Page 45 of The Truth Will Out
He tutted and started up the mower again.
His wife raised a finger and dipped back into the house. She returned with an address book a few seconds later. “Ah, yes, here we are.”
Bob poised his pen over his notebook.
“Block C, flat twenty-four, Greenacre Terrace. Do you know it?”
“I do. Thanks for the information,” Bob replied. “Do you know if she’s likely to be at home?”
“Yes. I saw her the other day. She told me she hadn’t had much luck finding a job, but she’s not in a rush either, because Stephen was paying the rent and giving her a healthy allowance to live on for the next few months.”
“Thanks, that’s great information,” Sam said.
They droveto the wife’s address and found the flat they were looking for. It was up four flights of stairs, and the lift was out of order. Sam had to listen to Bob complain all the way up.
Finally, on the last flight of steps, she said, “Give it a rest, will you?”
“Sorry. I thought I was fit until I started climbing these frigging steps. I need to take out another gym membership.”
“Hang on. I thought you’d recently bought a home gym.”
His mouth twisted, and his nose wrinkled. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?” Sam paused and faced him on the landing.
“Retain trash information like that?”
She laughed. “You’re unbelievable, the crap you come out with. Did you buy a gym or not?”
“I did. I just haven’t got around to setting it up, yet. That’s going to be a bloody workout in itself before I get to use the damn thing.”
“Haven’t you got a friend who can help you?”
“I might have. Number twenty-four should be on the right up ahead.”
“Ah, the swift change of subject. That’s one thing you’re the master of, if not building a home gym. Blooming heck, how difficult can it be to screw a few bolts together?”
“Difficult enough. Back to business, eh? Before we have one of our notorious arguments.”
“Bollocks. Since when do we argue?”
“All the time.”
She sniggered and led the way. The door was opened by a woman in her forties wearing a towelling robe.
“Oh, sorry. Did we have an appointment?”
Sam produced her warrant card. “I’m Detective Inspector Sam Cobbs, and this is Detective Sergeant Bob Jones. Would it be all right if we came in and spoke with you, Mrs Weller?”
“I don’t understand. What’s this about?”
“Your husband. Or should I say, your estranged husband?”
“How does what Stephen gets up to now concern me? We’re separated.”
“It would be better if we spoke inside.”
“If I must. I have to say, anything that man has done shouldn’t reflect badly on me.” She gestured for them to enter. “Close the door behind you.”
