Orchestrated Death by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Atherton’s forearm with surprising strength to keep him still
     while she told him her tale of the glories from which she had fallen; passing on, when he showed signs of restlessness, to
     the iniquities of the Barclays on the first floor, who left their baby with a child minder so that they could both go out
     to work, and who hoovered at all hours of the evening which interfered with Mrs Gostyn’s television, and who made the whole
     ceiling shake with their washing machine, she gave him her word, so it was a wonder the house didn’t come down around her
     ears.
    Miss Austen? Yes, Miss Austen lived on the top floor. She played the violin in an orchestra, which was very nice in its way,
     but there was the coming and going at all hours, and then practising, practising, up and down scales until you thought you’d
     go mad. It wasn’t even as if it was a nice tune you could tap your feet to. You mightn’t think it to look ather, but Mrs Gostyn had been a great dancer in her time, when Mr Gostyn was alive.
    Atherton recoiled slightly from the arch look, and tried to withdraw his arm, but though the flesh of her hand slid about,
     the bones inside still gripped him fiercely. He murmured as little encouragingly as he could.
    ‘Oh yes, a great dancer. Max Jaffa, Victor Sylvester – we used to roll the carpet back, you know, whenever there was anything
     like that on the wireless. Of course,’ with a moist sigh, ‘we had the whole house then. Lodgers were not thought of. But you
     can’t get servants these days, dear, not even if you could afford them, and I can’t climb those stairs any more.’
    ‘Did Miss Austen have many visitors?’ Slider asked quickly, before she could tack off again.
    ‘Well, no, not so many. She was away a lot, of course, for her work – sometimes for days at a time, but even when she was
     home she didn’t seem to be much of a one for entertaining. There’s her friend – a young lady – the one she worked with, who
     came sometimes –’
    ‘Boyfriends?’ Atherton asked.
    Mrs Gostyn sniffed. ‘There have been men going up there, once or twice. It’s not my business to ask questions. But when a
     young woman lives alone in a flat like that, she’s bound to get into trouble sooner or later. Far be it from me to speak ill
     of the dead, but –’
    Atherton felt Slider’s surprise. There had been no official identification given out, no photograph in the press.
    ‘How did you know she was dead, Mrs Gostyn?’
    The old woman looked merely surprised. ‘The other policeman told me, of course. The one who came before.’
    ‘Before?’
    ‘Tuesday afternoon. Or was it Wednesday? Inspector Petrie he said his name was. A very nice man. I offered him a cup of tea,
     but he couldn’t stop.’
    ‘He came in a police car?’
    ‘Oh no, an ordinary car, like yours. Not a panda car or anything.’
    ‘Did he show you his identification?’ Slider tried.
    Of course he did,’ she said indignantly. ‘Otherwise Iwouldn’t have given him the key.’
    Atherton made a sound like a moan, and she glanced at him disapprovingly. Slider went on, ‘Did he say why he wanted the key?’
    ‘To collect Miss Austen’s things. He took them away with him in a bag. I offered him a cup of tea but he said he hadn’t time.
     Thank you very much for asking, though, he said. A very nice, polite man, he was.’
    ‘Shit fire,’ Atherton muttered, and Slider quelled him with a glance.
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t know this Inspector Petrie,’ he said patiently. ‘Did he happen to mention to you, Mrs Gostyn, where he
     came from? Which police station? Or did you see it on his identity card?’
    ‘No, dear, I couldn’t see it properly because of not having my reading glasses on, but he very kindly read it out to me, his
     name, I mean – Inspector Petrie, CID, it said. Such a nice voice – what I’d call a cultured voice, like Alvar Liddell. Unusual
     these days. Are you telling me there’s something wrong