PC Donna De Freitas carries a tray of teas into the incident room. A local builder, Tony something, has been murdered, and judging by the size of the assembled team, it’s a big deal. Donna wonders why. If she takes her time with the teas, maybe she can find out.
Detective Chief Inspector Chris Hudson is addressing the team. He always seems nice enough. He once opened some double doors for her, without looking like he wanted a medal for it.
“There are cameras at the property, and plenty of them. Get the footage. Tony Curran left Coopers Chase at two, and he died at three thirty-two, according to his Fitbit. That’s only a small window to search.”
Donna has placed the tea tray on a desk while she stoops to tie her shoelace. She hears Coopers Chase mentioned, which is interesting.
“There are also cameras on the A214, around four hundred meters south of Curran’s home, and half a mile north, so let’s get hold of that footage too. You know the time frame.” Chris stops for a moment and looks over at where Donna De Freitas is crouching.
“Everything all right, constable?” he asks.
Donna straightens up. “Yes, sir, just tying my shoelaces. Wouldn’t want to trip with a tray of tea.”
“Very wise,” agrees Chris. “Thank you for the tea. We’ll let you get on now.”
“Thank you, sir,” says Donna, walking toward the door.
She realizes that Chris, a detective, of course, has probably spotted that her shoes have no laces. But surely he wouldn’t blame a young constable for a bit of healthy curiosity?
As she opens the door to leave, she hears Chris Hudson continue.
“Until we get all that, the biggest lead is the photograph the killer left by the body. Let’s take a look.”
Donna can’t resist turning, and she sees, projected onto the wall, an old photograph of three men in a pub laughing and drinking, their table covered in banknotes. She has only a moment, but she recognizes one of the men immediately.
Things would be very different when Donna was part of Murder Squad; very different. No more visiting primary schools to write serial numbers on bikes in invisible ink. No more politely reminding local shopkeepers that overflowing bins were actually a criminal off—
“Constable?” says Chris, snapping Donna from her train of thought. She takes her eyes off the photo and looks at Chris. Firmly but kindly, he motions that she is free to leave. She smiles at him and nods. “Daydreaming—sorry, sir.”
She opens the door and walks through, back to the boredom. She strains to hear every last word before the door finally swings shut.
“So, three men, all of whom we obviously know very well. Shall we take them one by one?”
The door clunks shut. Donna sighs.
13.
Joyce
I hope you will forgive a morning diary entry, but Tony Curran is dead.
Tony Curran is the builder who put this place up. Perhaps he even laid the bricks in my fireplace? Who knows? I mean, probably not. He probably had someone else to do that for him, didn’t he? And all the plastering and what have you. He would have just overseen things, I suppose. But I bet his fingerprints are here somewhere. Which is quite a thrill.
Elizabeth rang me last night with the news. I would never describe Elizabeth as breathless, but honestly, she wasn’t far off.
Tony Curran was bludgeoned, of all things, by hand, or hands, unknown. I told her what I’d seen with Ron and Jason, the row between Curran and Ian Ventham. She told me she already knew, so she must have spoken to Ron before she spoke to me, but she was polite enough to listen as I gave my view of it. I asked her if she was taking notes, and she said she would remember it.
Anyway, Elizabeth seems to have some sort of plan. She said she is seeing Ibrahim this morning.
I asked her if there was any way I might be able to help, and she said that there was. So I asked her what that way might be, and she said if I held my horses, I would find out soon enough.
So I suppose I sit and wait for instructions? I’m going to take the minibus into Fairhaven later, but I shall keep my mobile phone on just in case.
I have become someone who has to keep their mobile phone on.
14.
So who killed Tony Curran, and how do we catch him?” asks Elizabeth. “Or catch ‘him or her,’ I know I should say, but it’s probably him. What kind of woman would bludgeon someone? A Russian woman, but that’s about it.”
