‘Yes,’ Mary Milton told Emma. ‘Trevor, that was his name. Trevor Arbuckle. Nice man, very quiet and reserved, but …’
Mary was the elderly widow who lived in the other half of the deserted semi-detached house in Marpleside, where Emma had been told there had been a private club for transvestites. The sharp rain had been spitting intermittently and Mary, glad of the company, had invited Emma inside, offering tea and biscuits which Emma did accept, even though the tea had been too weak and milky, but the chocolate finger biscuits were welcome.
‘But?’ Emma asked.
‘But I don’t like to talk ill of the dead,’ Mary said, her sharp eyes glittering with the expectation that that was precisely what she was about to do.
‘Trevor, he’s dead?’ Emma asked, an obvious question that she immediately regr
