Post Mortem by Kate London Page A

hadn’t. Equally, she reminded herself, these were words that someone could easily make up and put in the mouth of a police officer. Which account you were inclined to believe depended largely on your own point of view. The complaint was a commonplace accusation. Just as plausible surely to believe Hadley’s account: Farah’s allegation was malicious, made simply to divert attention from the truth, which was, after all, no more than a routine enquiry into a sure-fire charge for a petty offence.
    She needed to distance herself from the complaint. It wasn’t her problem. It was outside her remit. It was her job to investigate Mrs Stewart’s allegation of criminal damage. She raised her voice again.
    â€˜Mr Mehenni, if you won’t let me speak, I’ll have to stop the interview.’
    There was a moment’s silence. Mehenni folded his arms across his chest and gave her a look of fury, as if waiting for her explanation.
    â€˜Mr Mehenni, I’m interviewing you . I understand you’ve made a complaint. You have a solicitor. That matter will be dealt with, I can assure you, but separately, not by me.’
    Mehenni denied all offences. Lizzie couldn’t caution him and she couldn’t charge him either – she needed to get the data for the threatening phone call to Carrie Stewart. She had no choice but to bail him. She had a word with his solicitor in the corridor.
    â€˜Please, try to explain to him. The best thing is for him just to stay away from Carrie Stewart. Tell him to think of his family.’

    Bailing Mehenni had made her late. As she entered the bar, Sergeant Thompson, wearing a bright red wig, and Superman underpants over his trousers, was holding forth. Other drinkers were casting nervous glances at him.
    â€˜Lizzie!’ Thompson shouted to her as though she were the most ardently wished-for member of the company, as if her arrival at last made the celebration complete. She smiled at the welcome.
    â€˜Drink, anyone?’
    It was a large order: she paid with a card. The bar was crowded and dark. At the table they were reciting Monty Python sketches. She drank steadfastly, getting determinedly into the spirit of things. Thompson was making a speech. He was off to pastures new, where the women were better-looking and – more significantly – no one knew him yet. He held up the framed Polaroid photos they had given him of the team and waved the bottle of whisky.
    â€˜Seriously, thank you for this. It’s been great. A very difficult decision to leave. If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.’
    Lizzie found the photo frame in her hands. Among the images was one of herself and two of the other girls draped across the bonnet of a police car.
    â€˜So that’s how you spend your time,’ commented Arif over her shoulder.
    â€˜Nobody knows exactly what you do all day,’ she countered. ‘Hiding in cupboards, is it?’
    â€˜I’m not hiding in any cupboards.’
    â€˜No, that’s true enough.’
    They clinked glasses. At a far table Hadley was drinking stolidly. He gestured to a tall glass standing on the table and waved for her to come over.
    â€˜You won the bet after all. Surprised me, well done. Bloody Mary your poison, isn’t it?’
    It was possible that, for all Sergeant Thompson’s brief enthusiasm, Hadley was indeed her natural companion at this event. She took a seat next to him.
    â€˜Sorry I couldn’t help you out with Mehenni,’ he said. ‘Guv’nor thought I ought to leave it alone. In view of the complaint, that is.’
    â€˜Yes, no worries.’
    â€˜What did he say?’
    â€˜Denied it.’
    â€˜Charge him?’
    â€˜No, on bail.’
    â€˜That’s not a good idea, is it?’
    â€˜I need to get the phone data. Since Carrie Stewart put her oar in, the Superintendent’s been taking an interest – told me I couldn’t let the