Abattoir Blues by Peter Robinson

OK?’
    ‘Yes, ma’am.’
    Gervaise looked at her watch and stood up. ‘Why don’t you all go home now and get some rest? Tomorrow looks like a busy day. We’ve got a stolen tractor, two young men we’d like to find and talk to and the makings of a suspicious death at an abandoned airfield. For the moment these are separate cases, and I’ll see that actions are issued accordingly. But for crying out loud, keep open minds, all of you.’ She pointed towards the timeline on the whiteboard. ‘You know how I feel about coincidences. If you come across one shred of evidence you think links the cases, then report it to me immediately, and we’ll change our strategy. Clear?’
    Annie and the rest nodded, then they made their way out of the boardroom. After one or two brief conversations in the corridor, the team dispersed. At last, Annie thought, as she picked up her coat from the squad room, it was time to go home. Now she could enjoy what she had been wanting all day: that hot bath and stack of trashy magazines.
     
    Terry Gilchrist had just put his feet up for an hour’s reading before dinner when the doorbell rang. His leg hurt and he cursed mildly as he got to his feet and went to answer it. He could see only a blurred figure through the frosted glass, but when he opened the door he saw the beautiful black detective standing there. At least he thought she was beautiful. He hoped his mouth hadn’t dropped as far as he felt it had. Since he’d been to war then invalided back home, he seemed to have lost whatever facility he had ever possessed with the opposite sex. He had certainly had no interest in the brothels of Helmand Province, and opportunities to meet other kinds of women outside the armed forces themselves had been few and far between. Now here stood a woman who probably suspected him of murder. He had been friendly with one of the military investigators out in Helmand, who had worked on the Met as a detective, and he knew they always suspected the person who reported the crime. Still, she was smiling, and that was a good sign.
    ‘Come in,’ he said, standing aside and gesturing towards the living room.
    ‘Hope I didn’t disturb anything,’ she said. ‘I have a few more follow-up questions for you.’
    ‘Not at all. Just having a sit-down.’ She had an intriguing voice, he thought. At first he had hardly noticed it, as she appeared to speak unaccented English, but if he listened closely he could hear intermingled undertones of Jamaican and Yorkshire. It was a unique blend, and he’d challenge any actor, however skilled, to reproduce it.
    She sat down gracefully, crossing her long legs. He noticed her glancing at his leg as he walked by and used his arms to lower himself back into the armchair.
    ‘I suppose it could be worse,’ she said. ‘I mean the leg. Worse things than ending up with a slight limp.’ He got the impression from her awkward tone that he had embarrassed her by catching her looking at his disability.
    ‘Much worse. The alternatives hardly bear thinking about. Believe it or not, I’m on the mend. The doctors assure me the stick will go completely soon, but they fear the limp will persist. I don’t mean to complain, but the devil of it is that I’m used to outdoor pursuits. I used to love long-distance running, golf, tennis, even a little fishing and potholing now and then.’
    ‘Potholing?’ Winsome said. ‘I used to do that.’
    ‘Used to? What happened?’
    ‘I got lost once, and the water was rising. I’m afraid I panicked a bit. It sort of put me off.’
    ‘I suppose if you stop to think what you’re doing when you’re lost in a cold wet cave a hundred feet under the ground, it might seem like a sort of crazy thing to do.’
    Winsome laughed. He liked her laugh, and that he could make her laugh. ‘I almost came a cropper,’ she went on. ‘I was in the narrowest section, you know, worming my way through to the ledge overlooking the big cavern at Gaping Gill. When