again after three p.m.’ After a silence he glanced at me again. ‘Yes, he’s here. We’re over the road, keeping observation in the square.’ He listened for a while then emitted a long Jeeez .
‘OK, we’ll be back in a minute. Out.’
He folded the phone and slowly returned it to his pocket. ‘Forget interviewing Threadneedle again,’ he said. ‘Someone’s blown his brains out.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Serena was in the office. ‘Right person in the right place,’ I told her. ‘I have a job for you and it’s very important that you do it before the weather changes. Today if possible. I’ll try to find someone to go with you. Come and listen while I make this phone call, then I don’t have to repeat myself.’ I dialled a number from memory.
‘Who’s that?’ Serena asked.
‘Scene of crime.’ When I’d finished the conversation I dialled again. ‘It’s Charlie, Gareth,’ I said. ‘Can you lend me somebody to do some detective work, please? It’s important.’
He could. Serena said: ‘If I catch rabies I’ll sue.’
‘You’ll catch bigger fish than rabies,’ I told her, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘Do your best.’ Dave was hovering, itching to be off, a bag of paper suits and other detective stuff over his shoulder. Actually, we don’t carry much with us these days, because we have an expert for about everything. His eyes and his brains are the good detective’s tools of the trade. Together, Dave and I can just about hack it. I led the way, Dave followed.
One of our pandas was parked outside the Threadneedle residence and another one turned into the cul-de-sac behind me. A Day-Glo orange Ford Focus stood on the drive, close to the door, with its boot lid raised.
‘Who made the call?’ I asked the driver of the first panda.
‘Lady of the house, sir.’
I guessed it was her car. I’d taken a quick peep in the boot as I passed it and seen it was full of shopping. ‘Where is she now?’
‘Inside.’
‘Anybody with her?’
His female partner was babysitting her, which was a relief. Having the number one suspect all alone in there wouldn’t have been good news. The PC had been told that the body was upstairs. He’d taken a perfunctory look and decided it was murder and radioed for help. I needed to confirm his diagnosis before sending for the cavalry.
I pulled on the full paper suit and padded down the driveway and into the front door. I caught a glimpse of the PC through the half-open door of the room where I’d had coffee six days earlier and assumed Mrs T was in there with her. I’d talk to her later.
My feet, clad in overshoes, sank into the deep carpet as I climbed the stairs and I pulled the jumpsuit’s sleeves over my fists to keep them out of trouble. The banister was to the right, so I kept hard over to the left to cause as little disturbance as possible. My own breath sounded like that of a deep-sea diver as it forced its way through the dust mask I was wearing. I paused for a few seconds, pulling it away from my nose as I took a long, slow inhale. Furniture polish and the flower arrangement on the antique pedestal table that stood in the hallway. No bitter almonds; no Gauloises; no Hugo Boss. A trace, perhaps, just the slightest trace, of the smell of blood.
His feet were projecting from behind the bed, pointing away from it. He was face down, and I was grateful. Alongside the bed was a dressing table with naked light bulbs around the mirror, as you would find in a theatre’s dressing room. The lights were blazing and a tuneless song was coming from a bedside radio. Polished shoes in two tones of brown, socks with diamond patterns on them. I took a step forward. Grey trousers that looked smart even on a dead man. Thin leather belt. Right hand down by his side, palm upwards; watch strap in yellow metal. Was Threadneedle left-handed? I took another step around the end of the bed.
Left hand flung forward. Something grasped in it. Shirt collar loose with
‘OK, we’ll be back in a minute. Out.’
He folded the phone and slowly returned it to his pocket. ‘Forget interviewing Threadneedle again,’ he said. ‘Someone’s blown his brains out.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Serena was in the office. ‘Right person in the right place,’ I told her. ‘I have a job for you and it’s very important that you do it before the weather changes. Today if possible. I’ll try to find someone to go with you. Come and listen while I make this phone call, then I don’t have to repeat myself.’ I dialled a number from memory.
‘Who’s that?’ Serena asked.
‘Scene of crime.’ When I’d finished the conversation I dialled again. ‘It’s Charlie, Gareth,’ I said. ‘Can you lend me somebody to do some detective work, please? It’s important.’
He could. Serena said: ‘If I catch rabies I’ll sue.’
‘You’ll catch bigger fish than rabies,’ I told her, giving her arm a squeeze. ‘Do your best.’ Dave was hovering, itching to be off, a bag of paper suits and other detective stuff over his shoulder. Actually, we don’t carry much with us these days, because we have an expert for about everything. His eyes and his brains are the good detective’s tools of the trade. Together, Dave and I can just about hack it. I led the way, Dave followed.
One of our pandas was parked outside the Threadneedle residence and another one turned into the cul-de-sac behind me. A Day-Glo orange Ford Focus stood on the drive, close to the door, with its boot lid raised.
‘Who made the call?’ I asked the driver of the first panda.
‘Lady of the house, sir.’
I guessed it was her car. I’d taken a quick peep in the boot as I passed it and seen it was full of shopping. ‘Where is she now?’
‘Inside.’
‘Anybody with her?’
His female partner was babysitting her, which was a relief. Having the number one suspect all alone in there wouldn’t have been good news. The PC had been told that the body was upstairs. He’d taken a perfunctory look and decided it was murder and radioed for help. I needed to confirm his diagnosis before sending for the cavalry.
I pulled on the full paper suit and padded down the driveway and into the front door. I caught a glimpse of the PC through the half-open door of the room where I’d had coffee six days earlier and assumed Mrs T was in there with her. I’d talk to her later.
My feet, clad in overshoes, sank into the deep carpet as I climbed the stairs and I pulled the jumpsuit’s sleeves over my fists to keep them out of trouble. The banister was to the right, so I kept hard over to the left to cause as little disturbance as possible. My own breath sounded like that of a deep-sea diver as it forced its way through the dust mask I was wearing. I paused for a few seconds, pulling it away from my nose as I took a long, slow inhale. Furniture polish and the flower arrangement on the antique pedestal table that stood in the hallway. No bitter almonds; no Gauloises; no Hugo Boss. A trace, perhaps, just the slightest trace, of the smell of blood.
His feet were projecting from behind the bed, pointing away from it. He was face down, and I was grateful. Alongside the bed was a dressing table with naked light bulbs around the mirror, as you would find in a theatre’s dressing room. The lights were blazing and a tuneless song was coming from a bedside radio. Polished shoes in two tones of brown, socks with diamond patterns on them. I took a step forward. Grey trousers that looked smart even on a dead man. Thin leather belt. Right hand down by his side, palm upwards; watch strap in yellow metal. Was Threadneedle left-handed? I took another step around the end of the bed.
Left hand flung forward. Something grasped in it. Shirt collar loose with
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