The door hasn’t opened. Standing at the side of the house is a man in his mid-fifties: sensible but cheap coat, polished school-style shoes, holding a crappy phone. He also looks as unhappy as only a British detective can. His sandy hair is making an aggrieved rearguard defence against the steady advance of a deeply scored forehead.
I give him my best Things Can Only Get Better smile and ‘Good morning! Am I speaking to the homeowner?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘My name’s Liam Baird, representing Labour’ – I gesture to the rosette – ‘although I hope I haven’t come at a bad time?’ I nod towards the police cars.
‘I’m afraid so. Although you could have been here at an even worse time.’
My smile is glassy as I reply: ‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Thehomeownerwas murdered last night.’
I give what I feel is a very convincing gasp. ‘No.’
The detective nods. ‘Shot on his doorstep. Most un-Bridling.’
‘We haven’t had a murder here since … I can’t remember.’
He glances at me with interest. ‘You’re from round here?’
‘No.’ Shit. That was an avoidable error. ‘Several villages over. But this is awful.’
The detective looks at my rosette, and frowns. ‘What are you campaigning for?’
‘Local council elections.’
On hearing that, he somehow crinkles his brow even further. His forehead looks like a McCoy’s crisp sitting a maths exam. ‘There aren’t any local elections this year.’Double shit.
‘By-election,’ I gabble. ‘Previous councillor resigned.’
He stays looking at my rosette for a second. Then his brow clears – or returns to its previous level of frown, at least – and he nods. ‘I see.’
‘Stress of the job, my predecessor said. I said, how stressful is it in Bridling, you know? I mean, clearly it was stressful for poor Mr …’ I look down at my empty clipboard. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have any details for the homeowner. What was the name of the, er, deceased?’
He gives me a brisk nod; with any luck he’s completely forgotten me already. ‘Thanks for coming by, sir. You’ll appreciate we don’t have time for the spiel.’
‘Of course.’ That’s a mercy. I didn’t look up any Labour or local policies before getting out of the van. My pitch was going to be ‘basic woolly fairness’, plus heat pumps. Thedetective is already turning to go. But before he gets working again, I blurt out: ‘Anything unusual about the scene of the crime?’
He turns. ‘Sorry?’
‘Any … hot leads?’Al, you ham.
‘We don’t discuss cases, sir. As I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’
‘Of course.’
Then he leans towards me, looks around to make sure none of his colleagues have appeared outside the building, and says: ‘We’re all counting on you.’
‘Sorry?’
‘In the election.’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course, yes. The election. We won’t let you down.’ And I’m so insanely relieved to find out he’s just a deep-cover Labour voter that I almost start to laugh.
Three minutes later, I get back to the van. As I clamber in, I shake my head at Elle’s expectant look. ‘No access. Cops already there. Ergo – no camera.’
Em speaks next. ‘Shall we get ourselves back to London?’
