Mrs Hastings came in with home-made cookies and a pot of coffee. She was a pretty woman, nice-coloured hair with a sweet-faced smile. She perched rather than sat on the chair opposite Rooney. She had good hands, square-cut nails without any varnish.
‘I’m sorry not to have any news,’ Rooney said. She bit her lip, trying not to cry. Rooney hated having to do it, but he couldn’t put off what he was there for, and she seemed to sense he wanted something.
‘Mrs Hastings, I’m sorry if this seems like going over old ground, but I just want to ask a few more questions.’
She began to nibble a cookie.
‘Tell me about a normal, everyday week — where your husband went, who he saw, that kind of thing.’
The familiar story unfolded. Norman Hastings got up at the same time every day, even at weekends. He took his kids to school, he went to work, he came home, he had supper with his family. Two nights a week he went bowling or played poker with his friends. Weekends were kept for the family.
‘Did he have any other hobbies?’
‘Just taking care of the garden, that kind of thing. He did all the decorating and he built the kitchen and the girls’ wardrobes.’
‘Nothing else?’
She shook her head, then hesitated. ‘We did join a country and western club two or three years ago. We went to four or five nights, but he didn’t really enjoy it. I did, but he said they weren’t his type.’
‘Did you continue going?’
‘No. You need a partner, you see, for the square dances... I’m not being much help, am I?’ she asked.
‘Was there anyone you didn’t like among his friends?’
She shook her head.
‘Would you show me over the house?’
She seemed surprised, but stood up, and walked to the door. Rooney trailed after her. She was like a tour guide, pointing out what Norman had done — the extensions, the custom-built closets. She was boring him and he began to feel faintly irritated. The last room they went into was Hastings’s den. Its walls were painted the identical colour to three other rooms, the pictures indistinguishable from those in the living room. Norman with his wife, his kids, his bowls-playing pals, his poker pals. Four men standing, hands in their pockets, staring at the camera. Rooney moved closer, peering at the photographs, half hoping he would see a man with wide lips, glasses and a bite out of his neck, but they were all pot-bellied, jovial types with just a faint glimmer of enjoyment on their faces. Rooney sighed and turned away, but as he did he noticed a faint mark on the wall where another picture had hung. ‘What was there?’
Mrs Hastings blinked. ‘I can’t remember.’
He knew she was lying, the house was too orderly for her not to know every inch. ‘Was it a photograph?’ Rooney asked, relaxed and casual.
‘I can’t remember. Norman must have taken it down.’
‘Do you mind looking for it?’
She hesitated, then crossed to the desk. As she opened a drawer, they heard a crash outside, and one of her daughters started to cry loudly. ‘I won’t be a minute — I think she’s fallen off the swing.’
‘Can I look through the desk?’
She paused in the doorway. ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t.’
He lifted his hands in apology. Stepping back from the desk he sat down in Hastings’s chair. ‘I’ll wait for you.’
As soon as she was out of the room Rooney looked over the contents of the drawers. Tax forms, house insurance, life insurance, dental and medical checks, they were like the rest of the house, orderly. He drummed the desk top with his fingers. There was yet another photograph of Mrs Hastings, a daughter on either side. Rooney picked it up and stared at it, then he turned it over. There was a hook, and a stand. He looked to the space on the wall, then back to the photograph. When he placed it against the faint dust outline, it matched.
He crossed to the window. Mrs Hastings was examining her daughter’s leg, so he returned to the desk and picked up the photograph again. He pushed open the small clips at each side, and opened the frame. There was nothing beneath. He swore, replaced the clips, and was about to stand it upright on the desk when she walked back in.
‘She’s all right, just a grazed knee.’ She stared at Rooney, then at the photograph.
‘Pretty photograph — in fact they’re all very nice.’
She prodded the frame into exactly the same position as before. ‘Yes. He’s a professional photographer.’
‘Ah, just goes to show — you can always tell!’ Rooney paused. ‘Mrs Hastings, that photograph was the one off the wall, wasn’t it? Was someone else’s photograph in it? Is that why you took it down?’
She pursed her lips: she didn’t seem quite so pretty now — there was a steely quality to her. ‘Yes, it was, now I come to think about it.’ She folded her arms. ‘I’d like you to go, please.’
Rooney remained where he was. ‘Mrs Hastings, your husband was found brutally murdered. Now, I have no motive, no reason why anybody should have done that.’
‘Robbery. You never found his wallet. It was robbery. That’s what the papers have said and the television news.’
‘And you can think of no other motive?’
‘No. He’s buried now anyway. It’s all over. I’d like you to leave.’ She pointedly held the door open and Rooney walked past her.
He stopped as they reached the front door. ‘The photographer. Do you have his name and address?’
‘No, I’m sorry I don’t. Norman always arranged the sittings.’
Rooney scratched his head. ‘Was he local?’
She coloured. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘But you had them taken every few years, you told me so yourself. Surely you must remember?’
‘I don’t.’
She had the front door open when he leaned close. ‘Why are you lying?’
‘Please leave me alone.’
Rooney shut the door with the flat of his hand. She pushed against him, and then backed down the hallway. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
Rooney followed her. ‘What don’t you want to talk about, Mrs Hastings?’
Her hands were flailing, her face bright pink.
‘Why don’t we go and sit down?’
‘No.’
Rooney gazed at the freshly painted ceiling. ‘Don’t make me get a whole bunch of officers checking out every photographer, Mrs Hastings, don’t waste my time...’ His voice was low, flat and expressionless. ‘Seven women have been killed in the same manner as your husband — a blow to the back of the head with a hammer, and their faces battered beyond recognition. If you have anything — anything — that will help me find the killer, you had better tell me!’
She stood with her arms wrapped round herself, her whole body shaking. ‘I said if I ever caught him doing it again, I would divorce him — I’d tell his parents, his boss, his friends—’
‘Doing what, Mrs Hastings?’
She turned round and her face was ashen. ‘He was dressed in women’s clothes.’
Rooney didn’t show a flicker of distaste or surprise.
She had come home from one of the country and western nights — when Norman had said he didn’t like it, she went alone. She started to cry. ‘I was only there a few minutes and I felt stupid all dressed up in cowboy boots, and I just thought he was right, it was stupid, so I came home. But he didn’t hear me coming in. I knew he was in the bedroom because I saw the light on, and I thought I’d surprise him.’ She gave a strange, bitter, high-pitched laugh. ‘I don’t know who was more surprised, him or me. He was all made-up, with a blonde wig, a cheap awful frilled dress, high heels... I... I just couldn’t believe my eyes.’
She broke down and sobbed, and Rooney remained silent, waiting. ‘Anyway... a long time after, because I ran into the bathroom and wouldn’t come out, he was on his knees outside the bathroom sobbing, and I was scared he’d wake the girls, so I came out. He’d taken everything off, but he still had traces — his face...’