Page 16 of The Unforgiven

Chelsea’s flat was a corner unit on the second floor, probably one of the bigger ones. Kids’ bikes and a football were abandoned at the bottom of the stairs, discarded carelessly, untouched for some time judging by the state of them. No one had taken them, even if that was the intention. The stairwell smelled of piss and weed, standard scent for estates like this, the universal aroma, as if someone had installed air fresheners with that rancid scent. Vinny followed behind me, on the phoneto Lachy who was passing on some information about Chelsea’s kids.

I peered through the window, single glazed PVC with frames the colour of smokers’ teeth. Inside the flat was a humongous TV, hung on the wall over an ornate fireplace, a faux fur black rug in front of it. A sofa too big for the room faced the TV, what looked to be a white leather recliner was squashed in, blown up canvases of Chelsea and her two kids on the walls, posed smiles and pastel colours.

“The estate officer should be here soon.” I’d managed to get in touch with the out of hours service for the estate on the way here, in between listening to Vinny’s musings about women and how he didn’t understand them. The hold music had been a highlight of the journey.

A pigeon jumped off the railings, tumbling to the ground ungracefully, startled by the door next to Chelsea’s flat opening.

“If you’re here collecting, she’s not in.”

A woman who looked like a collaboration between one of the witches in the Roald Dahl book, and a seventies tablecloth, stood just outside the door, arms folded, looking at us as if we were about to demand she provided whatever she thought we were collecting.

Vinny threw on his charming smile without considering how it’d last gotten him into trouble. “DS Vinny Leigh, GMP, and this is DS Mia McAllister.” He flashed his ID. “We’re doing some routine enquiries. Do you recognise this person?” He flashed her the artist’s illustration,

“That’s my neighbour, Chelsea Bainbridge.”

We had a positive identification.

“When was the last time you saw your neighbour?” Vinny wasn’t pitching this right, I could tell.

She eyed him up and down, suspicion written all over her face. “Why do you want to know?”

“Routine enquiries.” Vinny gave her another smile, this one not quite so charming.

“Tuesday last week. The kids left to go on holiday with their dad, which meant I was getting some peace at last – fucking noisy bastards they are. Chelsea said she was seeing a friend in Manchester or staying with a cousin or something and asked if I could keep an eye on the house.” The woman shrugged, uncaring. “The only thing in there that anyone would bleeding nick is that telly. No idea how she could afford that when she couldn’t buy those kids new shoes, poor things. They’ll come back from their dad’s all dressed in nice new clothes and then Chelsea won’t let them wear them. Bleeding screw lose."

"How long have you lived here, Mrs - ” I started to try to tease more information from her, making use of the time while the estate manager’s Sunday minion turned up.

“Kinsella. Doreen Kinsella. Lived here since nineteen ninety-two. Place isn’t what it was, but that’s what they all say.” She gave a polite cough. “What’s happened to her then? Two detective sergeants don’t come round on a Sunday morning from Manchester for nothing. She dead or what?”

“We’re currently following a number of leads that involve Chelsea. You mentioned someone collecting something from her – did she owe money?” Police, a bit like politicians, became experts at evading questions.

Mrs Kinsella scoffed. “Did she owe money? Didsheowe money? Don’t we all? But I’d say Chelsea owed a bit more than most. Loan snakes, or whatever you call them. I’ve never got mixed up in any of that, myself. I make sure I have enough to keep clean, be well fed and give to the church. That’s always enough for me. And maybe a trip once a year to Whitby.”

“Which church do you attend, Mrs Kinsella?”

She glared at Vinny. She’d sensibly taken a disliking to him. “St Cuthbert’s and I’ll be attending the ten o’clock mass this morning, like any good catholic will be doing.”

“Do you know any details about loan sharks? Any names or ways we can get in touch with them?” He was really pushing it now.

“I do not! I don’t get mixed up in such things. I stay completely out of it. Nothing to do with me.” She backed into her home, the windowsill littered with photographs, probably of family.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of tea, is there?” I gave her my most appealing expression. I wanted to see who was in those photos.

She frowned at me and sighed loudly, irritated. “I suppose so. He can wait out here, mind.”

Vinny cast me a look that suggested we’d be talking about this later, although he knew as well as I did, that there was more chance of her giving something away to me than him, if she had anything to give away.

I followed her into the house and into the lounge, immaculately tidy and full of frills on furniture that were probably back in fashion by now. On the windowsill were the photographs, Mrs Kinsella from years before; at her own wedding, holding a baby, photos of toddlers – two boys.

I picked one up and studied it. “These your sons?”

She nodded brusquely. “Brendan and Declan. Good boys, the pair of them. They want me to move to a house somewhere that’s not here, but I’ve lived here since I got married. How do you have your tea?”

“Milk, no sugar, thank you.”

She returned a few minutes later, handing me a Liverpool FC mug containing a brew that was a decent colour. I waved at Vinny through the window.

“What do your boys do now?”