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“I’ve just brewed up, would you like one?”
“No, we’re okay, thanks, Mrs Henshaw,” said the taller one. She couldn’t remember who was who, despite having found out only seconds previously.
After she’d poured a drink she indicated for them to take a seat at the table. “I’ve told you lot everything I know. I can’t possibly tell you anything else. I don’t know where my husband is, and I know absolutely nothing about the hit and run. So what else can you possibly ask me that I’ve not already covered?”
“We’re not actually here about your husband, Mrs Henshaw,” said the smaller, smarter of the two. “We’d like to talk to you about Michael Foreman.”
“Michael Foreman? What’s that waste of space done now, assuming you’ve actually found him?”
“How well do you know him?”
“Obviously not as well as I thought,” said Rosie, wondering why the hell they were here to talk about him.
“Well enough to call him a bald headed, squat nosed dumpling.”
“Did I? When was that?” Before she gave them time to answer, she pressed ahead. “Well, whenever it was it was high praise for him.”
“There’s no love lost, then?” commented the one with the grey hair.
“Never has been.”
“A few weeks back,” replied the shorter one, opening his plastic folder. “We have transcripts here of a phone call he made to you.”
“Oh, I do remember that,” said Rosie. “I’m sure we had a thunderstorm that night and he called when I was trying to settle the children. I was bloody well fuming. I’d heard nothing from James since he’d gone to Brussels and then that idiot calls asking to speak to him and claims he knew nothing about a meeting in Brussels. Don’t suppose you’ve found either of them, have you?”
Rosie took a sip of tea. “Anyway, never mind Foreman, what about my husband? Have you found him, yet?”
“We’re working on it, Mrs Henshaw.”
“Well you want to work a bit bloody harder and when you do find him I have plenty of questions of my own to ask him.”
The pair glanced at each other with expressions that were hard to read.
“Did Michael Foreman have any family, or children?”
“Not that I know of. Who the bloody hell would have him?”
“When did you last see him?”
“Oh, Christ, to be honest I think I’ve only ever seen him twice in my life and I can’t remember when either occasion was.”
“Twice?”
“Yes, twice, or maybe three times. It wasn’t often.”
The smaller detective read through some paperwork he’d retrieved from a folder. “I gather that your husband and Michael were business partners. How long for?”
“About eight years, I think.”
“Were you married to James when he started up the business with Michael Foreman?”
“And the other two idiots, yes.”
“And do you know much about the business?”
“Not really, it’s all a bit above me, computers and viruses and the like. All I know is they worked bloody hard; they were at it all hours.”
“So you never saw much of them in the early days?”
