Free Catalyst by Michael Knaggs

Number 11 St George’s Close that same evening, after the team briefing, and met with Lucille Ambrose and her husband, Barney. She remembered Lucille from the day she had spent at the scene of the disturbance immediately after the killings – how she had come out to talk to Jo, given her a cup of tea and desperately tried, without success, to appear properly horrified and upset. Like almost all of the rest of the estate, Lucille was delighted by the brothers’ departure.
    She was a lovely, friendly woman, West Indian, as was her husband. She was large and bubbly, bright-eyed and quick to smile, and wore a colourful floral-patterned dress over yellow trousers. They had known Mrs Deverall for over ten years, she said, and although she had generally kept herself to herself, they had had a good relationship with her. It was strange, looking back, said Lucille, that they had not once stepped into each other’s houses in all that time, but they had often chatted over the back garden fence, sometimes for hours. And on occasions, when they were both leaving their houses at the same time, they would walk down to the shops together and have a drink in one of the cafés.
    â€œThere’s no Mr Deverall,” said Lucille, “but Alma used to have a son – John, I think his name was – yes, John. I never actually met him come to think of it, but Barney chatted to him a few times when they met out the back. They both served in the army in Northern Ireland, you know, but not at the same time, of course.”
    â€œWhat happened to him?” asked Jo. “You said she used to have a son.”
    â€œYes, he got killed in action. Where was it, Barney?”
    â€œAfghanistan,” said Barney. Mr Ambrose was a large, well-built man with short-cropped grey hair, dressed smartly in shirt and tie and a dark blue sweater. He was sitting stiffly to attention in an easy chair with his back to them, but clearly listening to their conversation.
    â€œBut before that,” went on Lucille, “I think they had some sort of falling out. We hadn’t seen him visit her for it must have been well over a year, and I asked her one day how her son was doing. She just said ‘What son?’ and that was that. I didn’t press her any more, of course. Then a few months after that, two men in uniform – soldiers – came to her house; they went in and a few minutes later I heard her through the wall crying bucket-fulls. I suppose we knew what must have happened; I used to worry so much about Barney when he was away.” She looked wistfully at her husband.
    â€œAfter that we didn’t see her for weeks, then one day she was out in the garden. I asked her if she was okay and she told me about her son.”
    â€œCan you remember when she moved out, and why?” asked Jo.
    â€œWell, a couple of years ago – not long after her son was killed, actually – we had a lot of trouble in the close – we have since, but this was really bad. I think it started after Alma reported some lads she’d seen wrecking a car on the square. Anyway, some of the lads must have seen her watching them and recognised her. They must have known or found out where she lived. They gave her a really bad time – put graffiti all over the house – really bad words – and stuffed dog… well, you-know-what, through the letter box… ”
    â€œDog shit,” put in Barney.
    â€œYes, thank you, love,” said Lucille, rolling her eyes at Jo. “Oh, yes, and a few times while she was out, they smashed in the front door. It was awful.”
    â€œDo you know who it was who did this?”
    â€œNo, but those brothers would have been behind it. The kids just do whatever they tell them to do. I should say ‘told’ not ‘tell’, shouldn’t I?” and she allowed herself a little smile.
    â€œSo what did she do; did she tell the police?”
    â€œShe was too