With a Narrow Blade Read Free

Caroline called back. She could almost remember the woman’s name, but not quite. ‘I wanted to ask her if she needs me to bring anything back from Tesco’s for her.’
    The neighbour, another old-age pensioner who had always envied Flo a friend like Caroline – someone young, willing, with a car – frowned, obviously beginning to get a little worried herself now. Flo Jenkins had lived across the road from her ever since the council had moved her into her house just over ten years ago, and she had always been a friendly soul. ‘She’s not been very well recently,’ the old woman said nervously, and Caroline bit her lip.
    ‘No, I know,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll use the spare key she gave me. Just to make sure. She’s probably just overslept.’ And so saying, Caroline Weekes reached into her bag and withdrew a large set of keys. On it were her own house keys, her car keys, and Flo Jenkins’ front door key. She inserted a silver Yale key and pushed open the door, calling loudly, ‘Flo? Flo, it’s me, Caroline.’ She shut the door behind her, noticing that the old woman across the way hadn’t gone in, even though it had now begun to rain in earnest.
     
    DI Hillary Greene parked Puff the Tragic Wagon, her ancient Volkswagen, as close to the entrance as she could get and swore softly at the rain as she ran across the car park. As ever, she’d left her umbrella somewhere, and made a vague mental promise to buy a new one soon. She shook herself off just inside the door, where a growing wet patch signalled that she wasn’t the only one to have done so recently.
    ‘Mornin’,’ the desk sergeant said cheerfully as he spotted her. ‘Your new DC’s just reported in,’ he added, opening his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. It probably wouldn’t do to tell her that he and Ted had already warned him what was what. Hillary Greene was well able to take care of herself, and probably wouldn’t appreciate it.
    ‘Oh, right. About time I got some help,’ she said, but with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. The desk sergeant watched her go, then shrugged. If anyone could handle the likes of Keith Barrington, it was her. The brass around here seemed to have got into the habit of sending her the lame ducks, the unknown quantities and ‘sensitive’ appointees. But with Barrington, they might just have taken it too far.
    Hillary climbed the stairs, having forsaken the lift years ago, when the size of her hips and thighs threatened to match her age. Which was in the forties. Now, as she climbed the stairs, she was thinking about her new DC with just a tinge of unease.
    She used her key card to get into the main office, and was instantly hit by a barrage of noise. The big open-plan office held clusters of desks that housed uniform and plain clothes alike, most of whom were busy on the phone, typing up reports, scanning computers or chatting over the first morning cup of tea. One of them, a DS who’d migrated over from Juvenile Crime Squad, waved her over as she came in. Sandra Pierce was about Hillary’s age, and they had known each other since the year dot. She was at Sam Waterstones’s desk, and Sam, another old friend, grinned at her as she approached.
    ‘We were just talking about our mystery millionaire,’ Sam said, and added, in obvious mimicry of someone else, ‘It could be you!’ He pointed dramatically at Hillary, who looked back at him blankly.
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘Crikey, don’t say you haven’t been following the drama,’ Sandra said. ‘Don’t you read the local papers?’
    Hillary grunted wryly. ‘I don’t read any papers if I can help it. I’m depressed enough as it is.’
    ‘Ah, but this is a good-luck story for a change,’ Sam said, then grinned. ‘Well, not so much good luck really. Somebody around here’s won the lottery.’
    Hillary blinked. ‘Around here? You mean in this nick?’ she squeaked. ‘Who? And how much can I touch him up for?’
    ‘No, not here, you nit.