and liaise with Overdale. Top man: saved Bev a brush with Doctor Death. Through the door she
caught a glimpse of polished panels, stained glass, stately home staircase. She nodded at Mac. “See what we’ve got, eh?”
The wife was in what Hawkeye had been told to call the drawing room. It had the feel of a genteel though slightly seedy drinking club with William Morris walls and heavy dark furniture, brass
lamps cast dingy glows, stags and foxes gazed soulfully from gilt-framed misty landscapes. Dimpled copper scuttles gleamed either side of a huge fireplace, embers glowed in the grate. All it needed
was a brace of flatulent black Labs and the tableau was complete.
It took Bev a second or two to locate the source of the noise – and what the sound was. Against the wall to the right of the double doors, Diana Masters was curled in the foetal position
on a gold velvet chaise longue. The back of her neck was exposed: slender, white, vulnerable. Her narrow shoulders shook, heartbreaking sobs muffled by an oyster satin nightdress stained with
blood. Bev halted momentarily. It was evidence; she should’ve been told to change. She bit back commenting. The husband wasn’t the only victim here. Bev had witnessed this sort of pain
too many times, countless lives ruined in the fall-out from violent death.
As she and Mac drew near, an elderly matron type homed in from the left. The neighbour presumably. Her bulky tweed-skirted hips straddled the approach path, and Bev caught a whiff of wet dog and
dry sherry.
“I really don’t think she should be disturbed right now.” Her bulbous pale blue eyes shot glares between Bev and Mac. No one reacted to the sound of ash falling in the
grate.
“You a doctor?” Bev asked.
“No.” Wattled neck flesh quivered. “Dr Gannon should be here any minute.”
“Best get a move on, then.” Bev strode forward.
“I don’t think so, young lady.” Lady? Bev caught Mac scratching his nose.
“What is it, Joy?” Diana Masters lifted her head, looked as if she was trying to focus – not just bleary eyes. There were a couple of defence wounds near the knuckles on both
hands, another thin red weal on a well-toned arm.
“Don’t worry, Diana dear, they’re police officers and they’re just leav...”
Bev barged in, hand outstretched. “Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss, Mrs Masters. This is my colleague, DC Mac Tyler. If you feel up to it, we need to ask a few questions.”
Fleeting touch of fingers as the woman straightened. “Of course. I understand. Joy...?” Looked less than ecstatic. “I’m sure the officers would appreciate a hot
drink.” It was polite but it was a dismissal.
“White coffee, two sugars. Thanks.” Bev gave the order. There was a Norwegian wood moment while they glanced round for a chair. Mac spotted a couple of uprights against a wall,
carried them across the faded sage Wilton. Doing the interview standing was out of the question, but the seating arrangements felt a bit like an audience with a minor royal. Bev instantly dismissed
the notion. Diana Masters had done nothing to warrant it.
“This is Alex’s favourite room.” She gave a deep shuddering sigh. “I feel close to him here. I hope you don’t mind?”
“No worries. It’s fine, Mrs Masters.” Looking at her now, Bev reckoned pop princess was nearer the mark. The glossy hair with caramel highlights curved razor sharp under a firm
jaw-line. Even without make up, the amber eyes were slanted, feline. Put Bev in mind of that singer: Sophie something? It’d come to her. Like a shed-load of other info, some of it useful.
At this stage, she knew squat about the Masters. Initial interviews were about feeling the way, laying down broad brushstrokes, fine detail being filled in by subsequent sessions. By the end,
the cops would probably know more about Diana and Alex than their own mothers.
She led Diana gently through the easy ones, full name, age, occupation, family members, anyone
caught a glimpse of polished panels, stained glass, stately home staircase. She nodded at Mac. “See what we’ve got, eh?”
The wife was in what Hawkeye had been told to call the drawing room. It had the feel of a genteel though slightly seedy drinking club with William Morris walls and heavy dark furniture, brass
lamps cast dingy glows, stags and foxes gazed soulfully from gilt-framed misty landscapes. Dimpled copper scuttles gleamed either side of a huge fireplace, embers glowed in the grate. All it needed
was a brace of flatulent black Labs and the tableau was complete.
It took Bev a second or two to locate the source of the noise – and what the sound was. Against the wall to the right of the double doors, Diana Masters was curled in the foetal position
on a gold velvet chaise longue. The back of her neck was exposed: slender, white, vulnerable. Her narrow shoulders shook, heartbreaking sobs muffled by an oyster satin nightdress stained with
blood. Bev halted momentarily. It was evidence; she should’ve been told to change. She bit back commenting. The husband wasn’t the only victim here. Bev had witnessed this sort of pain
too many times, countless lives ruined in the fall-out from violent death.
As she and Mac drew near, an elderly matron type homed in from the left. The neighbour presumably. Her bulky tweed-skirted hips straddled the approach path, and Bev caught a whiff of wet dog and
dry sherry.
“I really don’t think she should be disturbed right now.” Her bulbous pale blue eyes shot glares between Bev and Mac. No one reacted to the sound of ash falling in the
grate.
“You a doctor?” Bev asked.
“No.” Wattled neck flesh quivered. “Dr Gannon should be here any minute.”
“Best get a move on, then.” Bev strode forward.
“I don’t think so, young lady.” Lady? Bev caught Mac scratching his nose.
“What is it, Joy?” Diana Masters lifted her head, looked as if she was trying to focus – not just bleary eyes. There were a couple of defence wounds near the knuckles on both
hands, another thin red weal on a well-toned arm.
“Don’t worry, Diana dear, they’re police officers and they’re just leav...”
Bev barged in, hand outstretched. “Detective Sergeant Bev Morriss, Mrs Masters. This is my colleague, DC Mac Tyler. If you feel up to it, we need to ask a few questions.”
Fleeting touch of fingers as the woman straightened. “Of course. I understand. Joy...?” Looked less than ecstatic. “I’m sure the officers would appreciate a hot
drink.” It was polite but it was a dismissal.
“White coffee, two sugars. Thanks.” Bev gave the order. There was a Norwegian wood moment while they glanced round for a chair. Mac spotted a couple of uprights against a wall,
carried them across the faded sage Wilton. Doing the interview standing was out of the question, but the seating arrangements felt a bit like an audience with a minor royal. Bev instantly dismissed
the notion. Diana Masters had done nothing to warrant it.
“This is Alex’s favourite room.” She gave a deep shuddering sigh. “I feel close to him here. I hope you don’t mind?”
“No worries. It’s fine, Mrs Masters.” Looking at her now, Bev reckoned pop princess was nearer the mark. The glossy hair with caramel highlights curved razor sharp under a firm
jaw-line. Even without make up, the amber eyes were slanted, feline. Put Bev in mind of that singer: Sophie something? It’d come to her. Like a shed-load of other info, some of it useful.
At this stage, she knew squat about the Masters. Initial interviews were about feeling the way, laying down broad brushstrokes, fine detail being filled in by subsequent sessions. By the end,
the cops would probably know more about Diana and Alex than their own mothers.
She led Diana gently through the easy ones, full name, age, occupation, family members, anyone
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