It had been a long night, one that she’d spent sitting in the kitchen, drinking cups of tea, going back to bed, realizing the futility of that and returning to the kitchen and drinking yet more tea. On the one occasion she’d managed to drift off to sleep, she’d woken with a start, stiff and aching in the chair in the kitchen, from a dream. Perhaps it hadn’t been a dream, maybe her imagination had been playing tricks. Either way, she’d seen Steve being led from a cell with a black hood over his head. It was stupid. They didn’t hang people these days. Evidence had to be gathered, too. Unless they had proper evidence, they couldn’t prosecute. Steve would be fine. What she had to do was keep busy. She’d clean out the kitchen cupboards before Frank came down for his breakfast. Then, when that was out of the way, she would tackle that pile of ironing. She felt better with her morning planned.
