must have gone upstairs and fetched down my bedspread. Because there it was – spread over my sofa – protecting it from all that mud and mess.”
“But… I don’t get it…” Tess sat down on the bed. Newspaper crackled around her. “You got to Squarey Street
before
us. You let my crew in.”
“That’s right,” nodded Mrs Meakes. “Maggie – one of the carers here – a lovely girl – she wheeled me all the way to No.13. Wasn’t that nice of her? So early it was – but she knew I wanted to get things ship-shape before you arrived – oh dear, that doesn’t…” Realisation dawned. “If
you
didn’t cover my sofa, dear, who did?”
And what the hell had they been trying to hide? “Think, Mrs Meakes,” urged Tess. “When exactly
did
you get to Squarey Street?”
The old lady seemed to be tiring however, her head to nod. “Shall I go find Maggie?” said Tess. “She’ll know—”
She rallied. “Quarter to eight–I remember now–I looked at the clock above the window. That’s when I saw it.”
“What?”
“The window. In my kitchen. Where I used to stand and watch Reg digging his flowers—”
“But on Monday, Mrs Meakes, what did you see this
Monday
?”
“It had been smashed – the window – right by the latch. At the time, I just blamed the storm of course, but after…after that poor girl, I started thinking: what if it had been
forced?
You know…”
Mrs Meakes nodded across her newspaper-strewn bed – towards the room’s only bookcase. It was crammed with old Penguin paperbacks. Tess saw fusty thrillers by Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh and Dorothy L Sayer. “I do like a good murder,” confessed the widow. And it always turns out to be the little things, doesn’t it? That crack the case. The police got quite excited.”
They did? Frowning at the rows ofwhodunnits, Tess let fiction blur, and tried to focus on facts. What if Mrs Meakes was right? What if an intruder
had
broken into Squarey Street? Instead of
following
Jeenie, the killer lay in wait. What terrible things had been done in that dark, deserted house? Had Jeenie fought… or begged?
Had she known she was about to die?
“Could you say all that again?” Tess asked quietly. “But on camera?”
“You mean…” Mrs Meakes’ hands fluttered up. “Film me?”
“We’ve been tasked with compiling a report for
Live With Sandy and Fergal,”
said Tess. “But if you’d find it too much –
“My dear” she clapped. “Just you try and stop me! Oh, I know this poor girl died and in such a way – but I’ve been reading these mysteries for years, and now here I am – in the middle of one – a proper one at that.” Her hands clasped; her breath caught. “This murder took cunning, my dear, the most devious kind.”
Tess believed her.
Shit,
she believed her. She could do this – she could –
“Stop,” said Miller. “Please.” He was still bent over the dial on Mrs Meakes’ radio, but now he was turning up the volume. “Listen.”
It took a second for Tess to tune out the crackle of static. Then she heard what sounded like the tail-end of a bulletin – local news, perhaps, or a talk station. “
Following evidence that Jeenie Dempster was being stalked prior to her death, police have arrested a fan seen frequently outside the building where she worked. Mr Pattison, aged 41, is unemployed and appeared visibly distressed when taken to Croydon Police Station for questioning.”
Miller’s eyes sought hers. Her stomach flipped.
“Crap,” she said. “They’ve got Fat Alan.”
CHAPTER FOUR
C roydon Police Station looked like a cross between an adult education college and the
Big Brother
house on eviction night, its mean windows and red brick walls lit up by flashbulbs and MAG lights. Reporters crowded on to a disabled ramp by the building’s main entrance. The road outside was jammed with press vehicles, Panda cars and Tess’ Fiat.
“Move it, you knackers!” she roared, as a Newsnight van cut
“But… I don’t get it…” Tess sat down on the bed. Newspaper crackled around her. “You got to Squarey Street
before
us. You let my crew in.”
“That’s right,” nodded Mrs Meakes. “Maggie – one of the carers here – a lovely girl – she wheeled me all the way to No.13. Wasn’t that nice of her? So early it was – but she knew I wanted to get things ship-shape before you arrived – oh dear, that doesn’t…” Realisation dawned. “If
you
didn’t cover my sofa, dear, who did?”
And what the hell had they been trying to hide? “Think, Mrs Meakes,” urged Tess. “When exactly
did
you get to Squarey Street?”
The old lady seemed to be tiring however, her head to nod. “Shall I go find Maggie?” said Tess. “She’ll know—”
She rallied. “Quarter to eight–I remember now–I looked at the clock above the window. That’s when I saw it.”
“What?”
“The window. In my kitchen. Where I used to stand and watch Reg digging his flowers—”
“But on Monday, Mrs Meakes, what did you see this
Monday
?”
“It had been smashed – the window – right by the latch. At the time, I just blamed the storm of course, but after…after that poor girl, I started thinking: what if it had been
forced?
You know…”
Mrs Meakes nodded across her newspaper-strewn bed – towards the room’s only bookcase. It was crammed with old Penguin paperbacks. Tess saw fusty thrillers by Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh and Dorothy L Sayer. “I do like a good murder,” confessed the widow. And it always turns out to be the little things, doesn’t it? That crack the case. The police got quite excited.”
They did? Frowning at the rows ofwhodunnits, Tess let fiction blur, and tried to focus on facts. What if Mrs Meakes was right? What if an intruder
had
broken into Squarey Street? Instead of
following
Jeenie, the killer lay in wait. What terrible things had been done in that dark, deserted house? Had Jeenie fought… or begged?
Had she known she was about to die?
“Could you say all that again?” Tess asked quietly. “But on camera?”
“You mean…” Mrs Meakes’ hands fluttered up. “Film me?”
“We’ve been tasked with compiling a report for
Live With Sandy and Fergal,”
said Tess. “But if you’d find it too much –
“My dear” she clapped. “Just you try and stop me! Oh, I know this poor girl died and in such a way – but I’ve been reading these mysteries for years, and now here I am – in the middle of one – a proper one at that.” Her hands clasped; her breath caught. “This murder took cunning, my dear, the most devious kind.”
Tess believed her.
Shit,
she believed her. She could do this – she could –
“Stop,” said Miller. “Please.” He was still bent over the dial on Mrs Meakes’ radio, but now he was turning up the volume. “Listen.”
It took a second for Tess to tune out the crackle of static. Then she heard what sounded like the tail-end of a bulletin – local news, perhaps, or a talk station. “
Following evidence that Jeenie Dempster was being stalked prior to her death, police have arrested a fan seen frequently outside the building where she worked. Mr Pattison, aged 41, is unemployed and appeared visibly distressed when taken to Croydon Police Station for questioning.”
Miller’s eyes sought hers. Her stomach flipped.
“Crap,” she said. “They’ve got Fat Alan.”
CHAPTER FOUR
C roydon Police Station looked like a cross between an adult education college and the
Big Brother
house on eviction night, its mean windows and red brick walls lit up by flashbulbs and MAG lights. Reporters crowded on to a disabled ramp by the building’s main entrance. The road outside was jammed with press vehicles, Panda cars and Tess’ Fiat.
“Move it, you knackers!” she roared, as a Newsnight van cut
Similar Books
