Page 8 of Guilty Mothers
‘Call me what?’ Kim asked.
Mitch shook his head at her poor attempt at humour. ‘First bedroom on the left. Interesting.’
Kim glanced at Bryant before heading up the stairs. As ordered, she headed for the first door on the left.
‘Bloody hell,’ she exclaimed as the door opened.
For a second she considered shielding her eyes.
The sun that had followed another brief shower shone through the window, lighting up a treasure trove of trophies, crowns, tiaras, sashes and rosettes. A three-tier display had been set up covered in ivory silk and arranged so that every trophy and cup could be seen. Each sash had its own hook and hung proudly from the wall above the display.
The other three walls were covered in framed photographs of a little girl wearing all kinds of sparkly, sequinned gowns. All of which Kim suspected were still hanging in the double wardrobe behind the door.
A single seat was placed beside the window.
Kim now understood that the photos downstairs weren’t of a girl playing dress up but of her competing.
Katie Hawne had been a pageant child.
‘Looks like they’re in date order,’ Bryant said, taking a look at the trophies.
‘What years?’ Kim asked, picking up a tiara that was made of cheap plastic and what looked like glass.
‘First one I’ve got is Little Miss Stourbridge in 2006, and the last one was Miss Teen Black Country in 2013.’
‘Seven years?’ Kim queried, looking at all the trophies that had been won during that time.
‘She must have been good,’ Bryant said. ‘Lots of first place and Supreme and Grand Supreme, which I don’t understand but sounds pretty impressive.’
Kim followed his gaze. The journey wasn’t hard to map. The most prestigious titles and the biggest trophies had been won during Katie’s middle years.
‘Is it really possible for a kid to hit their prime aged eight to eleven?’ Kim asked, noting the number of second-place trophies after that age.
‘Never given pageant longevity much thought. I never even knew they were a thing in this country. Laura used to love an American show calledToddlers and Tiaraswhen she was little,’ Bryant said, opening the wardrobe doors and revealing dresses that appeared to span the whole seven years.
Kim took the seat by the window, which was in pole position to view the whole room. There was no musty smell and no trace of dust. Rather than being an old batch of memories, the shrine was being kept very much alive.
The question was, by Katie or her mum?
EIGHT
‘I’m not convinced it was Katie reliving the experience,’ Kim said as they headed down the next-door neighbour’s path.
Katie no longer lived at the family home, so it was more likely the shrine was the work of a proud mother. A bit much? Perhaps, but Kim held no judgement for how people spent their free time as long as they weren’t hurting anyone else. If Sheryl Hawne enjoyed reliving Katie’s glory years, where was the harm?
There were few people who would envy her own happy place of the garage floor surrounded by oily bike parts, so to each their own.
They would see what made Katie tick at her flat, once they’d spoken to Sheryl’s neighbour.
‘Rosie Kemp?’ Kim asked, holding up her ID to the woman in her early seventies who answered the door.
‘Are they ready for another cuppa?’ she asked, looking towards the crime scene.
‘Not quite yet,’ Kim answered, having been made aware that Rosie Kemp was the incident ‘hen’. Every suburban crime scene had one old lady, sometimes two, who was quick to offer tea, biscuits and often sandwiches.
‘Oh, okay,’ Rosie said, disappointed.
Every mother hen enjoyed being useful to the attending police officers, and it was widely appreciated. Given their desire to get involved, the hen was often the most knowledgeable about the immediate environment.