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bisected by a weed-free crazy paving path and inhabited by several ugly-but-cute garden gnomes.
    â€˜If you want to light up a coffin nail, you’d better do it now – because we’ll not be smoking once we’re inside,’ Woodend said to his sergeant.
    Paniatowski nodded. ‘I was aware of that, sir.’
    And so she was. She knew from experience that Woodend would never smoke in a house that was in mourning, nor allow any of his subordinates to smoke either. She didn’t understand why this should be so – especially since everybody else – friends and relatives alike – would probably be puffing away like chimneys themselves. Even so, she never objected. Woodend was a boss who imposed very few restrictions on her actions, and when he did put one in place, it would have seemed unreasonable to question it.
    Woodend himself was not entirely sure why he should see not smoking as a mark of respect. Possibly it was something his old dad had once told him, and though he had now forgotten the occasion – if occasion there had been – the lesson had sunk in. Now, it was like an instinct to him – and his whole career had been built on having a healthy respect for his instincts.
    They lit up their cigarettes. ‘Nice house,’ Woodend said. ‘Cared for. Do you think that’s due to him or her?’
    â€˜Him,’ Paniatowski said definitely.
    â€˜Is that just a gut feelin’?’ Woodend asked.
    Paniatowski shook her head. ‘All the way down to the morgue, Mrs Pugh was coming up with all the reasons why her husband wouldn’t have killed himself – and at least three or four of them related to the house. Apparently, he was looking forward to turning the little back bedroom into a nursery for the baby. Couldn’t wait to get started on the job, according to Mrs Pugh. “So why would he kill himself, when he had so many plans?” she kept asking me.’
    â€˜And now we know he didn’t – but we’re not allowed to tell her that,’ Woodend said grimly.
    The woman who answered their knock at the front door wore her hair in a tight perm, and was dressed in a plain, hard-wearing twin set. She looked perhaps a few years older than Mrs Pugh, but bore a strong resemblance to her.
    â€˜I’m Mrs Rogers, Mrs Pugh’s sister,’ she explained, after Woodend had shown her his warrant card, and she’d spent nearly a minute examining it. ‘What do you want?’
    â€˜We’d like to speak to Mrs Pugh.’ Woodend told her ‘Is she here?’
    â€˜Our Mary’s in the lounge,’ Mrs Rogers.
    â€˜Then if you don’t mind …’ Woodend said, taking a step forward.
    Mrs Rogers shifted position so she was blocking the doorway completely. ‘Our Mary’s in the lounge,’ she repeated, ‘but she’s still very upset, and I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to see
anybody
at the moment.’
    â€˜We only want to ask her a few simple
questions,’ Paniatowski said, wheedlingly.
    â€˜Why should you want to ask her any questions at all – simple or otherwise?’ Mrs Rogers countered.
    â€˜I rather think that’s a matter we should be discussin’ with her rather than you,’ Woodend said firmly though not unpleasantly.
    â€˜My sister’s husband went out last night and topped himself, leaving her alone to cope with her unborn child,’ Mrs Rogers replied. ‘You know it, and I know it. In fact, the whole bloody world knows it – because it’s been on the bloody wireless for everybody
to
hear – so don’t you think that should be an end of it?’
    â€˜Who’s there?’ called a cracked voice from beyond the hallway.
    â€˜It’s nobody,’ Mrs Rogers replied, over her shoulder.
    â€˜It’s the police, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Don’t you go worryin’ your head about who it is, our Mary.