Free Talking to the Dead by Harry Bingham

registers. How racing syndicates work. Where the money gets paid.
    I find out things I didn’t want to know. Things that disturb me when I find them. Things that I wouldn’t have bothered to look for if Jackson hadn’t given me a kicking. By the end of the day, I’ve done nothing at all on Mancini’s damn Social Services reports and my desk is awash with printouts from Companies House and Weatherbys Thoroughbred breed register.
    The phone rings, and I answer it, absently.
    It’s a Lohan caller, one of only five that day. The case has had plenty of publicity, but it’s a sad fact that, despite April’s death, the public aren’t much moved by the killings. The death of a mother and child would normally generate upward of a hundred calls in a day. Because of Janet’s murky past, however, this case has generated almost nothing.
    The caller introduces herself: Amanda; knew Janet slightly; only calling up because her daughter had been friends with April—same age, same school.
    “I didn’t know whether to phone or not, then thought I might as well. Hope that’s all right.”
    “It is. Any information can make the difference.” I run through the questions I’m meant to ask. Known associates, stuff like that. Amanda’s as helpful as she can be, but she doesn’t know much. The only “known associates” she knows are other school mams, none of whom sound like obvious sink droppers.
    “Did she have a reputation?” I ask. “You know—did other mothers talk about her as being a bad sort, or a bit wild?”
    Amanda pauses. That’s usually a good sign, and it is now. Her answer is reflective and considered.
    “No, I wouldn’t say so. I mean, the school was quite mixed. I don’t mean race-wise, though that too. I mean, there were the yummy mummies, the dolled-up chavs, the ordinary mums, everyone. Janet—well, she wasn’t well off, was she? She was never going to get invited along to the next yummy-mummy coffee morning, or whatever. But she was okay. She used to worry over things. Like she asked me how Tilly—that’s my six-year-old—got on with her reading. I think she felt she should be doing more to help April, but didn’t quite know how. But a couple of times Tilly went over to April’s after school, and there’s no way I’d have let her go if I’d had any worries.”
    “Amanda, do you know how they died?”
    “Pardon?”
    “How and where. They were in a squat. It was filthy. There was just one mattress upstairs, which they must have shared. No sheet. One not very clean duvet.”
    Another long pause. I worry that I’ve cocked up again. Said too much. Been untactful. Upset someone who’s now going to go and call Jackson. I think maybe Amanda is crying on the other end of the line. I try to put things right.
    “Sorry, Amanda, I didn’t want to—”
    “No, it’s okay. I mean, what happened, happened.”
    “I was only telling you because—”
    “I know why. You wanted to see if I said, Well, that just proves that Janet Mancini was a loser after all.”
    “And?”
    “And she wasn’t. She wasn’t. You know, I didn’t like her particularly. I’m not saying I disliked her, we just didn’t have much in common. But she lived for April. I know she did. If she took April to a place like that—well, she must have been terrified of something. That, or her whole life just fell apart for some reason. Even so, I’d have looked after April. Course I would. I can’t believe it. Sorry.”
    By the end of this, Amanda is crying outright, apologizing, then crying some more. I listen to her sob and say the things that I’m meant to say. I might even have said the words “All right, all right” at some point, which sounds stupid to me, but Amanda seems okay with anything.
    I’ve never cried once during my time on the force. Indeed, that hardly says it. I haven’t cried since I was six or seven, ages ago anyway, and hardly ever even then. Last year, I attended a car accident, a nasty smash on