Dance of Death by Edward Marston

class later in the day that all instruction had been suspended until further notice. She then returned home in a complete daze. Her husband, Martin, had made her a cup of tea and tried to stop her speculating on Wilder’s disappearance. It took him hours to calm her down. When he felt able to leave her, he went off in search of information.
    Audrey sat there in utter dismay, holding the framed photograph of Wilder that he’d given her as a Christmas present. He was leaning on apiano with her beside him. Audrey felt a thrill whenever she looked at the photograph. Wilder was a brilliant dancer and she felt that it was an honour to play for him. The notion that their partnership might somehow have come to an end was terrifying. Audrey was a shapeless, grey-haired lady in her fifties with the kind of nondescript face that made her almost invisible. After leading a largely anonymous life, she’d been employed by Wilder and suddenly blossomed. Her name was printed on the poster outside the studio and she was mentioned in all of his publicity. Wilder had given her an identity and purpose in life she’d hitherto lacked.
    When her husband had returned, she’d risen from her chair and rushed into the hall. One look at his face confirmed her worst fears. Martin Pattinson was a tall, straight-backed, sharp-featured man in his sixties with well-groomed white hair and a neat moustache. He’d shrugged helplessly. Then he’d simply taken his wife into his arms and held her close. Audrey had sobbed until there were no more tears left.
    Simon Wilder had gone for ever. Her life was empty once again.
     
    Marmion and Keedy sat in the rear of a car that took them in the direction of Chingford. The inspector was engrossed in the appointments book, going through page after page in the search for patterns that might yield clues. Having bought a copy of the lunchtime edition as they left Scotland Yard, the sergeant was holding it open and looking for a mention of the murder. He found it on an inside page.
    ‘There’s not very much,’ he complained. ‘All that it says is that the body of a man was found in Chingford in the early hours and that the police have launched a murder inquiry. They don’t even give Wilder’s name.’
    ‘The paper was printed too early for that, Joe. By the time Chat heldhis press conference, that edition was already finished. And it doesn’t worry me that we’ve been overshadowed by the Zeppelin story,’ he continued. ‘I’d always prefer to give newspapers too little information than too much.’
    ‘Tomorrow will be even worse. There’ll be photos galore of the wreckage. The papers will really make a meal of that. Simon Wilder is going to be hidden away on an inside page once again.’ The car slowed to a halt in thickening traffic. ‘We can’t be shuttling to and fro all the time,’ he went on. ‘It’s the best part of a ten-mile drive. We lose valuable time darting to Chingford and back.’
    ‘I disagree,’ said Marmion. ‘Time in transit is never wasted. We have a chance to discuss the case and read through any documents we have – such as this.’ He held up the appointments book. ‘It’s fascinating, Joe. It’s a far better read than any of those novels Ellen takes out of the library.’
    ‘I still think we should establish a base in Chingford.’
    ‘The idea is appealing, I grant you that. It would be wonderful to put ten miles between us and Chat. I hate it when he’s breathing down our necks.’
    ‘I hate it when the old so-and-so is breathing.’
    Marmion laughed. ‘Don’t wish him dead. Chat has his faults and there are plenty of them but it could have been worse.’
    ‘I don’t see how.’
    ‘What if I’d become superintendent? I might have turned into a real tyrant and you’d have been working hand-in-glove with Inspector Chatfield instead of with me.’
    Keedy groaned. ‘I’d sooner be back in uniform.’
    The traffic cleared, the car picked up speed and they