I’m sorry, Gerald’s not home right now.

Ivy showed the Metropolitan police inspector to what she called ‘the drawing room’. It was in fact the living room, but since she and her husband had inherited the place in 1971 they’d always called it that.

“Your husband’s family seemed most concerned,” said the inspector as he sat down in a love seat that had seen better days, and less weary lovers.

“Oh, don’t mind Mildred,” said Ivy, seeing the inspector looking at the sleeping form of a woman in her mid sixties, dozing beneath a brightly colored blanket. A soft snoring sound emanated from the form of the sleeper.

“She has her good days, and she has her bad days,” continued Ivy. “Alzheimer’s. Can you believe she’s barely four years my senior?”

It was true that for a sixty one year old woman Ivy had maintained a very athletic form. The inspector steered the conversation back on track with all the delicacy of a traffic accident.

“They said he stopped calling them about nine months ago. Apparently his phone was cut off shortly afterwards.” The inspector left the sentence hanging in the air.

At length Ivy said, “I see.”

Two could play at this game. She, in turn, let it hang.