For Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge #107, where we write about this photo from Pixabay.

Lydia dozed in her armchair. She spent most afternoons like this, slipping in and out of consciousness, since her retirement almost two years ago. A shrill knock at the door woke her. Who could that be? Visitors were rare, these days.

Padding down the hallway almost on tip toe, the diminutive old lady meekly opened the door. “Mrs Evans ?” She didn’t recognise the man standing before her, but noted an ill-fitting suit and a strong smell of cigarettes.

“I’m Terry McFarlane, from Ferne Rise CID. Are you Mrs Lydia Evans?”

“Yes, officer”, she looked taken aback, “how can I help?”

“It’s about Colin Dermott Evans.” Her husband.

Without hesitation, she replied “yes, officer, please come in.”

Lydia led him into the parlour. Seated, she asked “What do you want with Colin? We split up, you know, it must be five years ago now. So I’m not sure how much I can help you”, she added for good measure.

“It’s a strange one, Mrs Evans. It comes via New South Wales State Police, a Mr Terence Evans is worried about the whereabouts of Mr Colin Evans.”

“Terry? That’s his brother”, she replied, aghast. “But Terry’s been over there, it must have been thirty years since. But Terry? They hadn’t seen each other for god-knows-how-long, and even when he lived here, there was no love lost between them.”

“Apparently, Terence Evans has been trying to contact his brother Colin Evans for the last six months. He’s been unable to trace him and contacted his local police, who in turn got in touch with us.”

“So, how can I help?”

“Well, we wondered if you might have any idea of your husband’s whereabouts?”

“I’m sorry, officer. I threw him out for the last time, five years ago.” With some acidity, she added, “he always had a string of women – you could try finding one of them…”.

“So, can you tell us anything that might help us?”

“Well, I bumped into one of his betting shop friends about three years ago, he said Colin had flown out to Thailand at the start of that winter.”

The detective noted this down. “And can you tell me the name of this friend?” He wrote that down, too. “And the shop?”

Within a few minutes, Lydia had exhausted her helpfullness. McFarlane proffered his thanks, and departed.

Returning, Lydia walked to the sideboard and gently patted the skull, which formed the centrepiece. She pondered her next move.

“I think you need to lie low for a while, Colin, don’t you?”