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“We contacted him in the Wirral.”

“Gone up in the world, eh?”

“Gone West, anyway. He’s driving down now. Patel’s waiting to take his statement.”

“He’s identifying the body when he arrives, is he?”

“No, sir. The mother did that.”

“Thought she couldn’t get about.”

“She can, but with difficulty. Social Services laid on special transport.”

“I would have thought she was best off leaving it to somebody else.”

“She insisted. Said it was her daughter and she wanted to do what was right. I think she would have crawled there on her hands and knees if need be, rather than let him do it for her. The husband. Ex.”

“No love lost then?”

“He left her all alone with his children when it suited him, he could leave well alone now. That was what she said, more or less. I think he’ll be lucky to get an invite to the funeral.”

Skelton sighed, lifted the cup to his mouth but he had already finished his coffee. Resnick was thinking about Mary Sheppard on her hands and knees in that small back garden, trying in vain to make her escape. Had she stumbled, trying to run? Had the first blow driven her to the ground? Other, later blows, had they flattened her into the drying mud despite all her efforts to get clear?

“No neighbors queuing up to testify on this one, Charlie?”

“Not so far, sir.”

“And no weapon?”

Resnick shook his head. “Not yet.”

“I’ve had three calls from the chief superintendent in the last couple of hours,” Skelton said. “You’ve briefed the DCI?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ve borrowed some uniforms for house-to-house, but it’s likely not going to be enough. Not unless someone turns something up quickly. This isn’t just a nasty little domestic, Charlie. The local paper’s already got sex crime all over its news-stands. They’ll be hoping for an extra few thousand on their circulation by the end of the day.”

Resnick stood up. “Maybe we’ll have a good lead by then, sir.”

Skelton stood also. “Be nice to think so.”

Resnick opened and closed the door to the superintendent’s office carefully, not wishing to disturb the coat. In the corridor his stomach groaned not once, but twice, three times; groaned and whined. Eating: something else he hadn’t got around to in the last eight hours.

Two detective constables and a sergeant were coaxing reports from typewriters which could never remember the rule about i before e-except when it was an exception. Divine and Naylor had not yet returned from Victor’s. Lynn Kellogg had been in, written her report, and been sent home again to lie down before she fell down. Millington had driven out to the Sheppard house, taking the scene-of-the-crime officer along with him: check and double-check. Patel…where was Patel?

Climbing the stairs to the first floor, he was followed by a whey-faced man with heavy-framed glasses and a decided stoop. The dark suit the visitor was wearing had probably cost more than Jack Skelton’s but wasn’t being worn with anything like the same flourish.

“This is Mr. Sheppard, sir.”

Resnick introduced himself, shook hands, offered commiserations. Sheppard’s hand was damp and cloying and Resnick was reminded of squeezing the water from spinach, cooked and rinsed.

“I’d like to talk to you after DC Patel has taken your statement,” said Resnick, stomach rumbling.

“That solicitor wants a word, sir,” the sergeant called over, hand covering the mouthpiece. “Olds.”

“She in the building?”

“Downstairs, sir.”

“Tell her to count to a hundred in tens and then come up.”

Resnick pulled his office door to and dialed the number of the local deli: everything from amaretti and asparagus spears to Patum Peperium Gentleman’s Relish and Japanese rice crackers. He ordered one tuna mayonnaise and salad on dark rye and a chicken breast and Jarlsberg cheese with French mustard and tomato on rye with caraway: a quarter of German potato salad and two large gherkins.

By the time he put down the phone, Suzanne Olds was standing outside his door, the smooth lines of her face marginally distorted by the glass. On a day when suits were clearly the thing, she had favoured a red wool skirt, calf-length, over highly polished black boots. Underneath an autumnal check jacket, a brooch the size of a 50p piece had been fastened at the collar of a cream silk blouse. She was armed with the same two bags as before, one slung over her shoulder, the other gripped in her opposite hand.

Resnick got up to open the door but, before he could get there, she had interpreted his move and was inside.

“Shall I close it?”

“If you like.”

She closed the door by leaning back against it, holding the pose for just long enough for Resnick to do what he was supposed to be doing and register how good she looked.

“Take a seat.”

What he wasn’t supposed to be doing was wondering why he had never found her attractive. He didn’t think it was because they were adversaries, not that at all. He wasn’t fazed by strong professional women. No, more a question of image-the one Suzanne Olds was forever presenting. Not because there was anything wrong with it, but because he could never, convincingly, find her inside it.

“I’m not interrupting,” she said, with a quick glance towards the telephone.

“Not for the moment.”

The eyes, that’s where it was; where she wasn’t. He had a sudden memory of Rachel Chaplin, the shine in that first held look across the foyer of the court, green, blue.

“My client…”

“Macliesh.”

“You’ll be releasing him.”

Resnick looked over his shoulder at the calendar on the wall. “Isn’t that question a little premature?”

“In the circumstances?”

“The circumstances are that we are progressing with our enquiries. The court was happy for your client to be held on remand.”

Suzanne Olds crossed her legs with a faint swish of nylon. “That was before, Inspector.”

“Before what, Ms Olds?”

“Before the second murder.”

Resnick was aware suddenly that it was raining outside; he could hear it blowing in flurries against the window-pane, a counterpoint against the muted ringing of telephones.

“What relevance are you claiming?”

“I should have thought that was so obvious as to be not worth stating.”

Resnick heard from his stomach and gave it a gentle pat or two. Hold on there, it’s coming. He wondered if the interview would be over before his sandwiches arrived or whether he was destined to another hard-earned meal before an audience.

“That sounds like courtroom debate, Ms. Olds.”

“And that sounds as if you’ve got either a serious digestive problem or an ulcer.”

“I’m gratified by your concern.”

“I’d be gratified if you would show some concern for my client.”

“Let your client show some concern for himself.”

“He’s made a full statement, answered all your questions. Despite being the victim of the most unpleasant provocation.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Come on, nothing. You know as well as I do…”

“I know Macliesh jumped on the first opportunity he could get.”

“You’re saying that your DC behaved in a thoughtful and responsible manner?”

“I’m not saying anything about the way my DC acted.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Resnick leaned back in his chair. Divine and Naylor had just come into the outer office. “Are you prepared to advise your client to co-operate with us and allow intimate samples…?”

“No.”

“When that would allow us to confirm or disprove…”

“Don’t waste your breath quoting the Police and Criminal Evidence Act at me, Inspector.”

“Then there doesn’t seem to be any alternative other than being patient and letting us get on with our investigation as best we can. By other and, unfortunately, more time-consuming methods.”

Suzanne Olds shook her head, opened her shoulder bag, and took out a packet of cigarettes. “Do you mind?” she asked automatically.