with Miffi, unless that’s another cat, the blond’s a titled aristo. Typical, isn’t it?”
Cornwall Gardens was a total waste of time. Edie Williams, reported missing by her mother, Florence, was a thirty-five-year-old mental deficient with a passion for watching trains at Euston Station. She had returned home that morning.
Otley sipped from the cracked mug of terrible-tasting tea, prompting the three girls to remember exactly when they had last seen their flatmate, Karen. It was quite normal for her to spend several days at a time with her boyfriend, Michael Hardy, but he had been away, skiing. Antonia at last decided she had not seen Karen since Friday—no, Saturday.
“Do you have a photograph of her?”
“Oh, yes, lots. There’s her modeling portfolio, would you like to see that?”
Miffy, a short, plump girl with a wonderful, chortling laugh, bounced out of the room. Lady Antonia asked if the police were worried that something had happened to Karen. Otley didn’t reply but made a note of Karen’s boyfriend’s name and phone number. He glanced at Jones, whose eyes constantly wandered back to Antonia’s legs.
The doorbell rang and Antonia strolled out, pausing to ask if anyone would care for more tea. None of them showed fear for Karen; they did not really believe that anything could have happened to her, it was just a bit odd that no one had seen her around.
Miffy returned and shrugged her shoulders. “Can’t find it, but we have got some photos of when we were in St. Moritz, they’d be the most recent. I’ll see if I can find them.”
She went off again in search of them as the leggy Antonia returned with a large cardboard box. “It’s my new pet, a chinchilla. Would you like to see it? It’s just adorable . . .”
Before Jones could take up the opportunity to get closer to Antonia, Miffy came back with a large, expensive-looking album. She flipped through the pages, then stopped.
“Oh, here’s a goodie, this is Karen.”
Otley took the book, stared at the photograph, then silently passed it to Jones. The atmosphere in the room changed in an instant; the girls picked up on the glance between the two officers. Suddenly they were afraid.
“Is something wrong? Has something happened?”
Otley sighed and passed Jones his notebook, in which he had jotted down Michael Hardy’s details. “Could DC Jones use your telephone? And I suggest you get your coats, ladies. We’ll need you to accompany us to the station.”
The girls left the room. Jones hovered. “Er . . . Who do I call, Skipper?”
Otley gave him an impatient stare. “You call the boyfriend, and we pick him up on our way back to the station.”
“Oh, right! His number’s in the book, is it?”
“In the book in your friggin’ hand, you fruit!”
The house in Brighton was a late Victorian building with a fish and chip shop on the ground floor. Elaine Shawcross, daughter of the proprietors of the shop, had been missing for ten weeks. Her parents were upstairs in their flat; while Tennison went to see them, Burkin ordered fish and chips for them both.
As he carried them back to the car he was surprised to see Tennison leaving the house. She climbed into the car and slammed the door.
“I’ve salted and peppered them, ma’am, did you want vinegar?”
“Yeah, I’d like to smother that Otley’s head in it, might make his hair grow. Either Detective Sergeant Otley needs his friggin’ head seeing to, or he’s deliberately sending me on a wild-goose chase. Give us me chips, then!” She crammed chips in her mouth and continued, “He’s pissed off with me because he’s back at the station interviewing hundreds of toms! Ha, ha, ha!”
As they drove back towards London, Tennison stared out of the window. “That snide bugger Otley did it on purpose! Sending us all the way down here, he’s just stirring it at every opportunity.”
Burkin did not respond, and she gave him a sidelong look. “So, Frank, what do you
Cornwall Gardens was a total waste of time. Edie Williams, reported missing by her mother, Florence, was a thirty-five-year-old mental deficient with a passion for watching trains at Euston Station. She had returned home that morning.
Otley sipped from the cracked mug of terrible-tasting tea, prompting the three girls to remember exactly when they had last seen their flatmate, Karen. It was quite normal for her to spend several days at a time with her boyfriend, Michael Hardy, but he had been away, skiing. Antonia at last decided she had not seen Karen since Friday—no, Saturday.
“Do you have a photograph of her?”
“Oh, yes, lots. There’s her modeling portfolio, would you like to see that?”
Miffy, a short, plump girl with a wonderful, chortling laugh, bounced out of the room. Lady Antonia asked if the police were worried that something had happened to Karen. Otley didn’t reply but made a note of Karen’s boyfriend’s name and phone number. He glanced at Jones, whose eyes constantly wandered back to Antonia’s legs.
The doorbell rang and Antonia strolled out, pausing to ask if anyone would care for more tea. None of them showed fear for Karen; they did not really believe that anything could have happened to her, it was just a bit odd that no one had seen her around.
Miffy returned and shrugged her shoulders. “Can’t find it, but we have got some photos of when we were in St. Moritz, they’d be the most recent. I’ll see if I can find them.”
She went off again in search of them as the leggy Antonia returned with a large cardboard box. “It’s my new pet, a chinchilla. Would you like to see it? It’s just adorable . . .”
Before Jones could take up the opportunity to get closer to Antonia, Miffy came back with a large, expensive-looking album. She flipped through the pages, then stopped.
“Oh, here’s a goodie, this is Karen.”
Otley took the book, stared at the photograph, then silently passed it to Jones. The atmosphere in the room changed in an instant; the girls picked up on the glance between the two officers. Suddenly they were afraid.
“Is something wrong? Has something happened?”
Otley sighed and passed Jones his notebook, in which he had jotted down Michael Hardy’s details. “Could DC Jones use your telephone? And I suggest you get your coats, ladies. We’ll need you to accompany us to the station.”
The girls left the room. Jones hovered. “Er . . . Who do I call, Skipper?”
Otley gave him an impatient stare. “You call the boyfriend, and we pick him up on our way back to the station.”
“Oh, right! His number’s in the book, is it?”
“In the book in your friggin’ hand, you fruit!”
The house in Brighton was a late Victorian building with a fish and chip shop on the ground floor. Elaine Shawcross, daughter of the proprietors of the shop, had been missing for ten weeks. Her parents were upstairs in their flat; while Tennison went to see them, Burkin ordered fish and chips for them both.
As he carried them back to the car he was surprised to see Tennison leaving the house. She climbed into the car and slammed the door.
“I’ve salted and peppered them, ma’am, did you want vinegar?”
“Yeah, I’d like to smother that Otley’s head in it, might make his hair grow. Either Detective Sergeant Otley needs his friggin’ head seeing to, or he’s deliberately sending me on a wild-goose chase. Give us me chips, then!” She crammed chips in her mouth and continued, “He’s pissed off with me because he’s back at the station interviewing hundreds of toms! Ha, ha, ha!”
As they drove back towards London, Tennison stared out of the window. “That snide bugger Otley did it on purpose! Sending us all the way down here, he’s just stirring it at every opportunity.”
Burkin did not respond, and she gave him a sidelong look. “So, Frank, what do you
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