They were terraced and each pair of houses shared a porch, the front doors of which were side by side. ‘Would you be Mrs Nash by any chance?’ asked Hardcastle, raising his bowler hat. ‘Yes, I’m Rose Nash.’ The woman appeared to be about forty years of age, and was wearing a floral pinafore apron over a black-and-white check day dress. She looked enquiringly at the two men on her immaculately whitened doorstep. ‘We’re police officers, madam,’ said Hardcastle, ‘and we’d like to talk to you about Adrian Nash. I understand he’s your son.’ Rose Nash paled and put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s not been killed, has he?’ ‘Not to my knowledge, Mrs Nash,’ responded Hardcastle. ‘Well, what, then? You gave me quite a turn.’ ‘I think it might be as well if we came in, Mrs Nash,’ said Hardcastle. Marriott had noticed that the adjacent front door had opened slightly, and he had touched the DDI’s arm to draw attention to what was probably a nosey neighbour engaging in a little eavesdropping.
