There was a slight pause. “I’m probably wasting your time, but you did say. And in view
of...”
Bev’s glance fell on Daniel’s picture. “Fifteen minutes, max. See you there.”
The tingle in her palms could be premature. But at the very least the package was her calling card for Jenny Page.
Byford’s desk phone rang just as he was leaving for the brief. Doctor Gillian Overdale was the relatively new police pathologist. She had a penchant for berets and
brogues and an attitude that veered between businesslike and brusque. “There was a note attached to the Doug Edensor file? I was asked to keep you informed?”
No greeting, polite or otherwise, and her habitual antipodean inflection got up Byford’s nose. To be fair, whatever her verbal idiosyncrasies, she was a skilled operator. She’d
succeeded Harry Gough who’d grabbed early retirement and headed for sunnier climes with a laptop, fancying himself as the next Ian Rankin. Byford wished Overdale had inherited Harry’s
skills with live bodies as well as stiffs. “Thanks, doctor. What...?”
“Edensor had multiple injuries consistent with a fall. Broken bones, internal bleeding? He was a mess. But the fall probably didn’t kill him, and anyway he wouldn’t have felt a
thing.”
“Sorry?” What had she said?
“Completely out of it. Enough medication in him to down a rhino.”
A faint alarm bell sounded in Byford’s head. “What had he taken?”
“Who said anything about taken ?”
The alarm was so loud Byford could barely hear himself think. According to Overdale, a lethal dose of insulin had been administered. Doug Edensor wasn’t diabetic. It appeared that Doug had
been murdered and the death made to look like suicide. Which made it increasingly likely that Robbie Crawford’s hit-and-run had been no accident.
“How did you move it?” Bev asked, fingers crossed. The package lay on a low table in reception at Full Page Ads. She and Laura were the only people in the
building.
“I used a tissue. I hope that’s all right.”
“Nice one.” Thank you, CSI . Amazing how much savvy viewers picked up from cop shows; shame villains watched telly too.
Laura sounded her old self now and as far as Bev knew also looked it. The ebony hair and alabaster complexion put her in mind of Snow White. Bev felt like one of the dwarves standing next to
her. “Sit for a minute, shall we?”
La Foster’s crisp white suit looked classic and cool. Bev was feeling the heat in navy cords. It wasn’t a brilliant colour for summer but her entire working wardrobe was blue: saved
thinking first thing. Came in handy earlier that morning. “It definitely arrived after you left yesterday?” she asked.
“Absolutely.” Straight-backed, knees together, she nudged her glasses up her nose, like she was taking an oral exam.
“How often do you come in on a Sunday?”
“Hardly ever.” Her mouth turned down. “Ah... so it’s probably nothing to do with Daniel’s disappearance, is it? The kidnappers wouldn’t want any delay.
They’d contact the family direct, not leave something here.”
Wasn’t the way Bev saw it. Kidnappers generally played a waiting game, convinced they had all the time in the world – because they drew up the timetable. Their main priority
wasn’t the victim or the family’s trauma. It was not to get caught. Given how tight security was round The White House, the agency could’ve seemed a safer bet. They’d not
give a rat’s arse when it was found. Assuming that’s who it was from.
“Hold this for us, will you?” she asked.
Laura held open an evidence bag; Bev carefully slipped in the package.
There was only one way to find out.
The MG was like a furnace and it wasn’t half ten yet. Thank God she’d eschewed yesterday’s skirt, her bum would be melting into the plastic. She lowered the
windows, then put a call through to the guv, brought him up to speed before heading out for Moseley and the Page
of...”
Bev’s glance fell on Daniel’s picture. “Fifteen minutes, max. See you there.”
The tingle in her palms could be premature. But at the very least the package was her calling card for Jenny Page.
Byford’s desk phone rang just as he was leaving for the brief. Doctor Gillian Overdale was the relatively new police pathologist. She had a penchant for berets and
brogues and an attitude that veered between businesslike and brusque. “There was a note attached to the Doug Edensor file? I was asked to keep you informed?”
No greeting, polite or otherwise, and her habitual antipodean inflection got up Byford’s nose. To be fair, whatever her verbal idiosyncrasies, she was a skilled operator. She’d
succeeded Harry Gough who’d grabbed early retirement and headed for sunnier climes with a laptop, fancying himself as the next Ian Rankin. Byford wished Overdale had inherited Harry’s
skills with live bodies as well as stiffs. “Thanks, doctor. What...?”
“Edensor had multiple injuries consistent with a fall. Broken bones, internal bleeding? He was a mess. But the fall probably didn’t kill him, and anyway he wouldn’t have felt a
thing.”
“Sorry?” What had she said?
“Completely out of it. Enough medication in him to down a rhino.”
A faint alarm bell sounded in Byford’s head. “What had he taken?”
“Who said anything about taken ?”
The alarm was so loud Byford could barely hear himself think. According to Overdale, a lethal dose of insulin had been administered. Doug Edensor wasn’t diabetic. It appeared that Doug had
been murdered and the death made to look like suicide. Which made it increasingly likely that Robbie Crawford’s hit-and-run had been no accident.
“How did you move it?” Bev asked, fingers crossed. The package lay on a low table in reception at Full Page Ads. She and Laura were the only people in the
building.
“I used a tissue. I hope that’s all right.”
“Nice one.” Thank you, CSI . Amazing how much savvy viewers picked up from cop shows; shame villains watched telly too.
Laura sounded her old self now and as far as Bev knew also looked it. The ebony hair and alabaster complexion put her in mind of Snow White. Bev felt like one of the dwarves standing next to
her. “Sit for a minute, shall we?”
La Foster’s crisp white suit looked classic and cool. Bev was feeling the heat in navy cords. It wasn’t a brilliant colour for summer but her entire working wardrobe was blue: saved
thinking first thing. Came in handy earlier that morning. “It definitely arrived after you left yesterday?” she asked.
“Absolutely.” Straight-backed, knees together, she nudged her glasses up her nose, like she was taking an oral exam.
“How often do you come in on a Sunday?”
“Hardly ever.” Her mouth turned down. “Ah... so it’s probably nothing to do with Daniel’s disappearance, is it? The kidnappers wouldn’t want any delay.
They’d contact the family direct, not leave something here.”
Wasn’t the way Bev saw it. Kidnappers generally played a waiting game, convinced they had all the time in the world – because they drew up the timetable. Their main priority
wasn’t the victim or the family’s trauma. It was not to get caught. Given how tight security was round The White House, the agency could’ve seemed a safer bet. They’d not
give a rat’s arse when it was found. Assuming that’s who it was from.
“Hold this for us, will you?” she asked.
Laura held open an evidence bag; Bev carefully slipped in the package.
There was only one way to find out.
The MG was like a furnace and it wasn’t half ten yet. Thank God she’d eschewed yesterday’s skirt, her bum would be melting into the plastic. She lowered the
windows, then put a call through to the guv, brought him up to speed before heading out for Moseley and the Page
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