Twenty years and their schoolgirl prank is coming back to bite them.

Audio sample

 

 

 

Chapter 1

It was the same sunfilled view of the Southend seafront that sold DS Tinsley, his small flat, but no one would buy this apartment, not with a dead body lying on the carpet in a pool of blood.

Detective Sergeant Martin Tinsley and DC Eddy Hopkins stopped dead at the lounge door when they realised why they had been called to this penthouse flat in Westcliff.

‘Eddy, secure the scene.’

DC Eddy Hopkins was fresh, cheerful and secure, a good friend in a fight, but he was catatonic, faced with a murder scene.

‘Eddy, secure the scene. We need suits and tape. Get the lads to cone-off the car park.’ DS Martin Tinsley shouted, and, as if jolted by the mains, Hopkins pulled himself together and relayed the message to the two officers holding the solid iron enforcer.

Martin stepped forward to press his fingers into the side of her neck, then stopped.

‘Oh, God.’ Martin’s stomach convulsed as he recognised the woman he had been flirting with for the past year. Martin put the back of his hand over his mouth and took a deep breath. Then he knelt and pressed his finger into her neck artery; she was still alive. It was the first time he had touched her and had to stop himself from caressing the side of her face. Her hand came up and touched the back of his, and there was the merest smile on her face.

‘I’ve called the ambulance, boss.’ As Martin heard this, Emma ran her fingers across the back of Martin’s hand.

‘I knew it would be you.’ She spoke the words so quietly that Martin had to guess their meaning. ‘I hoped it would be you.’

She rested her head against his hand, and Martin knew he had to tell her. Tell her now what he felt; this was the last moment.

‘My husband.’ A stab of pain ran through him.

‘I’ll tell him you love him.’ Martin knew he saw her frown for a second, and she gripped his hand harder.

‘Paramedics here, boss.’

Martin stepped back as the room filled with green-suited specialists, the first responder, followed by two more carrying bags of equipment. Five minutes later, the lounge was full of people, and Martin knew it would get worse.

The policemen looked down at the two paramedics, thumping the body, then commanding everyone to stand back as a machine whined into life.

‘Ready.’ Thump.

The body convulsed, and the paramedic started to thrust down on her chest.

‘Will she live?’ DS Tinsley asked. The paramedic ignored him and carried on with the chest compressions.

‘Will she live?’ He asked again, louder.

‘I heard you the first time. How the hell should I know.’ The medic looked up from her task, trying to thump life into the body.

‘I doubt it, and if she did, well, you know.’

DS Martin Tinsley knew what she was talking about.

The woman had lost too much blood.  Her oxygen-starved brain was dying even as he watched. If she lived, what kind of life could she lead?

‘This flat’s worth a bit, Boss. Who is she?’ DC Eddy Hopkins asked, and Martin shrugged. ‘I thought you lived here.’

‘I just know her first name, Eddy. We were ships that passed in the night. She was in a different league to me.’ Tinsley said as he felt the blood draining from his face and knew he needed to sit. His breathing was too shallow, and his pulse rate had slowed.

He rested against the back of an easy chair and tried to concentrate on the room; anything was better than looking at the woman he loved dying on the carpet. Wide glass doors led onto a balcony at the other end of the rook, and Martin could see a tiny table with two chairs. Ideal for a convivial breakfast, overlooking the seafront on a warm summer’s day.  A large mirror reflected an almost abstract painting on the opposite wall to one side.  For a second, Tinsley gazed at the intense dark blues and almost black areas, then bright highlights that almost hurt your eyes. It was the crashing sea against the solid rocks

Emma had collapsed onto the white carpet, missing a glass and wood coffee table.

‘I need to shift this. OK?’ One of the medics broke into his world, and Martin nodded, and the truth flooded over him. They knew her chances were slim if they were worried about moving furniture. In which case, preserving the scene of the crime was critical.

Martin was back in the cockpit of life and death. The paramedic looked at him.

‘If we could get her into Intensive Care, I reckon she’d have a one in a hundred chance.’ She said.

‘But?’

‘If we move her, she’s got a 100% chance of dying.’

At that moment, two more paramedics arrived with more equipment. In a couple of seconds, they were giving her a blood transfusion.

For a while, she started to look brighter; then, they discovered the source of the blood.

‘We’ve raised her BP.’ Martin found he was the only one smiling.

‘What’s the problem?’ No one answered him, and he watched as they started to turn the patient, and now he understood. The knife was still in her. She had fallen back onto the blade. It would have twisted inside her, but until they moved her, it had sealed the wound. But it wasn’t sealing it now.

It was the catalyst for action. Three of them flipped her over onto her front and ripped her clothes apart. And there, in her spotless olive coloured skin, was a grotesque abomination. The handle of a kitchen knife stood rigidly, demanding their attention, and a tsunami of blood was pouring onto the carpet.

‘We’re losing her.’ Martin stood back as one of the second group, tore open dressings and passed them down to the woman in charge.

‘If we pull it out, we might cause more internal bleeding,’ one of them said to her.

‘Thanks, that hadn’t occurred to me.’

‘It’s going to have to come out. We can’t hope to stop the bleeding with it in.’ She looked around for concurrence, and there were nods.

Two men placed dressings around the blade as she pulled the small kitchen knife out. Eddy Hopkins was ready with a plastic evidence bag as it came free. Two thick bandages seemed to stop the flood. Smiles passed around the four green uniforms, and Martin sensed a moment of relaxation.

Then Dr Emma Kennedy died.

‘Ten twenty-four.’ For a second, Martin knew they could save her.

‘No.’ They all looked at Martin. ‘No. That can’t be the end. Turn the machine on, give her more blood, do something for God’s sake.’ Eddy Hopkins’ hand was on his shoulder. Martin shook it off and felt himself freeze inside.

He knew they could use the machine again and pump more blood into her. He knew they would turn her back and start to thump her chest, forcing the heart to pump life-giving blood to the brain. But none of that happened, and as he watched, they began to clear the area.

Martin noted the time in his notebook as if he was an automaton, writing notes without knowledge.

‘We need to clear so that you can do your stuff.’ One of the medics looked at him, and Martin watched her frown and turn to her colleague and shrug.

The atmosphere had changed to a calm resignation to their task. They needed to clear the crime scene and leave as much evidence as possible undisturbed.

Martin turned away and gazed out of the window; it was a fantasy. Not even a dream, just passing acquaintances in the lift. A smile that lingered too long as his finger hovered over the buttons.

‘Which floor?’

‘Ten, please.’ She could have said the penthouse floor, but that would be the last thing she would do. And a week later, she pressed floor four, remembering where Martin lived. They had smiled and chatted on the ride, and the lift doors were closing as he jumped out. It was the day Martin fell in love for the second time. And now he wondered.

Then he made the phone call.

‘It’s Martin, Boss. You’d better get the wheels rolling. This is a murder scene.’ Eddy looked across at him and shrugged.

‘Of course, it’s bloody contaminated. We’ve had four paramedics in here, plus me and Eddy trying to save the poor bitch. I know the ropes.’  Eddy wandered over to the window and started to open the balcony doors.

‘Don’t touch anything, Eddy. You might get arrested as the murderer.’ Martin turned back to the phone and faced away from the window. ‘Yeah, I know, Boss. We’ve all got to learn.’ Martin felt a moment of animosity as he listened to Detective Inspector Stafford.

‘No, I’m fine; nothing since the weekend. Let me get my teeth into this one. You know.’ Again there was a pause, then Martin nodded and pressed the off button.

‘Stafford’s coming. He’s phoning the police doctor, so the circus will kick off in ten minutes.’ He turned to the two uniformed officers. ‘Get some tape and make some effort to stop people gathering near the door. And use some of the cones in my Land Rover. Try to make a bit of space in the car park.’ He was giving commands but could hardly speak.

One of the paramedics turned to him.

‘She was one of ours. A doctor at the hospital.’

‘What can you tell me about her.’

‘About as much as you can tell me about your chief inspector, I’d guess. We move in different circles.’

‘Superintendent. But I get the message.’

‘She was an oncology specialist. Married, to another doctor, a GP, I think. You’ll get all the bollocks on the media, but I think she was well-liked. I sat in Costa with her and chatted, you know, about nothing in particular. Most doctors think we are glorified porters, but she seemed to respect the profession.’ A wave of jealousy flooded through Martin at the thought of sipping coffee in Costa and chatting.

Martin started to note all the names and details the paramedic could give him. Then, he was alone in the luxury flat with the dead body.

A few minutes later, Eddy stood by the door with packs of white suits and a plastic bag for discarded material. Eddy keeping the show on the right tracks, and Martin was especially glad to have him beside him today.

‘I guess we better make an effort, Martin.’ He handed Martin a suit. Shorter than Tinsley’s six-foot and probably a little heavier. But the truth was, several criminals in the Southend area had made the wrong assumption about Tinsley’s slender build and university education, ending up handcuffed in the back of a police van.

Martin took the suit and started to put it on.

‘Bit bloody late; we’ve been here for an hour.’

Although he hated the white suits, mask and gloves, it allowed him to start to look around the flat. Martin always reminded himself of the truism. Most crimes are solved in the first twenty-four hours. And these few minutes of peace before the circus took over were critical. If something was here, this was the moment to find it.

An antique mahogany desk stood beside the balcony door, and Martin wandered over to it.

‘Take a glance around the rest of the flat, Eddy. If you meet the murderer, give me a shout, and I’ll wander in and give you a hand.’

He took out his phone, photographed the desktop, and then picked over the paperwork with the end of his biro. The doctor had been working on her accounts. There was an open folder with receipts and bills with pencilled ticks and dates on the desk.

‘Self-assessment time.’ He mumbled to himself and lifted the edge of the folder. Underneath was a sheet of paper with some printing across the middle.

Martin was staring at the sheet when he heard DI Terry Stafford putting on his white suit.

‘Murder then?’ Tinsley nodded.

‘She’s a married doctor, in her mid-thirties. Her partner is a local GP, and she died at ten twenty-four. Well-liked, according to the paramedic. No apparent financial problems. Twenty thousand in their joint, current account.’ Stafford raised his eyebrows. ‘She was doing her tax at the desk.’ He showed Stafford the sheet of paper.

Stafford shrugged, then looked at the body. ‘It’ll be the husband. Double or quits?’ He took a five-pound note from his wallet, folded it and put it in Tinsley’s top pocket. ‘The doctor’s coming to declare her dead, and forensics. Then we can start to churn through the stuff. Relations?’ Stafford asked.

‘Eddy is trying to reach her husband. As I say, he’s a GP, but you know what it’s like to get an appointment.’ Martin raised his eyebrows.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘She was lying on her back when we came in, and the door was solid until we forced it. So she could have known the murderer. Let them in, or maybe they were here already. Turned away to walk to the window. Then the attack started. But there were only screams from the woman—no other raised voices.’

‘So she knew the murderer and was relaxed enough to turn her back on him.’ Tinsley nodded.

‘Or her.’

Stafford glanced across the room.

‘Nothing seems out of place.’ Tinsley followed his gaze.

‘So no fight.’ None of the ornaments were disturbed; the chairs and magazines on a small table were all in the right place. The way people live. They read the paper and leave it on the coffee table. ‘It doesn’t add up. You know you go from a quiet discussion to murder in the time it takes to turn round. Is anything stolen?’

‘I’ve not had a chance to look around, but somehow, I doubt it. There’s no sign of burglary, and we were here in no time at all.’

The DI turned to Martin and looked straight at him, and frowned.

‘I need to do this, Boss.’

‘You know what I’m thinking.’ Stafford said.

‘It’s not a problem. I can handle it.’

‘If I find you’re drinking before we have a conviction, I won’t protect you.’ There was silence between the two men.

‘You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost. This is not the first body you’ve seen. When was the last time you had a drink?’

‘The weekend.’

Stafford leant forward and sniffed the air. ‘I can still smell the vodka. Bloody hell Martin, if I breathalysed you now, you’d be over the limit.’ Stafford pulled a grim face.

‘This morning. Just a slug to settle the dust.’ The DI shook his head.

‘Sorry, Martin. I can’t trust you.’

‘This is different. Look, you know we’ve been chasing dogs for the past two years. This is something I can get my teeth into.’ Stafford was still shaking his head.

‘You were on the fast track. The wonder-kid. The one that I thought I’d be proud of when I retired. I could see you wearing the uniform with all the flashes, handing me the silver watch.’

‘You know I can do this.’

‘I know you can do it. What I don’t know is whether you want to do it. You come to me and tell me that you are bored with chasing dognappers and looking at burglar alarms, but what I see is a slug of gin to get you going in the morning.’

‘That’s not fair. One morning I need a sip. It’s not life-threatening. It’s not illegal.’

‘Well, maybe it should be. You were the Prof. The one we asked when we needed an answer. Now we ask Google and hope for the best.’ Stafford stood back, looking at Tinsley.

‘That makes me think.’ Martin said.  ‘You know about my future.’

‘Don’t give me that bollocks, Martin. What are you going to do if you leave? Become a teacher? Jesus, you drink now, you stand in front of 3D and try to teach them about Greek philosophers, and you’d be an alcoholic before the Christmas holidays. No, you are a copper through and through.’

‘Then let me prove it. Give me this chance.’ Stafford wandered to one side, then turned back.

‘You say she’s a senior doctor at the local hospital. That makes her a personality, not some gang member who knows the risks. She will be a pillar of the community, someone who was on the point of curing cancer. A charity worker who has saved the lives of defenceless children, and there will be photographs of her at the village fete, stroking white rabbits and judging the gymkhana.’ For a second, he was silent. ‘You cock this up, take a press conference smelling of vodka, or walk down the corridor in anything less than a dead straight line; they won’t just eviscerate you. The press will be after my blood too.’

‘What can I say?’

‘You could promise that would be a start. Remember, you have my future in your hands; that might help. How old are you?’

‘Thirty.’

‘You’re thirty-six. In five years, you’ll be over forty, and in another five, you’ll be as old as me. But you won’t be a DI; you’ll be lucky to be a PC. This could make you or break you; your shout. And remember what I always say.’ Martin nodded.

‘Don’t make a name for myself, trying to make a name for myself.’

‘Good.’ Eddy was at the door holding back the forensic team. Stafford looked back at the scene over the Thames.

‘This is the same as your flat, isn’t it?’

‘I wish. No, mine’s lower down and about half this size.’

‘Yeah, and there’s no dead body on the carpet. Don’t let me down, Martin.’

 

 

Chapter 2

Criminal psychotherapist Steve Bailey glanced beyond the patient at the brass carriage clock and ran her fingers across the edge of her desktop. It was a habit that started with the first anonymous letter. But even if she could read the text through the solid oak, she would be no nearer understanding the message.

It was the first Thursday of the month, and there should have been another note. But Steve ran into a traffic jam, and Jessica, her assistant, took the letters off the mat. The letter she knew would be there. A plain white envelope addressed to Steve Bailey (Private and Personal). Inside a single sheet of HP copier paper and the simple coded message. Simple if you know the code; just a letter followed by a series of numbers.

The deep note of the bus engine outside her surgery reminded Steve that it was the end of this consultation. Her eyes drifted from the patient to the clock again, four PM.

‘Our timekeeper seems to have arrived.’ Steve smiled at Emily Bush, a private patient she had seen for six weeks.

‘I want you to keep a diary of your activity. Even small things, and bring that with you next time.’ Emily took the sheet but did not stir.

‘I could write that out now. Breakfast, lunch and dinner.’ It was a telling remark.

‘How’s the project? Three double suites will be a lot of work when they are full of guests.’

‘I’ve spoken to several women who need a little extra cash and can cook. So I could end up with a small harem of helpers.’ Emily forced a laugh.

Steve had spent weeks trying to discover the root of her depression. She knew there was a key, but it was a matter of finding the right lock. Emily Bush was talking again.

‘We both like a project, so you know what it’s like when it nears an end. I’m excited at the prospect of moving on but nervous about the future. You know, it’s a bit like dumping a boyfriend. The new fellow is great, but you enjoyed some good times with the dumpee’.

Steve smiled and wondered where this was going, but the patient carried on, oblivious of Steve’s slippage.

‘You know, when the plasterers and the electricians were working away, it filled my mind.’ Steve remembered her calling her customers, paying guests.

‘I suppose the truth is that the project is a substitution strategy.’ Steve said. ‘But the question is, what for?’

The patient looked sideways at the bus, and Steve knew they were on the edge of discovering the truth.

‘Whatever I say will make me sound like a teenager.’ The atmosphere had changed, it was like opening a freezer door, and the patient smiled without humour. ‘You used the word; strategy. I have endless strategies. Before we moved to Maidenhead, I’d meet friends in Costa Coffee or the garden centre for a coffee on my days off. But that started to get awkward. Did you know you can go to a pub at any age? So even those aren’t safe anymore.’

‘Safe?’

‘You sit in a  bar, and buggies surround the next table. There will be mothers laughing and showing off how their babies are sleeping through or something.’ The realisation of the root of the problem swept over Steve.

‘How long have you been trying?’

‘Eight years. Everything was going to be easy; Donald as a junior partner, me as a part-time solicitor, and two kids in kindergarten.’ Again she snorted without humour. Steve’s shoulders slumped; it had taken her almost two months, and she knew she should have got here sooner. Steve smiled at the patient and tilted her head slightly.

‘So, you find yourself in a strange town, no job, no friends and just the two of you in a huge house by the Thames, and you are surprised that you are bored and fed-up?’ The patient smiled at her; it was the Kleenex moment.

‘We can manage this.’ And as they carried on, Steve realised what she had meant about ending a project.

For the past two years, Steve had been restoring an old sports car. It had been fun, but as she approached the end, progress had slowed. But what she saw, derelict in a barn a week earlier, made the TR4 look like a toy.

Steve looked out of the window. The passengers were in the bus’s warmth and security. It was the end of the session, and they both stood.

‘The bus has beaten us today; I’m sorry we are running a little late.’

Steve looked hard at the patient, five years older and, at a guess, 5’ 9”, almost as tall as herself. For a second, the two women stood silently.

‘We can sort this out. There’s no sticking-plaster other than the pills for the time being. But we will get you off those soon.’ The patient smiled at Bailey, and Steve knew she had the lock and the key.

Soon after the patient left, the buzzer on her desk interrupted her ‘navel-gazing’.

‘I guess you are alone.’ A few seconds later, Jessica Harris opened the door with the second post and a folder of letters for her to sign.

‘I’ve put a ring around the flat that we should buy. Well, you should buy, and I can use it whenever I have the grandchildren to stay.’ It was typical of Jessica to start a conversation halfway through, assuming the listener’s intelligence would allow them to catch up.

‘So, we are buying a flat, are we? Might I ask where this one is?’ Steve smiled; Jessica was always coming up with little schemes.

‘Felixstowe. It’s very nice. The beach is OK, and they have a little pier, and it’s not too far, a couple of hours at the most. Less from where I live.’

‘I thought we were buying a flat in Frinton. Why on earth would I want one in Felixstowe?’

‘Well, I assumed that was why you had the Ipswich Enquirer sent to us. It arrived this morning.’

‘Get onto them in the morning and cancel it, will you, Jessica?’

‘I tried. They say the subscription is prepaid for the next three months.’ Steve smiled. ‘Actually, I think the flat would be a good investment, you know, somewhere to put your money, and we’d all enjoy it.’

‘Jessica, we are not buying a flat in Felixstowe, or Frinton, for that matter.’ Steve said.

‘I was just saying. There’s no need to get cross.’ With that, her secretary put the remainder of her work on the desk and turned to leave.

‘I opened a Private and Personal envelope.’ Part question and part apology.

‘It’s a crank.’ Steve said. ‘A sales pitch. Give them another week, and we’ll get something that decodes it, and it will tell us about a new wonder drug.’

‘No, it’s not. I phoned some of the other medical secretaries, and they’ve  got nothing like it.’ Steve laughed at her.

‘Oh, my God. We’ve got the Med Sec Mafia on the case now, have we?’ Jessica sat in the patient’s chair and looked straight across the desk at Steve.

‘This is not the first you’ve received. I can tell.’ There was silence between them for a full five seconds, and Steve found herself running her fingers over the desk again.

‘The truth is, I don’t know what they are.’ Steve admitted.

‘How many have you received?’ Steve’s nostrils flared; she hated Jessica quizzing her, especially when she didn’t have an answer.

‘Four so far. They’re all the same, just different messages. And no, I haven’t spoken to anyone about them, and no, I don’t know what they are.’ Jessica raised her eyebrows.

‘I can tell you that. They’re a threat.’ She hesitated, then carried on unbidden. ‘We deal with some, let’s say, singular people in here. They’re not all like Emily Bush, who just needs her head patting and the odd word of encouragement. Some of our clients are killers, and worse.’

‘I’ll tell you what. If we get another, we’ll call in the fuzz.’ Steve had seen an American earlier and tried to copy McAlister’s Bronx accent and failed. Jessica swept the letters off Steve’s desk and stood.

‘It’s all very well joking about it. As I say, we deal with some very marginal people in here.’ Steve smiled a little and tried to dismiss the problem.

Jessica shook her head. At the door, she turned and told Steve that she would clear the office and make her way home in twenty minutes.

‘It’s my turn to cook.’

‘I thought it was always your turn.’ Steve smiled at her.

‘No, sometimes Sainsbury’s does the business.’ And she turned to go.

‘I’ll walk with you if that’s OK, Jess?’ Twenty minutes later, Steve locked the door, and they walked to their cars. They chatted about Jessica’s grandchildren and the flat; Steve was happy to indulge her secretary, so long as she had company to her car. She had never liked the grey concrete of the multi-story car park; now, it seemed even more intimidating.

Thirty minutes later, Steve pushed the front door of her cottage on the Suffolk, Essex border open and picked up the letters. She dumped the junk mail and took the Christmas cards and bills through to her kitchen, dining room at the back.

She could feel her hands tremble as she flicked through the mail, looking for a hand-delivered envelope, even knowing the pattern. The anonymous note always came in a plain envelope hand-delivered to the surgery, Thursday morning. There was nothing of interest.

‘I can enjoy the cards over dinner, assuming there’s one left.’ She found a Tesco pasta in the freezer.

While her dinner heated, she ran through the Ipswich paper, starting at the back, ploughing her way through the sports and small adverts. Finally, she turned to the front page.

“Crash GP Fails Breath Test?”

The doctor had driven off the slip lane of a major road, and medics said she was stinking of whiskey. The last patient of the day had died two hours after the doctor said he was in good health.

She turned to the inside page to continue reading. There in front of her was an older but very recognisable school friend. For a second, Steve’s shoulders slumped as she read the article, and she tried to remember everything about Sheila Lockwood. All that came to mind was Sheila running like a hare straight at some poor defender, red-faced and wielding a hockey stick. She laughed at the image for a second and decided she must get in touch, but then she stopped. It was one thing to put her arm around Sheila, but to do so now, uninvited with one of their group, was something else.

How naïve they had all been.

Halfway through the GCSE year, they started to form groups; five or six girls who would be your allies, your closest friends and support, when you needed it.

They were already in houses and years, but sometimes, you feel the need for a closer family of friends in a boarding school. So, the groups had formed, and, inevitably, each group acquired a name.

One was ‘The Sextuplets’. Six girls who rolled their skirts up a notch when it was time for RE. Steve racked her brain for the names of other gangs. But as some of them came to mind, she couldn’t bring herself to say her group’s name, even to the space in the kitchen.

The dreams they thought were plans, the fantasies embroidered into pictures, the objectives they knew they could achieve, destroyed in a single juvenile act.

Steve knew they would have striven to put those years behind them. But they’d all remember sitting in the Headmistress’s office when she destroyed their dreams; her words ingrained into their souls.

“When you are a child, you think and act like a child, but when you grow, you cast off your childish ways and act like an adult.”

At the age of sixteen, they had all grown up very quickly.

Chapter 3

DS Martin Tinsley arrived at the station and knew he needed another coffee. Half an hour earlier, he had grabbed a Mac Breakfast and two black coffees, and now Martin was not certain about either choice. But he had restricted his morning tonic to a mouthful. Tinsley pressed the button on the lift.

‘There’s no benefit in going cold turkey. Nothing happens until the autopsy.’ As the lift doors started to close, a hand reached in and stopped them.

‘You in a daze or something, Tinsley? I thought I heard you talking to yourself.’ DCI Manning squeezed through the doors as they closed. Charlie’s voice always fascinated Martin, a mixture of Estuary English and Louis Armstrong; he wondered if Charlie was still smoking forty a day.

‘Sorry about that, Charlie, thinking about the murder in the flat near me.’ The lift shuddered into life.

‘You worried you’re next on the agenda? You’re the SIO, I hear.’ Charlie Manning coughed a laugh. For a second, Martin wondered if Charlie was laughing at the thought of him being the next on the list or the senior investigative officer.

As tall as Tinsley but a good three stone heavier. Martin thought Charlie could flatten an elephant with his forearm if needed. Charlie rippled his shoulders as the lift started.

‘How’s Flakey?’

‘Flakey?’

‘Sorry, for seniors only.’ Charlie winked at Tinsley and lightened his tone. ‘How’s the Terrier? DI Stafford.’ Tinsley’s Boss., also known as the Terrier, either because he never let a criminal go or his name. Tinsley never knew.

‘Fine. You know.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Manning smiled. The lift slowed, and Martin was glad to end this awkward conversation, but Charlie Manning carried on. ‘Tell me about the murder.’ They walked along the corridor, and Manning made it clear that his office was the destination.

Once they were there, the DCI clicked the button on the kettle.

‘Sit. Nothing formal here.’ He handed Tinsley a black coffee in a stained mug.

‘It’s early. You know, we’ve got her on the table today, but we all know what killed her, a kitchen knife in the back. The paramedic said everyone liked her. I knew her slightly, just a passing love affair.’ Manning peered at Martin over his coffee cup, and Martin was glad they were both on the same side.

‘Was it the husband?’

‘Possible, probable. He’s a GP, and it was a surgery day. He might have slipped out, but I think someone would have noticed. We’ve not interviewed the people at the surgery yet; I’ve got Eddy Hopkins going down there today.’ He shrugged.

‘What about forensics?’

‘Plenty of that. They can place me, Eddy and the four paras at the crime scene, plus the husband, but he lives there. They destroyed any prints on the knife when they pulled it out of her. I guess, technically, the paramedic killed her.’ Martin smiled and sipped his coffee, and grimaced. ‘Why the interest?’

‘It’s a high-profile case; I’m a senior officer. It’s what we do; nose around and look for trouble.’ Again, there was the laugh that spoke of years of smoking.

‘Yeah, right.’

‘I’ll lay my cards on the table. The old man’s worried, not about you, but this is high profile, and there might be pressure for Flakey to step aside. If you see what I mean.’ He rippled his shoulders and took another sip of coffee. ‘To put it bluntly, if I have to take it over, I don’t want to be the poor sod who tries to plant seedlings when a herd of elephants have just trampled the soil so hard it looks more like Formica than good loam. If you get my drift.’ Matin blinked, trying to follow the simile, but he understood the gist. ‘You thinking of looking at the scene again, soon?’ Manning’s voice was lighter, and he raised his eyebrows.

‘Let me log in, and we’ll run down there if you fancy.’ Charlie Manning beamed and nodded.

‘The car park in ten minutes. No need to make it public. No one will see us holding hands.’ As Martin walked out, he could hear the laugh that ended in a cough.

Half an hour later, DCI Charlie Manning stood at the lounge door and looked in. They were both wearing full forensic outfits.

‘Let me show you around, Charlie.’

‘I don’t need a guided tour, thanks.’ Martin walked into the lounge, and in his mind, he could see the body of the woman he loved sprawled across the white carpet in a pool of blood. What had been brilliant red yesterday had dried to a dull brown. On various surfaces, Martin could see fingerprint dust.

The room looked odd. The day before, it had been a hive of medics trying to save a life. All that was left was the debris of their struggle. It reminded Tinsley of Christmas parties in his parent’s house. The chaos of drinks and food. Children keen to show off new toys and an uncle sitting in a corner smoking a small cigar. Then the clear-up the following day. The same room smelt of stale smoke, glasses sheltered behind chair legs with the dregs of cheap beer, the harshness of daylight, showing every detail.

Martin leant against the back of an easy chair and felt a wave of remorse, regret, and disgust flood over him.

‘Nice room. Shame about the carpet.’ Charlie shrugged. ‘Some people couldn’t live here after a killing. I don’t know what it is. You ask them if they believe in ghosts, and they laugh. But you mark my words; this flat will sell for a song when the case is over.’ Tinsley shrugged. Charlie was looking at the painting.

‘Is that worth anything?’ Martin tore his eyes away from the carpet and tried to sound professional.

‘In a church hall bizarre, I’d say about five quid. But here, this prominent, I reckon you could start by adding four noughts to that.’ Tinsley said.

‘Fifty grand? Burglary? If they were disturbed, they might have over-reacted. Perhaps they thought she’d be working in the hospital. She appears and pays the price, and they scarper before you arrive.’ Tinsley shook his head.

‘There are three flats on this floor, all expensive and full of stuff like this. We are not talking about a random thug who sees a window open and tries his luck. If they were robbing the flat, they knew what the score was. No, I think this was a targeted attack. They wanted to kill her. But the question is why?’ Charlie seemed obsessed with the décor.

‘Tell me about this painting. You look interested in it.’ Charlie frowned at Tinsley.

‘Paintings are often metaphors. There is a message. I think we are talking about conflict.’ Martin tried to remember a lecture from GCSE Art. ‘You’ve got the never-ending thrash of the waves, trying to erode the solid rocks. It could be a metaphor for their relationship.’ He was glad to be distracted from the murder; Manning was not convinced.

‘So, what you’re saying is, because they bought a painting of the sea, they had a tricky marriage.’

‘The thing is, it’s not exactly, a calm sunset over Leigh. The waves are in turmoil; the sea is boiling, trying to find a way to destroy her.’

‘And someone did.’ Manning finished Tinsley’s thought. ‘More likely, her husband slipped home and found her having it away with the gardener.’

Martin shook his head.

‘You’re all heart, Charlie.’

‘Practical. I like the simple answer. I can understand that. I bet you’ll find more than one type of DNA on the bedsheets. Then you’ll be looking for her boyfriend, that will flush all the bull about them being a loving couple, right down the bog.’ Martin knew that was not the case.

They looked around the flat for the next ten minutes then drove back.

At his desk, Tinsley found a note tucked under the corner of the phone.

“Did you get the bedsheets checked for DNA? What did Charlie Manning think of the flat? My office.”

DS Liz Brown was standing at her desk.

‘You OK?’

Martin held up the note, grimaced at her and wandered towards the Glass Box.

‘If you are going to get your arse kicked, remember the book down the trousers.’ She said, and Tinsley popped a peppermint into his mouth.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

The following morning, DS Martin Tinsley was glad to see Liz Brown arrive that early, especially since she was carrying two cups of coffee.

‘That looks like a relief for a tired worrier.’

‘Who’s to say it was for you. I might feel like two cups this morning.’ Martin took the cup of dark viscous liquid and shook his head.

‘Machine Americano; this stuff is strictly for the men.’ She raised her eyebrows and smiled at him.

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Since seven, quarter too, to be frank.’ Martin sipped the thick black drink. ‘This’ll strip any paintwork.’

‘Yeah, and leave a dark brown stain on the wall. I’ll help you put the shots up if you like.’ She said.

‘I’ve been thinking about the approach. You know, at three in the morning, it all seems so clear. Wind up the troops, send them on their merry way and interview the critical people with the help of my favourite DS.’ He raised his cup in salute. ‘But the practice is never as simple as that, is it?’

‘Nothing’s simple, Martin. But while we chat about strategy, Eddy and the lads will wander in and get on with their work. You’ll have half the office concentrating on their monitors and the other half buggering off interviewing some of our little friends. So we need to get this bit done, call them to attention and give the orders.’ She adopted a phoney American accent. ‘You’re in the Rangers now, son, you’ve got the coffee, you’ve got the troops, now give them hell.’ Martin raised his eyebrows. Liz was no actress.

Ten minutes later, he stood beside Liz looking at the board.

At the top, Martin had written Dr Emma Kennedy, and below that the mantra;

Means, Motive and Opportunity.

Below that, there was a range of photographs of individuals and lines linking them to Emma; her husband, the immediate colleagues at work, friends and family.

The family section had a question mark. Various people told Martin that Emma’s family all lived in India. When pressed, no one knew of anyone in England related to Emma, which made it interesting.

Martin took a red board marker, underlined the word Motive, and watched Liz raise her eyebrows. Then he rubbed it out.

‘I’ve always queried the holy trinity of police work.’ He said.

‘It’s the normal arrangement.’

‘OK, so you want to kill someone, you can use anything from a kitchen knife to a four-ton truck.’ She nodded. ‘And opportunity really means having an alibi if push comes to shove and we start to point our fingers at you. Most people don’t keep a running record of their lives. So we’re never that bothered if someone can’t account for all their movements.’

‘And?’

‘Well, given that the other two are so imprecise, it’s motive that does it for me. If you think there’s some good reason to kill someone, you can sort out the other two. But, given the means and opportunity, we don’t commit murder – without a good reason.’ He tapped the board with the red marker. ‘No, it’s “why” that does it for me, every time.’

‘Thanks for the lecture. By the way, I think I saw Terry in the gas station, so he’s probably upstairs at this very moment, updating the tenth floor.’ She hesitated. ‘Which means you might have another three sitting in on your lecture.’

‘Three?’ Martin flushed a little.

‘The Terrier, Harrison and possibly DCI Manning. I saw him chatting to Terry yesterday about this case. I don’t know the inns or out, but you know.’

Martin could feel his stomach-churning.

‘Another?’ She raised her cup.

‘I, er. No, possibly a black tea. I don’t want to be too hyped up. Not if Harrison will be standing at the back of the room.’

Half an hour later, and Liz was right, Terry led Manning and Harrison into the glass box, and the door closed. After a while, she glanced across at Martin.

‘What do you reckon the form is?’ She asked.

‘I could just start and hope they realise. Or better still, hope they don’t notice until all the troops have their orders.’ He pursed his lips and rocked his head, demanding an answer.

‘Why don’t you wander down to the front in a purposeful manner and knock on the door.’ But the door burst open, and Martin lost the initiative. Terry merely nodded to Martin, and the three officers took their position at the back of the office. Martin walked to the board next to the glass box and clapped his hands together, and could feel his stomach churn. A few seconds later, the team of ten officers gathered in a rough group around Martin. They all knew the scheme; it would be an informal address, a mixture of a few jokes and insults and definite instructions and information. But, unlike the rest, Eddy Hopkins was not smiling. He knew the secret. He had heard the boss whisper that he loved Dr Emma Kennedy as she lay dying on the white carpet and had caught her reply and knew he would remember it for the rest of his life.

Martin watched the three seniors find places amongst the troops, almost as if they were trying to make themselves inconspicuous; he had to break the silence sooner or later.

‘Good morning.’ Martin tapped his pen in the Formica desk nearest to him, and there was silence.

‘I could be wearing a phoney dog collar and start by saying that we are gathered here today on this joyous occasion. But the death of a beautiful young woman can bring pleasure to no one. Unless it is murder.’ He hesitated. ‘In that case, one person will be smiling today.’ He looked around the room. ‘Our job is to wipe that smile off their face.’ He spat out the words with such vehemence, no one in the room had any doubt how affected he was by the murder.

‘I was talking to Liz earlier about the three rocks we look for when we want to drown some bastard in a tidal wave effluent, spending the rest of their lives, at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Means, motive and opportunity.’ He pointed to the board. ‘The means is easy. We have nothing from the lab yet, but I can tell you she was stabbed to death with a Sabittier fruit knife. It’s a  small blade best used for cutting up apples. The opportunity is interesting. On the face of it, there is none. The flat is six floors above mine, so unless we are talking about Spiderman, she opened the door and let someone in, or they were there already. Therefore not an outsider.’ Martin looked at the team, and they appeared to take this more like a college lecture than a call to action.

‘So, we are left with motive.’ He looked at the board, then back at the room. ‘Someone cut me up on the Airport roundabout yesterday. Frankly, for a second, I could have been,’ he smiled at them, ‘Let’s say, gently violent with him, had the opportunity presented itself.’ He raised his eyebrows; most of them had watched Martin down a drunk and bundle him into a police van. It was not something you wanted to be on the wrong side of.

‘I had good reason. This driver was in my lane. Other cars passed me, and I didn’t care, but he was in my lane when he should have taken the third exit. Then he waved as he left the 127, and I smiled.’ He was silent for a second, then carried on.

‘Emma might have stolen from the coffee fund, written to the GMC about some doctor, or even taken the wrong lane at the airport roundabout. Someone thought it egregious enough to kill her.  That’s not generally the coffee fund or lane discipline. Find out the motive, and we find the killer. It doesn’t matter if he has the best alibi or no opportunity to kill her; find the motive, and I’ll nail him.’ He thumped the metal desk.

He gave instructions for the next ten minutes, and everyone knew the course of questioning. Discuss the facts and their relationship with Dr Kennedy and work the questions around finding a motive.

As he finished, he watched the two senior officers discretely stand and exit the room, leaving their DI in the middle of the office surrounded by his staff. Suddenly the atmosphere changed, and all eyes turned to Stafford sitting in amongst them.

‘Now, we can all see how affected Martin was finding this victim the other morning. And I know he will have thought about your tasks. I’d like to agree with Martin. In this case, the motive is the key. This is not a brawl in a pub that got out of hand, and everyone covering. This is a targeted kill. So we are not interested in alibis at this moment. Think about her social life, professional life and family. A surgeon at the hospital may have got something wrong, or she realised there was an error in prescribing. The medical profession is even more clanny than we are. They will never squeak on a poor practitioner; maybe this is the price you pay if you do. Look at the beloved husband. We need to know every hair in his head, by name, rank and number; we need to know his history from the moment he was slapped to, well, today. And money. Take their accounts to pieces.’ Eddy Hopkins coughed.

‘Yes, Eddy?’

‘The doctor was in his general practice all morning.’

‘Sorry, Eddy, but you should have been listening. Nothing is off the table; no one is off the table; we don’t acknowledge any alibi. Find the motive, and The Prof will nail him.’