Strange Affair Read Free

London himself and find out just what the hell was going on.

    Why did people have to be so bloody inconsiderate as to find bodies so early on a Saturday morning? wondered Detective Inspector Annie Cabbot. Especially when Banks was on holiday and she was on call. It wasn’t only that she was losing her weekend – and detective inspectors don’t get paid overtime – but that those first crucial hours of an investigation were made all the more difficult by people being, for the large part, unavailable, making information harder to ferret out. And this was a particularly beautiful Saturday morning; offices would be empty, services reduced as everyone loaded a picnic basket in the car along with the kids and headed for the nearest stretch of grass or sand.
    She pulled to a halt behind the blue Peugeot 106 on a quiet stretch of country road halfway between Eastvale and the A1. It had been just after half past seven when the station desk sergeant rang and woke her from an uneasy dream she immediately forgot, and after a quick shower and a cup of instant coffee, she was on the road.
    The morning was still and hazy, with the drone of insects in the air. It was going to be just the kind of day for a picnic by the river, dragonflies and the scent of wild garlic, perhaps a bottle of Chablis cooling in the water, maybe her sketch pad and a few sticks of charcoal. After a few nibbles of Wensleydale cheese – the type with cranberries was her favourite – and a couple of glasses of wine, it would be time for a nap on the riverbank, maybe a pleasant dream. Enough of that, she thought,walking over to the car; life had other plans for her today.
    Annie could see that the car’s left wing had made contact with the drystone wall, so much so that the wing had buckled and scratched and the impact had brought down a section of the wall. There were no traces of skid marks, no tire tracks at all on the dry tarmac surface.
    There was already activity around the Peugeot. The road had been closed to all non-police traffic, and the immediate area around the car had been taped off. That would cause a few problems when the tourists started to dribble in, Annie thought, but it couldn’t be helped; the integrity of the scene had to be preserved. The photographer, Peter Darby, had finished photographing the body and the car and had busied himself videotaping the immediate area. Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley and Detective Constable Winsome Jackman, who both lived closer to the scene, were already there when Annie arrived, Hatchley standing by the roadside and Winsome sitting half in and half out of the unmarked police car.
    “What have we got?” Annie asked Hatchley, who, as usual, looked as if he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. The little piece of tissue he had stuck to a shaving cut on his chin didn’t help much.
    “A young woman dead behind the wheel of her car,” said Hatchley.
    “I can see that for myself,” snapped Annie, glancing towards the open driver’s side window.
    “Bit prickly this morning, aren’t we, Ma’am,” said Hatchley. “What’s up? Get out of the wrong side of bed?”
    Annie ignored him. She was used to Hatchley’s taunts, which had only grown more frequent since she had been made inspector and he remained a sergeant. “Cause of death?” she asked.
    “Don’t know yet. Nothing apparent. No obvious marks, no bruising. And officially she’s not even dead yet. Not until the doc says she is.”
    Annie refrained from pointing out that she knew that perfectly well. “But you’ve examined her?” she pressed on.
    “I had a quick look, that’s all. Didn’t touch anything. Winsome checked for a pulse and found none. We’re still waiting for Doc Burns.”
    “So she could have died of a heart attack for all we know?”
    “I suppose so,” said Hatchley. “But like I said, she’s very young. It smells a bit fishy to me.”
    “Any idea who she is?”
    “There’s no handbag, no driving licence,