Kent Police. Are you the owner of this house?”
“I am now. Why? What’s this about?”
“And your name is?”
“Ken. Kenneth Villers. If this is about the break-in at number fifteen, I told your lot already that I didn’t see nothing. I was out all night with friends.”
“This isn’t about the break-in. It’s about a previous occupant, Mr. Damian Stone. Can we come in for a moment?”
“Damian’s dead,” said the man, his voice quieting.
“Yes, we’re aware of that. May we come in?”
Hearing Daniel slip into his official mode made Marcus grin. When the man held the door open obediently, Marcus followed in behind. The front door opened straight into a living area, with an old dark metal fireplace and grate, but now housing a gas version of a coal fire. With pine floorboards and bronze light fixtures, the old place had been beautifully renovated and decorated. Someone had very good taste. Either that or this guy had a lot more money than his appearance belied. Villers offered them a seat on a long brown leather chesterfield. Marcus sat, but Daniel remained standing.
“Mind if I use your bathroom, sir?” asked Daniel.
“Top of the stairs, on the right.”
“Cup of tea would be nice,” said Daniel, heading toward the stairs. “Milk with one sugar for me.”
Despite a barely audible sigh, Ken stepped into the open kitchen—much like Tom’s place but with more modern appliances—and began setting about filling a kettle with water.
While Marcus sat there, his phone beeped. When he pulled the phone out, the message from Tom read simply,girls want to go to a small farm tomorrow and want Uncle Marc to come along, too. Interested?
Marcus sighed. As well as sacrificing another Sunday morning, he would have to spend the day trying his best not to ogle Tom. He texted back a simplecount me in.
“So why are you with the copper?” asked Villers.
“Look, I’m sorry about this, Ken. He’s actually a friend helping me out. We’re not here for any official reason. It’s just that I knew the woman in the car who was with Damian and wondered if you might have some answers.”
“Bradford? The one who died in the crash?”
“That’s right. Lorraine. So hehadmentioned her before?”
“Not sure. They may have done yoga together. Then again, Stoner talked a lot of names. S’what marketing people do, names and places, organizing events and book signings, making guest lists. I rarely listened.”
“I see,” said Marcus.
“You her husband?”
“No,” said Marcus. “Her best friend.”
Just then Daniel came down the stairs and entered the room, holding a large silver-framed photograph in his hands. After flashing the photo at Marcus, he held the picture in front of his chest. The picture had Ken and another man standing together smiling. Done up in matching white tuxedos and black bow ties, drinking champagne from crystal flutes, they stood together on grand stone steps—the photographer positioned a couple of steps below them—while in the background a row of Doric columns indicated some kind of official building, a museum perhaps.
“That’s private property,” said Villers, stopping what he was doing.
“How long were you and Mr. Stone married?” asked Daniel.
