says.”
*
Blackaby was as good as his word. By the time Chase had
composed himself, thrown on some clothes, and collected his belongings, an
Astra patrol car had appeared in the street outside, its lights flashing. Chase
locked the front door of his flat, ran down the stairs, and climbed into the
front passenger seat.
“Hello, Sir,” grinned PC Neville. “Had a good evening, did
you?”
“Very pleasant, thank you.”
“Who was she, then?”
Chase decided not to rise to the bait. “Blackaby mentioned
something about a murder,” he said instead.
“Yes, Sir,” replied Neville, the smirk gone from his face
and his voice. “A neighbour saw her office door was open and called us.”
“Her office?”
“Yes. She used the basement of one of the big houses in Chenies Close as an office.”
“Did she live there?”
“No, Sir. We don’t know where she lived. She didn’t have any
ID on her. Not that we could find, anyway.”
The Astra drew up outside a terrace of villas that curved
around the turning area at the end of the cul-de-sac. Chase clambered out of
the patrol car and looked around him. It didn’t take him long to spot the scene
of the crime: only one basement was lit up, and he could only see camera
flashes from one basement.
He ran down the steps and found a burly, balding constable
waiting for him, his face pale.
“What have we got, Blackaby?” Chase asked, trying to ignore
the stench of fresh vomit.
“Through there, Sir,” the constable said. “She’s lying on an
old bed in there.”
“What happened to her?”
“Hit over the head, then strangled, I think. The pathologist
is in with her now.”
“Been dead long?”
“Dunno, Sir.”
“Who found the body?”
“Couple of blokes from the flat upstairs, Sir. They were
coming back from a night out with their girlfriends when they saw the light was
on and the door open. They came inside, and found... it.”
“Where are they now?”
“In their flat. Ground floor. I told them all to wait for
you, Sir.”
The door behind Blackaby opened and the pathologist
appeared, snapping off her rubber gloves and removing the hood of her sky blue
body suit.
“All done,” she declared, running her hands through her short
blonde hair. Then she noticed Chase, fixed him with her pale blue eyes, and
smiled coolly. “How’s it going, Al?”
“Hello, Andrea,” replied Chase, flustered. “What’s
happened?”
“Victim is a woman, white, mid-thirties. One blow to the
head, then strangled.”
“That’s what I said,” whispered Blackaby.
Chase ignored him. “Time of death?”
“No more than two hours ago, probably. The body’s still warm
and rigor hasn’t set in yet.”
“Sexual?”
“Doesn’t look that way.”
“That’s a mercy, at least,” Chase said. “OK to go in there
now?”
Andrea Greenaway smiled broadly. “Knock yourself out, Al.”
“Thanks,” mumbled Chase, trying and failing not to inhale
her musky perfume as he squeezed past her.
“Oh, Al,” Andrea called after him.
He turned. “Yes?”
“When are you going to take me out for dinner? You owe me,
you know.”
Chase gaped at her, then noticed the ironic smile on her
face, and heard Blackaby and Neville chortling. Blushing, he looked away.
He found himself in a large room, dominated by an oversized
double bed. Stout metal rings were bolted to the bedstead at regular intervals.
Piled on top of the bed were cardboard filling boxes.
On top of the boxes was something covered with a flaccid
plastic sheet. It took Chase a few moments to realise that it was the dead
woman’s body. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and began to pull back the
sheet for a closer look. The first thing he saw were her outstretched arms,
handcuffed to the bedstead, and he was not surprised to see a tiny blue and
yellow butterfly tattooed to the inside of her right wrist, just below the
point where the handcuffs cut into her flesh.
He lowered the sheet further. The left hand
*
Blackaby was as good as his word. By the time Chase had
composed himself, thrown on some clothes, and collected his belongings, an
Astra patrol car had appeared in the street outside, its lights flashing. Chase
locked the front door of his flat, ran down the stairs, and climbed into the
front passenger seat.
“Hello, Sir,” grinned PC Neville. “Had a good evening, did
you?”
“Very pleasant, thank you.”
“Who was she, then?”
Chase decided not to rise to the bait. “Blackaby mentioned
something about a murder,” he said instead.
“Yes, Sir,” replied Neville, the smirk gone from his face
and his voice. “A neighbour saw her office door was open and called us.”
“Her office?”
“Yes. She used the basement of one of the big houses in Chenies Close as an office.”
“Did she live there?”
“No, Sir. We don’t know where she lived. She didn’t have any
ID on her. Not that we could find, anyway.”
The Astra drew up outside a terrace of villas that curved
around the turning area at the end of the cul-de-sac. Chase clambered out of
the patrol car and looked around him. It didn’t take him long to spot the scene
of the crime: only one basement was lit up, and he could only see camera
flashes from one basement.
He ran down the steps and found a burly, balding constable
waiting for him, his face pale.
“What have we got, Blackaby?” Chase asked, trying to ignore
the stench of fresh vomit.
“Through there, Sir,” the constable said. “She’s lying on an
old bed in there.”
“What happened to her?”
“Hit over the head, then strangled, I think. The pathologist
is in with her now.”
“Been dead long?”
“Dunno, Sir.”
“Who found the body?”
“Couple of blokes from the flat upstairs, Sir. They were
coming back from a night out with their girlfriends when they saw the light was
on and the door open. They came inside, and found... it.”
“Where are they now?”
“In their flat. Ground floor. I told them all to wait for
you, Sir.”
The door behind Blackaby opened and the pathologist
appeared, snapping off her rubber gloves and removing the hood of her sky blue
body suit.
“All done,” she declared, running her hands through her short
blonde hair. Then she noticed Chase, fixed him with her pale blue eyes, and
smiled coolly. “How’s it going, Al?”
“Hello, Andrea,” replied Chase, flustered. “What’s
happened?”
“Victim is a woman, white, mid-thirties. One blow to the
head, then strangled.”
“That’s what I said,” whispered Blackaby.
Chase ignored him. “Time of death?”
“No more than two hours ago, probably. The body’s still warm
and rigor hasn’t set in yet.”
“Sexual?”
“Doesn’t look that way.”
“That’s a mercy, at least,” Chase said. “OK to go in there
now?”
Andrea Greenaway smiled broadly. “Knock yourself out, Al.”
“Thanks,” mumbled Chase, trying and failing not to inhale
her musky perfume as he squeezed past her.
“Oh, Al,” Andrea called after him.
He turned. “Yes?”
“When are you going to take me out for dinner? You owe me,
you know.”
Chase gaped at her, then noticed the ironic smile on her
face, and heard Blackaby and Neville chortling. Blushing, he looked away.
He found himself in a large room, dominated by an oversized
double bed. Stout metal rings were bolted to the bedstead at regular intervals.
Piled on top of the bed were cardboard filling boxes.
On top of the boxes was something covered with a flaccid
plastic sheet. It took Chase a few moments to realise that it was the dead
woman’s body. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and began to pull back the
sheet for a closer look. The first thing he saw were her outstretched arms,
handcuffed to the bedstead, and he was not surprised to see a tiny blue and
yellow butterfly tattooed to the inside of her right wrist, just below the
point where the handcuffs cut into her flesh.
He lowered the sheet further. The left hand
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