Stranglehold by J. M. Gregson Page A

down at the feet that were so near to his own. They were in good shoes, fashioned in better leather than his own. ‘What size of shoe do you take?’
    â€˜Tens. What’s that to you?’
    â€˜The Scene of Crime team found the imprint of a shoe near Hetty Brown’s body. Size nine and a half or ten, they thought: I had to get them to translate these new-fangled continental sizes for me. A city shoe, by the look of the sole, they said.’ He looked down at Kemp’s traditional Oxford leather shoes with considerable satisfaction.
    Kemp said, ‘It might not have been the murderer’s shoe. There could have been lots of footmarks in the clay round there.’
    â€˜Know exactly where she was found then, do you? Interesting, that; especially as we haven’t released any of the details yet.’
    They could almost hear Kemp’s mind working in the pause which followed. ‘I – I heard where she died. On that building site, wasn’t it? You can’t hush these things up. It’s been all round the club today.’
    It was Lambert’s turn to pause, pretending to weigh this and find it unconvincing. Eventually he said quietly, ‘Did you know a girl called Julie Salmon, Mr Kemp?’ Though Hook had used it once before, it was the first time Lambert had afforded Kemp the title, and it fell from his lips with the irony of insult, much as his own Christian name had been dropped by his opponent earlier in their exchanges.
    â€˜The girl who was killed a fortnight ago? She used to come in here, yes. You’re not trying to pin that one on me, surely?’ The sense of outrage he wanted did not come through in the words, but his fear did.
    â€˜We may need an account of your movements on the night she died, Mr Kemp.’ They had already checked before they came here, but it would be useful to know if he thought it necessary to lie. There had been a meeting of Oldford FC Committee in the earlier part of the evening, but no one knew accurately when Julie Salmon had died, because she had not been found for two days.
    Bert Hook stood up at a nod from Lambert. ‘The forensic team will need to go over this place, and perhaps your office as well, to see if there are fibres from Harriet Brown’s clothing present.’
    â€˜If you’re going to start on police persecution, perhaps –’
    â€˜And of course, when we have the report on the clothing Miss Brown wore on the night of her death, we may need to check your wardrobe for any fibres that tally. We tend to be both meticulous and persistent when murder is the crime. And the magistrates tend to be sympathetic to our efforts when it comes to search warrants. No doubt you will let us know if you plan to move out of the area.’ Lambert turned abruptly on his heel and was gone, without waiting for any reply.
    Kemp poured himself one of his neat whiskies when he was sure they had left, feeling the therapeutic effect of its warm fire as it coursed into his system. Then he went into his office, looked up a number in the notebook in the top drawer of his desk, and tapped out the numbers carefully on the phone.
    â€˜The police have been here. About Hetty Brown. They wanted to know about what I did last night. I told them I was in the hospitality room, on my own. They didn’t believe me, but that’s the story at the moment. If they try to pin it on me, you may need to tell them you were here with me. For the moment, keep quiet about it.’

CHAPTER 9
    Back at the Murder Room, Lambert found Don Haworth, the police surgeon. He had called in to check the latest progress on the case. Lambert was pleased to find a busy medic so interested in their work, particularly as Haworth, unlike Cyril Burgess, the pathologist, had no interest in lurid detective fiction.
    â€˜No luck with Julie Salmon’s boyfriend, I believe,’ said Haworth.
    â€˜Darren Pickering? Afraid not. Mind you, he’s been in