Smoke Alarm by Priscilla Masters Page B

suit, very, very high heels, black, straight, shining hair and scarlet lipstick. Talith stared at her, taken aback. She reminded him of Morticia Adams. There was a vampirish, almost predatory air about her which the DS wasn’t quite comfortable with. For the second time in as many minutes his mouth dropped open and he stood and stared, then remembered his manners and flashed his ID card, mumbling that he wished to speak to Mr Karoglan.
    â€˜Then I invite you in, Sergeant,’ she said with a flirtatious curve of those very red lips. ‘Although I don’t suppose I have any choice, do I?’
    Talith had recovered himself. His response was a bland smile of his own. ‘Is Mr Karoglan in?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Can I speak to him?’
    Her response was arch as she moved behind her shiny desk. ‘Does
he
have a choice?’
    His reply was blunt. ‘Not really.’
    â€˜Right, then. Do I get to know what it’s about?’
    Talith had a sudden fantastic urge to leap over the desk, kiss those red lips and ask her what business it was of hers? Tell her that secretaries don’t have the right to know
everything
about their bosses. Instead he gave a goofy grin and watched as she pressed a button on her keypad and told Karoglan, presumably, that Detective Sergeant Paul Talith of Shrewsbury police wished to speak to him.
    Karoglan was no surprise. Oily, handsome, dressed in a silky continental suit, he appeared in the doorway, his hand already held out and a smile pasted across his face. ‘Hello,’ he said in a Mancunian accent, ‘how are you doin?’ Without waiting for a response he continued with the traditional, ‘And how can I help you?’ When Talith didn’t respond straightaway he followed this with an eagle glance and a perceptive, ‘I suppose it’d be better if we went in my office. Eh?’
    â€˜Thanks.’
    The office was predictably Spartan in its furnishings with a small table in front of the window, two black leather chairs and a desk whose top was bare apart from a computer screen. On the table was the sole ornament in the room, a rectangular, blue glass dish decorated with an orange fish swimming across its middle. The wall reflected the minimalist taste of the room with one huge painting, a Turkish street scene of a man with curving slippers sitting in the foreground smoking a hubble-bubble pipe. It looked an original rather than a print. Talith’s eyes swept around the room and returned to Karoglan, who was grinning at him. He jerked his head towards the painting. ‘Yeah, well,’ Karoglan said with a self-effacing grin, ‘had to remind myself of the old country.’
    The old country, Talith thought. Judging by his accent he’d probably never even been to Turkey, except maybe on a two-week package deal. Karoglan motioned Talith to sit and looked alert. Alert, Talith reflected, not wary. He dived straight in.
    â€˜You’ve heard about the house fire at Melverley?’
    Karoglan frowned. ‘Yeah. Awful. I heard Mrs Barton and her daughter died.’
    â€˜How did you find out?’
    â€˜A guy I used to work with.’
    Talith hazarded a guess. ‘Pinfold?’
    â€˜Yeah. That’s right. He rang me up and told me. Awful.’ Karoglan’s frown deepened. ‘How did it happen?’
    â€˜We don’t know.’ Talith paused, his lids hooding his eyes. Karoglan was an intelligent man. He’d know why he was here. He decided to approach his questions obliquely and made his voice deliberately pally. ‘What was Pinfold’s take on it?’
    â€˜Shocked. That’s about it. Such a horrible thing to happen. Was it an accident, do you know?’
    Talith said nothing and after a hard stare Karoglan leaned forward across his desk, his elbows flat. ‘You’re not telling me it was deliberate?’
    â€˜It’s possible.’
    â€˜Oh, sweet Jesus.’
    He must