Cold Shoulder by Lynda La Plante Page A

have used her key, and assumed it was Jake.
    She stepped back in shock as the two officers lolled at the door. One remained outside while the second came in to ‘ask a few questions…’ She lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the sofa, thankful she had cleared away the blankets and pillows.
    ‘Do you live here?’
    ‘Yes, I do.’
    ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Laura Bradley. Actually I’m just staying here, I don’t own this apartment.’
    ‘Who does?’
    Lorraine gave Rosie’s name. He asked for a description, and she said Rosie was dark-haired and in her late thirties.
    ‘Is she fat?’
    Lorraine half smiled. ‘No. Why? Has something happened to her?’
    ‘No. Were you here early evening on the seventeenth of last month?’
    Lorraine nodded.
    ‘Did someone else come here? Did a taxi cab bring someone else to these premises?’
    ‘No. Not that I can recall…’
    The officer stood up, walked towards the bedroom, and pushed open the door.
    ‘Just the two of you live here? Nobody else? Short, dark-haired man?’
    Lorraine laughed. ‘No. It’s a small place. Why are you so interested?’
    The photograph was not the same as the one in the wallet but much larger. Yet Lorraine knew at a glance that it was the owner of the vehicle licence — the owner of the wallet.
    ‘Do you know this man?’
    ‘No, I’m sorry. What has he done?’
    ‘He was murdered, ma’am. Haven’t you read about it? Local man.’
    Lorraine looked suitably shocked, then stood up. ‘Maybe he lived here before I came to stay — I can ask my friend.’
    The officer slipped the photograph back into his jacket. ‘Thanks. Truth is, we’re only interested in tracing the woman — cabbie reckoned she was dropped off around here.’ He relaxed, smiled at Lorraine. ‘As you don’t fit the description we must have got the wrong place, but thanks for your help, been nice talkin’ to you.’
    Lorraine followed the young officer to the door. ‘Was she murdered as well?’ she asked innocently.
    ‘No, but we think she may have known the man driving the deceased’s vehicle. We have two witnesses.’
    ‘They saw her coming here?’ asked Lorraine.
    ‘No. In the local shopping mall car park, and we were told she may have been brought here by cab. We’re asking everyone in the street if they saw her. She must have been hard to miss — she was covered in blood.’
    Lorraine opened the front door. ‘I’ll ask Rosie when she comes home if she saw her. Do you have a number? Somebody I can call?’
    The officer told her to contact her local station or sheriffs office and they would pass on any information to the department handling the homicide.
    After they had gone, Lorraine leaned against the door. Her heart was beating so rapidly that she felt dizzy. She began to talk herself down for being so stupid. She was not involved in any murder. All she had done was tip off the cops with the description of the man who picked her up. There was nothing to be afraid of — except that she had taken the wallet. But she’d got rid of it and nearly all the money was gone. They had not been new notes so she doubted they could be traced. Why was she worrying about something so inconsequential when the officers hadn’t even recognized her as the woman they wanted for questioning? She ran her tongue over her newly capped teeth. She had come a long way since that attack, physically and mentally, and she congratulated herself on the way she had handled the cop.
    She even mentally castigated the police for being so slow in finding the cab driver who had driven her home that afternoon. If she had been on the case it would have been the first thing she’d have checked.
    Self-satisfied, she left the apartment, her pace quickening as she walked towards the bus stop. Nothing in her appearance resembled the woman the police had described: her hair was well cut. She looked elegant, though the shoes were a bit tight and she was without a purse, but she was more