Fethering 08 (2007) - Death under the Dryer Read Free Page B

fruitless blind alleys, they ought to have been out there finding the murderer. Again she reminded herself of the huge mosaic of facts from which a successful conviction was built up, and managed to endure the questioning with the appearance of cooperation. But she hadn’t enjoyed the experience.
    And it had all been made considerably worse by the presence of Sheena. Theo’s client had taken the discovery of the girl’s body as a cue for a full operatic mix of posturing and hysterics. “Something like this was bound to happen!” she had wailed. “I knew when I got up, this was an inauspicious day. I shouldn’t have left the house. I should have stayed in bed. It’s horrible! Though the poor girl may have deserved something, she didn’t deserve this!” But through the woman’s tears and screams, Carole could detect a real relish for the drama of the situation. Kyra’s murder was the most exciting thing that had happened in Sheena’s life for a long time.
    Eventually Carole had managed to escape. While the Scene of Crime Officers embarked on their painstaking scrutiny of the premises, the detectives told her they were from the Major Crime Branch, and would be working from the Major Crime Unit in Littlehampton police station. They gave her a list of contact numbers, and urged her to get in touch if she thought of or heard anything which might have relevance to the investigation.
    “I’ve done a bacon and avocado salad,” said Jude, and went off to the kitchen to fetch it. That was quick, thought Carole. But then perhaps more time had elapsed from the moment when she had knocked on her neighbour’s door at the end of the interrogation and the moment she had come back to Woodside Cottage. Her recollection was a bit hazy. She had gone to High Tor and taken Gulliver out to do his business on the rough ground behind the house. And she had stood for a moment of abstraction, from which his barking had roused her. Maybe it had been a longer moment than she thought. Maybe that too was a measure of the shock she had suffered.
    “So…” said Jude, finally nestled into one of the shapeless armchairs in her untidy front room, “tell me exactly what happened.”
    And Carole did. Unaware of the speed at which she was sinking the Chilean Chardonnay, or the readiness with which Jude was replenishing her glass, she told everything. Dealing with unpleasant subject matter during her Home Office days had taught her the value of drily marshalling facts and investing a report with the objective anonymity that made its horror containable.
    At the end of the narrative Jude let out a long sigh and sat for a moment with her round face cupped in her chubby hands. As ever, she was swathed in many layers of floaty fabric, which blurred the substantial outlines of her welcoming body. Her blonde hair, which had been innocent of the attentions of a hairdresser for some time, was twisted up into an unlikely topknot, held in place by what looked like a pair of knitting needles.
    “So you didn’t get any insight into who might have killed the girl?”
    “For heaven’s sake, Jude. This morning was the first time I’ve even stepped inside that place. I don’t know anything about any of the people involved.”
    “I wasn’t meaning that. I thought perhaps the police might’ve let something slip about the direction in which their suspicions are moving.”
    “So far as I could tell, they’re clueless. When they arrived, they had as little information as I had. Besides, you may recall from past experience that even when the police do start having theories about the identity of a murderer, people like us are the last they’re going to share them with.”
    Jude nodded ruefully. “True.”
    “In fact, you’re probably a more useful source than I am.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Well, you actually know all the people involved. You’re a regular at Connie’s Clip Joint.”
    “Hardly a regular, but I suppose you’re