Maybe it’s my body language or the look in my eyes, but not one of them so much as steps towards me.

The door opens before I get to it and a teenage girl runs outs. ‘Screw you. I’m going to Sophie’s.’

I step forward and knock on the still open door. Getting no answer, I rap my knuckles against the faded paint a second time and call out.

The woman who comes to the door is a sight and a half. I don’t know whether her appearance is a direct result of the loss of her husband or the constant battle of raising a headstrong teenager, but she doesn’t look good.

Her hair is matted and the clothes she wears are stained and shapeless. The look on her face is one of uncaring indifference to the world.

I can’t decide if she’s let herself go or was never together. Still I have questions to ask her.

‘Are you the guy who called earlier?’

‘That’s me. You must be Faith.’ I offer a hand and a smile. ‘I’m Jake.’

The smile proves to be a mistake. She toys with one of the knots in her hair and shows me her teeth. Or at least what’s left of them.

‘Come on in.’ Not waiting for an answer, she turns and tries to sashay down the hall. With her undernourished frame, it’s not a move she can pull off.

I follow her into the house. There’s mess everywhere and a smell so repugnant I have to breathe through my mouth. I decline the offer of a seat.

The state both she and the house are in speaks of laziness. I’m no neat freak, but I could keep this place clean with minimal effort. That she hasn’t bothered tells me she has no pride in herself or her belongings.

‘What can I help you with? You said it was about Roger. I told his bosses at the time he didn’t steal nuthin’. That it was all a set-up. Why’d you come botherin’ a grieving widow after all these years?’

The grieving widow must have a taste for cigars and mens’ footwear if the things lying about the house are anything to go by. On the other hand, if the rest of the house is anything to go by, they could well have belonged to her late husband.

‘I’m not here about anything to do with Roger’s work. I’m here about his death.’

‘You from the insurance company? I never got a red cent ’cause he was late with one payment. His pension is worth squat ’cause of him dying so young.’ There is the bitterness of the self-entitled in her voice.

Life hasn’t been kind to her, but she is the type who will see fate’s blows as a personal slight. While some people pick themselves up more determined than ever to succeed, she is the kind of person who blames others and expects those she deems responsible to help her.

With the news I’m about to break, my name is sure to be added to the list of people who’ve caused her life to get worse.

While I’m not informing her of a death, I’m exhuming an accident so I can turn it into a murder. It might not be as bad as breaking the initial news, but it’s still a task I’d be happy to avoid.

‘Faith.’ My use of her name grabs her attention just as I’d intended it to. ‘I have reason to believe Roger’s death wasn’t an accident.’

‘Whadda ya mean?’

‘Have you heard about the killer who’s targeting local citizens?’

‘Dolores said somethin’ ’bout it.’ From the way she waves her hand to the left, I guess Dolores is a neighbour. ‘Can’t say I was listenin’ too good though.’

‘It’s like this. There’s a serial killer working to his own twisted pattern.’ I don’t bother giving her the finer details. Whatever she’s been on before I arrived has dulled her comprehension. ‘There is a way he’s connecting all of his victims. Working backwards, we’ve traced his kills. The trail ends with Roger, so we believe he was the first victim.’

I give her a moment to digest what I’ve just told her.

Hope shines in her eyes. ‘Does this mean I’ll be able to claim off the police?’

Not being enamoured with the claim culture, I can’t begin to imagine what type of lawsuit she’s considering. If the world has any justice left, she’ll be sent packing by even the most fervent ambulance-chasing lawyer.

‘I don’t know anything about that.’ She may be able to detect the contempt in my voice. I don’t care either way. ‘I’m here to ask you a few questions about your husband in the hope we can find out who killed him.’

‘Oh yeah. Sure.’ Now there may be a chance for her to make a few bucks she’s all ears. No contrition or emotion, but plenty of ears.

‘The obvious first question is – did Roger have any enemies?’

A shrug. ‘We all got folks who don’t like us.’

‘Was there anyone he’d fallen out with? Argued over money, perhaps?’

‘You didn’t fall out with Roger. Not if you knew what was good for you.’

I try again. ‘Did he owe anyone money?’

‘He owed on the car but it was some kind of lease deal.’ She looks at the carpet. ‘Roger didn’t believe in running up debts.’

I detect a subtext to what she is saying. Looking at her and her home it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to realise she’ll be lucky if she has two cents to rub together.

Nobody with her lack of personal hygiene and general appearance will be hired by anyone looking to fill a customer facing position. Therefore, the only work she’ll be eligible for will be factory style work. Except Casperton doesn’t have any factories.

With debts looming over her, the future will be bleaker than the past. Every day the debts remain unpaid will see them grow. With her as good as unemployable, state handouts will stop her starving, but there will be little quality to her life. By today’s standards, the twenty-four-inch flat-screen in the corner is a sign of poverty.

The man whose boots lie discarded on the carpet won’t be a prize catch if he’s prepared to tolerate the filth she lives in.

I try another angle. ‘You may not like this, but was he seeing anyone else?’

‘No!’ The word and shake of her head both carry vehemence.

‘Are you sure? You didn’t hear anything after his accident?’ Sometimes people learn a lot about their partners after they die or part from each other. Friends and family members fall over each other to break the news they didn’t dare beforehand. In a twisted way, they believe they’re helping with the healing process. What they’re actually doing is rubbing salt into an open wound. Instead of being thankful for the good times and happy memories, the person remaining has nothing left to cherish.

‘I’m positive, damn you.’ A sneer curls her lip. ‘Don’t think I ain’t seen the way you’ve been looking down on me. I ain’t always looked like this.’

To emphasise her point, she rummages in a drawer and pulls out a framed picture. When she shows it to me, I see her arm in arm with a tall beefy guy.

Perhaps it’s the nurse’s uniform distorting my opinion, but while she’s no knockout in the picture, she’s several leagues above where she is today.

‘Sorry if I’ve offended you, but it’s something I had to ask.’

She doesn’t speak. Again her eyes fall to the carpet. Or whatever is covering the carpet.

I don’t tell her, but her logic is wrong. Working at the Tree for so long, I have seen every possible reason for a fight and the majority have been started over the fairer sex. Either one man is chasing another’s wife, or a woman’s flirting achieves the desired effect and makes her partner jealous. Hands get raised and blood gets spilled.

The next night, or week, the drama will be repeated by different characters. There may be a subplot or a twist, but it’s the same drama every time.

One thing it’s taught me is, regardless of who’s waiting for them at home, some people will always stray. It’s one of the reasons I stay more or less single; I’m one of them.

‘What about his work, you mentioned something of a… dispute?’

‘Asshole foreman thought Roger was on the take. He mighta been a lotta things but he wasn’t never a thief.’

‘You said before, people who knew what was good for them didn’t argue with Roger. What did you mean by that?’