snapped. A display of initiative now and then wouldn’t have gone amiss with DC Carstairs.
‘Shall I interview the driver, sir?’
‘What a good idea. Off you go.’
Carstairs bit his lip and closed the door behind him.
Rachel was hovering by the door. ‘I had a look through the dead girl’s things yesterday, sir, like you asked. She had some good clothes. Fashionable.’
‘Like the stuff she was wearing when she died?’
Rachel hesitated. ‘Not really, sir. The stuff in her flat was more … you know, flashy.’
‘So she wanted to look the picture of respectability, eh?’
Rachel shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘You’d better go with Steve and hold his hand, Rach. Someone’s got to. Let me know what you turn up. I’m off to see Mrs Giordino.’
‘When’s she going home?’
‘I don’t know, and I haven’t liked to ask.’
Heffernan lifted his coat off the standard-issue inspectors’ coatstand. It was a chilly day.
‘Where’s he off to, Rachel?’ asked Steve outside, as he donned his jacket.
‘Visiting the bereaved. Full of good works, our inspector. Come on.’
‘Where to?’
‘We’re off to find that minicab. I’m coming with you.’
Rachel marched out of the office. Steve Carstairs followed behind, studying her legs.
Carl paid the minicab driver and navigated his way down the driveway of the white-stuccoed cottage, avoiding the rusty skip full of building rubble. He hammered with his fist on the glass front door. There was no answer. He hammered again till the glass shook, then watched as the dark shape in the hall grew larger. The door opened.
‘I heard you the first time. Have you got the bag?’
‘I couldn’t. The police were outside.’
‘Shit. I need those bloody clothes. Come on in. I was just going to have a shower.’
Carl stepped into the narrow, woodchip-papered hallway, nearly tripping over a child’s tricycle that lay in wait behindthe front door. He looked at his companion’s stained towelling dressing gown and bleary eyes.
‘You look awful.’
‘Those bloody builders were here first thing this morning banging and crashing. I hadn’t slept all night and I’d just managed to get off.’
‘Where are they now?’ Carl looked around.
‘How should I know? They’re a bloody law unto themselves. They knocked off at lunch-time. The police didn’t see you, did they?’
‘Shouldn’t think so.’
‘Only I don’t want them here. I don’t want them asking all their questions. It’s bad enough …’
‘Okay, John, okay.’ Carl opened a can of lager from the stock on the sideboard and handed it to his companion. ‘I understand, believe me, I understand …’
Desk Sergeant Bob Naseby recognised the woman who had just shuffled in, swathed in woollen scarves, grey and brown, like a giant moth seeking the light of the reception desk. He sighed and drew himself up to his full height. He wished they wouldn’t let them out – they only caused trouble.
‘I’ve seen him again.’ She looked Naseby straight in the eyes with the absolute conviction of the deranged. ‘Where’s that Inspector Jenkins? I want to talk to him.’
‘Now then, my luvver. Who did you see and where?’
‘I want to see Inspector Jenkins.’ She bit her lip petulantly. ‘I want the mechanic, not the oily rag.’
‘All right, all right. No need to be like that. I’ll just ring through for you.’
She stared at him, a stare of intense hatred. Bob picked up the receiver. He was a patient man. There was no answer.
‘There’s nobody there right now. Take a seat over there. I’ll try again in a minute.’
She leaned forward. For a moment he thought she was going to spit at him.
‘I’ll not go away in a corner and shut up. You’re trying to stop me seeing him. You tell him I’ve seen the boy. You tell him I know where Jonathon Berrisford is.’
Bob Naseby dialled again.
Chapter 12
Last night I did have my pleasure of Elizabeth who doth give me her assurance she is
‘Shall I interview the driver, sir?’
‘What a good idea. Off you go.’
Carstairs bit his lip and closed the door behind him.
Rachel was hovering by the door. ‘I had a look through the dead girl’s things yesterday, sir, like you asked. She had some good clothes. Fashionable.’
‘Like the stuff she was wearing when she died?’
Rachel hesitated. ‘Not really, sir. The stuff in her flat was more … you know, flashy.’
‘So she wanted to look the picture of respectability, eh?’
Rachel shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘You’d better go with Steve and hold his hand, Rach. Someone’s got to. Let me know what you turn up. I’m off to see Mrs Giordino.’
‘When’s she going home?’
‘I don’t know, and I haven’t liked to ask.’
Heffernan lifted his coat off the standard-issue inspectors’ coatstand. It was a chilly day.
‘Where’s he off to, Rachel?’ asked Steve outside, as he donned his jacket.
‘Visiting the bereaved. Full of good works, our inspector. Come on.’
‘Where to?’
‘We’re off to find that minicab. I’m coming with you.’
Rachel marched out of the office. Steve Carstairs followed behind, studying her legs.
Carl paid the minicab driver and navigated his way down the driveway of the white-stuccoed cottage, avoiding the rusty skip full of building rubble. He hammered with his fist on the glass front door. There was no answer. He hammered again till the glass shook, then watched as the dark shape in the hall grew larger. The door opened.
‘I heard you the first time. Have you got the bag?’
‘I couldn’t. The police were outside.’
‘Shit. I need those bloody clothes. Come on in. I was just going to have a shower.’
Carl stepped into the narrow, woodchip-papered hallway, nearly tripping over a child’s tricycle that lay in wait behindthe front door. He looked at his companion’s stained towelling dressing gown and bleary eyes.
‘You look awful.’
‘Those bloody builders were here first thing this morning banging and crashing. I hadn’t slept all night and I’d just managed to get off.’
‘Where are they now?’ Carl looked around.
‘How should I know? They’re a bloody law unto themselves. They knocked off at lunch-time. The police didn’t see you, did they?’
‘Shouldn’t think so.’
‘Only I don’t want them here. I don’t want them asking all their questions. It’s bad enough …’
‘Okay, John, okay.’ Carl opened a can of lager from the stock on the sideboard and handed it to his companion. ‘I understand, believe me, I understand …’
Desk Sergeant Bob Naseby recognised the woman who had just shuffled in, swathed in woollen scarves, grey and brown, like a giant moth seeking the light of the reception desk. He sighed and drew himself up to his full height. He wished they wouldn’t let them out – they only caused trouble.
‘I’ve seen him again.’ She looked Naseby straight in the eyes with the absolute conviction of the deranged. ‘Where’s that Inspector Jenkins? I want to talk to him.’
‘Now then, my luvver. Who did you see and where?’
‘I want to see Inspector Jenkins.’ She bit her lip petulantly. ‘I want the mechanic, not the oily rag.’
‘All right, all right. No need to be like that. I’ll just ring through for you.’
She stared at him, a stare of intense hatred. Bob picked up the receiver. He was a patient man. There was no answer.
‘There’s nobody there right now. Take a seat over there. I’ll try again in a minute.’
She leaned forward. For a moment he thought she was going to spit at him.
‘I’ll not go away in a corner and shut up. You’re trying to stop me seeing him. You tell him I’ve seen the boy. You tell him I know where Jonathon Berrisford is.’
Bob Naseby dialled again.
Chapter 12
Last night I did have my pleasure of Elizabeth who doth give me her assurance she is
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