Close Call by J.M. Gregson

she’s in the Judi Dench class. But even if she’d killed him, she’d be in deep shock now, perhaps. However, it was useful seeing her today: she gave us a pretty cogent account of what happened last night, before the killing. We’ll need to check it against other people’s impressions, of course, but her version of the party they had in the close before this murder rang true, to me.’
    â€˜In that case, you’ll be interested in the first entry I’ve made into her file,’ said Rushton. He was trying not to sound too pleased with himself. And failing.
    He looked as if he was about to produce a print-out for them, but Lambert said a little wearily, ‘Just tell us, Chris. Has Mrs Alison Durkin got a history as a multiple poisoner?’
    Chris frowned at this levity. John Lambert had a record second to none as a taker of villains: that is why the Home Office had recently extended his service by two years, in response to the Chief Constable’s special request. But as well as being slow to recognize the importance of the new technology, he sometimes displayed too much levity for Chris’s taste. ‘I’ve nothing as dramatic as that to report. I merely thought you might be interested to know that the dead man’s widow has a criminal record.’
    â€˜For petty thieving?’
    â€˜For criminal violence. For Actual Bodily Harm. For attacking her partner with an offensive weapon: to whit, scissors. Sounds as if she was lucky it wasn’t an even more serious charge.’ Chris Rushton tried not to sound self-satisfied about his information. And failed again.
    It was almost seven o’clock by the time Bert Hook got home. The house seemed unnaturally quiet.
    Eleanor was preparing a salad in the kitchen. Salad was always a good bet for police wives in hot weather; you could never be sure when your man would come home, and salad didn’t deteriorate as quickly as other things.
    Bert watched her busy, expert hands slicing cucumber and hard-boiled eggs and preparing dressings. He marvelled again at the casual dexterity and the versatility of the female of his species. ‘Jack not back yet?’
    His wife smiled. ‘No. He rang on his mobile between the innings, though. He got forty-one. And a dodgy lbw decision, he said.’
    Bert grinned, trying not to look too proud, even here, where showing pride wouldn’t matter. ‘That’s batsmen for you. They never ever get a good lbw decision, even when it would have knocked all three stumps over. It’s a good score, that, though. Forty-one’s a lot, for a thirteen-year-old.’
    â€˜Jack seemed to think so. He was trying hard not to sound too excited about his score to his ignorant mum. He was trying to be blasé, but thirteen-year-olds can’t do blasé very well.’
    â€˜Where’s Luke?’
    â€˜He’s in bed, I think. He’s not very well. He had a bit of a temperature, so I gave him paracetamol and suggested he went to bed for a while. He actually went, without any argument, so he must be feeling rough. Have a look in at him, but don’t disturb him if he’s asleep.’
    Bert went up to their bedroom and changed into shorts and a tee shirt: it was still hot and airless. He went along the landing and cautiously opened the door into his younger son’s room.
    He was back in the kitchen with Eleanor within thirty seconds. ‘Luke’s got a fever of some kind. I think we need a doctor.’
    Seventy miles north of Gurney Close, in a leafy suburb of Birmingham, there was even less breeze than in Herefordshire. Even at ten o’clock on that Sunday night, with darkness dropping in fast over the second city in the land, the temperature was still in the seventies. Or to be more modern and precise, it was exactly twenty-three degrees centigrade.
    This man prided himself on his precision. And he was certainly a modern man, if modernity can be measured by