Dead Right Read Free Page A

on. “We don’t even know the victim’s name yet. I need you down here as soon as you can make it.”
    “Yes, sir. I’ll be right there.”
    Susan replaced the receiver, ran her fingers through her hair and got out of bed. She stood on her tiptoes and stretched her arms towards the ceiling until she felt the knots in her muscles crack, then she padded to the living-room, pausing to note the thickness of her waist and thighs in the wardrobe mirror on her way. She would have to start that diet again soon. Before she went to take a shower, she started the coffee-maker and put some old Rod Stewart on the CD player to help her wake up.
    As the hot water played over her skin, she thought of last night’s date with Gavin Richards, a DC from Regional Headquarters. He had taken her to the Georgian Theatre in Richmond to see an Alan Bennett play, and after that they had found a cosy pub just off Richmond market square, where she had eaten cheese-and-onion crisps and drunk a half-pint of cider.
    Walking to her car, both of them huddled under her umbrella because it was raining fast and, like a typical man, Gavin hadn’t bothered to carry one, she had felt his warmth, felt herself responding to it, and when he had asked her back to his house for a coffee she had almost said yes. Almost. But she wasn’t ready yet. She wanted to. Oh, she wanted to. Especially when they kissed good night by her car. It had been too long. But they had only been out together three times, and that was too soon for Susan. She might have sacrificed her personal life for her career over the last few years, but she wasn’t about to hop into bed with the first tasty bloke who happened to come along.
    When she noticed she had been standing in the shower so long that her skin had started to glow, she got out, dried herself off briskly and threw on a pair of black jeans and a polo-neck jumper that matched her eyes. She was lucky that her curly blonde hair needed hardly any attention at all. She added a little gel to give it lustre, then she was ready to go. Rod Stewart sang “Maggie Mae” asshe sipped the last of her black, sugarless coffee and munched a slice of dry toast.
    Still eating, she grabbed a light jacket from the hook and dashed out the door. It was only a five-minute drive to the station, and on another occasion she might have walked for the exercise. Especially this morning. It was a perfect autumn day: scrubbed blue skies and only the slightest chill in the air. The recent winds had already blown some early lemon and russet leaves from the trees, and they squished under her feet as she walked to her car.
    But today Susan paused only briefly to sniff the crisp air, then she got in her car and turned the key in the ignition. Her red Golf started on the first try. An auspicious beginning.
    III
    Banks leaned by his office window, his favourite spot, blew on the surface of his coffee and watched the steam rise as he looked out over the quiet market square. He was thinking about Sandra, about their marriage and the way it all seemed to be going wrong. Not so much wrong, just nowhere. She still hadn’t spoken to him since the opera. Not that she’d had much chance, really, with him being out so late at the crime scene. And this morning she had barely been conscious by the time he left. But still, there was a discernible chill in the house.
    Last night’s rain had washed the excesses of Saturday night from the cobbles, just as the station cleaning-staff disinfected and mopped out the cells after the overnight drunk-and-disorderlies had been discharged. The square and the buildings around it glowed pale grey-gold in the early light.
    Banks had his window open a couple of inches, and the sound of the church congregation singing “We plough the fields, and scatter” drifted in. It took him back to the Harvest Festivals of his childhood, when his mum would give him a couple of apples and oranges to put in the church basket along with everyone