End in Tears Read Free Page B

“It’s not like she was the woman’s mother.”
    Although he knew it was accepted practice in police forces all over the country, Wexford very much disliked being called “guv.” He didn’t expect “sir” these days, but he would almost rather she had called him by his given name than that awful abbreviation. When she first joined his team he had gently asked her not to do it, but it was as if he hadn’t spoken. If she had been in any way disrespectful he would have had reason to reprove her, but she hadn’t, she never was. He was sure she liked, even admired, him—apart, that is, from his old-fashioned speech patterns and terminology.
    Now she repeated what she had said because he hadn’t replied. “She may have been very attached to the girl,” he said. “We don’t yet know how long she had been her stepmother. Maybe from Amber’s early childhood.”
    Returning to the crime scene, Hannah said no more. It irked her that Wexford used the word “girl.” Amber was a woman, she was eighteen. He would have to learn correct terms, she thought, or the rapidly changing world would simply leave him behind. Only the other day she had heard him talk about “people” when he meant “community.”
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    The body had gone. There were still several uniformed officers standing on the grass, half a dozen cars filling the entrance to the lane, and the scene-of-crime officer stretching blue and white crime tape around the place where Amber Marshalson had lain. DS Karen Malahyde was standing next to a woman of about forty wearing jeans and a white T-shirt.
    â€œThis is Miss Burton, sir. She lives in one of those houses opposite. She was out last night and came home about midnight.”
    â€œLydia Burton,” the woman said. “I live at number three Jewel Terrace. I was out with a friend. He brought me home in his car and after he’d gone I took my dog for a walk. Not for long, you know. But you have to walk them or they make a fuss.”
    She was pretty rather than beautiful, with healthy pink skin and curly fair hair, her face without makeup but for mascara on her long eyelashes. This and the dangling silver dog-face earrings she wore gave a frivolous note to her austerity.
    â€œOh, yes, of course,” she said in answer to his question as to whether she had known Amber Marshalson. “I’m the head teacher of Brimhurst Primary School. Amber was there for two or three years when her father first came to Brimhurst.”
    â€œYou saw her last night?”
    â€œI only wish I had.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œI’m afraid I’m not a very observant person.”
    Hannah Goldsmith disliked hearing people, women especially, belittle themselves. A sign of low self-esteem perhaps. It was surely by now a well-known fact that everyone was as valuable as everyone else. All had skills and gifts, and each was uniquely her (or just possibly his) own person. “You took your dog out at—what? Twelve-thirty?”
    â€œI suppose so. About that. It was very dark down the lane because of the trees and I hadn’t brought a flashlight. There was a bit of a moon and I walked the other way, up to the Myfleet Road, and went along perhaps two hundred yards.” Meters, thought Hannah, meters. Why did it take people so long to learn? “When I was coming back—back to the corner of Mill Lane, I mean—I saw a man. He was standing among the trees, in there.” Lydia Burton pointed into the woodland where Amber Marshalson’s body had been found. “It gave me quite a shock. He had his back to me. I don’t think he saw me. I crossed the road. I was anxious to get home—I mean, seeing him there made me want to get home.”
    â€œCan you describe this man, Miss Burton?”
    Hannah shook her head impatiently. Why couldn’t Wexford remember to say “Ms.”? “I