Laura standing in front of the whiteboard, a small frown of concentration stamping a small V between her eyebrows as she reviewed pictures of the dead Moira Farrell and the portrait gallery of witnesses and possible suspects.
‘Any new ideas?’ he asked, knowing that neither Laura nor Doug were one hundred per cent convinced about Busfield’s status as prime suspect. Not as yet.
She shook her head. She had an air of patient frustration about her.
‘Let’s go out and do a bit of digging,’ he said. ‘And I’m not talking about the snow.’
The offices of the Women’s Page and Features department at The Yorkshire Echo were as cramped as those of the CID – and even more grubby and slum-like. Mugs of cold half-drunk coffee littered the desk tops, a number of them crowned with drowned, half-smoked cigarette ends. Balls of screwed-up paper from reporters’ notebooks were scattered at intervals over the floor,presumably having been lobbed unsuccessfully in the direction of the one and only wastepaper basket.
There were just two personnel present: a fifty-something woman with a helmet of blonde hair, and the young journalist who had spoken up at the press conference. Once again she was wearing her battered bikers’ leathers and her black hair stuck up like porcupine spines. She looked up as the two detectives entered and gave a foxy grin.
In a brief appraising glance, Laura noticed that the young journalist’s nose was broad and snubbed, her eyes a brownish-black, lit with a cunning glitter. That, together with her wide, scarlet lips and flashing white teeth gave an overall mad and sexy effect. She wondered what Swift made of her, aware that his assessments were usually quieter and more balanced than hers. She wondered also, how far the reporter would go in keeping them dangling for the information they wanted. And how Swift would deal with that. Anticipation built within her.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Swift,’ the young reporter said, her voice filled with gruff, ironic welcome. ‘I wondered when you’d be coming. Sit down!’ Her guileful gaze lighted on Laura. ‘I see you’ve brought a pal along.’
‘Detective Constable Laura Ferguson.’ Laura returned the toothy grin as she introduced herself, then sat down on an office chair which wobbled slightly on a wonky tubular steel leg.
The older reporter had looked up, faintly concerned. ‘Do you want me to push off, Georgie?’
‘Nah, Barbara, you’re cool. Stay right there.’
Swift sat down and leaned forward slightly. ‘Georgina Tyson?’
‘You’ve been doing your homework!’ The girl leaned back in her seat, entirely at her ease, giving every indication of having an intention to enjoy herself during the next few minutes. ‘Call me Georgie,’ she said.
‘You’ve got information we need,’ Swift commented.
Georgie Tyson nodded. ‘I can’t really deny that, can I? Seeing as I decided to torment you with it at the press bash.’
Swift smiled, long beyond becoming riled by cocksure youngsters. ‘Trouble at the hospital, you said. Difficult staff relationships.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Issues which could have a bearing on Moira Farrell’s killing.’ There was an edge to his voice, a warning to the young reporter not to mess with him.
Keeping her eyes on Swift’s face as though she had him under surveillance, Georgie Tyson reached into a drawer of her desk and pulled out a brown A4 envelope. With the considered timing of a conjurer she slowly slid the contents from their paper sheath, and held them out, keeping them a few inches in front of Swift’s reach so that he had to stretch forward to take them.
He considered the four shiny images Georgie Tyson had offered, then passed them to Laura, who stared in fascination at pictures of Moira Farrell shown engaged in some kind of angry altercation with a tall, solidly built man dressed in a dark suit.
‘When were these taken?’ Swift asked Georgie, taking the photos back
‘Any new ideas?’ he asked, knowing that neither Laura nor Doug were one hundred per cent convinced about Busfield’s status as prime suspect. Not as yet.
She shook her head. She had an air of patient frustration about her.
‘Let’s go out and do a bit of digging,’ he said. ‘And I’m not talking about the snow.’
The offices of the Women’s Page and Features department at The Yorkshire Echo were as cramped as those of the CID – and even more grubby and slum-like. Mugs of cold half-drunk coffee littered the desk tops, a number of them crowned with drowned, half-smoked cigarette ends. Balls of screwed-up paper from reporters’ notebooks were scattered at intervals over the floor,presumably having been lobbed unsuccessfully in the direction of the one and only wastepaper basket.
There were just two personnel present: a fifty-something woman with a helmet of blonde hair, and the young journalist who had spoken up at the press conference. Once again she was wearing her battered bikers’ leathers and her black hair stuck up like porcupine spines. She looked up as the two detectives entered and gave a foxy grin.
In a brief appraising glance, Laura noticed that the young journalist’s nose was broad and snubbed, her eyes a brownish-black, lit with a cunning glitter. That, together with her wide, scarlet lips and flashing white teeth gave an overall mad and sexy effect. She wondered what Swift made of her, aware that his assessments were usually quieter and more balanced than hers. She wondered also, how far the reporter would go in keeping them dangling for the information they wanted. And how Swift would deal with that. Anticipation built within her.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Swift,’ the young reporter said, her voice filled with gruff, ironic welcome. ‘I wondered when you’d be coming. Sit down!’ Her guileful gaze lighted on Laura. ‘I see you’ve brought a pal along.’
‘Detective Constable Laura Ferguson.’ Laura returned the toothy grin as she introduced herself, then sat down on an office chair which wobbled slightly on a wonky tubular steel leg.
The older reporter had looked up, faintly concerned. ‘Do you want me to push off, Georgie?’
‘Nah, Barbara, you’re cool. Stay right there.’
Swift sat down and leaned forward slightly. ‘Georgina Tyson?’
‘You’ve been doing your homework!’ The girl leaned back in her seat, entirely at her ease, giving every indication of having an intention to enjoy herself during the next few minutes. ‘Call me Georgie,’ she said.
‘You’ve got information we need,’ Swift commented.
Georgie Tyson nodded. ‘I can’t really deny that, can I? Seeing as I decided to torment you with it at the press bash.’
Swift smiled, long beyond becoming riled by cocksure youngsters. ‘Trouble at the hospital, you said. Difficult staff relationships.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Issues which could have a bearing on Moira Farrell’s killing.’ There was an edge to his voice, a warning to the young reporter not to mess with him.
Keeping her eyes on Swift’s face as though she had him under surveillance, Georgie Tyson reached into a drawer of her desk and pulled out a brown A4 envelope. With the considered timing of a conjurer she slowly slid the contents from their paper sheath, and held them out, keeping them a few inches in front of Swift’s reach so that he had to stretch forward to take them.
He considered the four shiny images Georgie Tyson had offered, then passed them to Laura, who stared in fascination at pictures of Moira Farrell shown engaged in some kind of angry altercation with a tall, solidly built man dressed in a dark suit.
‘When were these taken?’ Swift asked Georgie, taking the photos back
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