one either. She’d always wanted to leave school and had done so two years earlier than anyone else, opting to do her sixth form at a tech. 1984 — 5 had been her last year at Shalford. Now, however, she was back. Newson wondered why. She’d left no biography only her contact details. For a moment Newson thought about sending her a note; he’d been fond of her for those few months in the fourth form, her the angry punk and him the disaffected nerd. In the end he thought better of it. It was Christine he was after.
SEVEN
N othing. Absolutely nothing,’ Natasha conceded.
‘No shady tinkers lurking at the end of the drive, then?’ Newson asked.
‘No, if anyone was laying dodgy Tarmac it was the man himself, Mr Adam ‘Dead Bastard’ Bishop, and if anyone was likely to be doing any killing and torturing it would have been him as well. The bloke was a complete shit and everybody’s glad he’s dead.’
‘But nobody killed him.’
‘Apparently not.’
All of the neighbours appeared to be off the hook. The killer had been in the house for nearly a day and a night, a long period to be without an alibi, and everybody in the street had one.
‘On top of that,’ Natasha moaned, ‘the forensic search has turned up bugger all.’
The killer had been astonishingly careful. He’d spent nearly twenty hours in a strange house and appeared to have left no trace.
‘Quite an achievement,’ Newson said.
‘He must have used the toilet,’ Natasha said.
‘If he did he was careful to leave it as he found it.’
‘And he never went in the kitchen because Mrs Bishop and Juanita were in there.’
‘The bastard must have brought sandwiches.’ Newson and Wilkie were sitting in Chief Superintendent Ward’s outer office. Ward was the senior officer in charge of investigating unlawful killing. On the door beneath his name he had posted the legend ‘Murder Room’.
‘That’ll have to say ‘Homicide Room’ in a year or two,’ Newson observed.
‘What?’
‘That’s what the Americans call it, homicide, so we’ll call it that pretty soon. Have you noticed how half the force has already started wearing baseball caps? What’s all that about?’
‘They look cool,’ Natasha replied.
‘They, do not look cool. They look cool on Americans. We just look like farts who are trying to look like Americans.’
‘American stuff’s better.’
‘It just looks better.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that? I hated being in uniform, those stupid little girly hats.’
‘I think they look nice.’
‘You wear one, then.’
‘Did you know that a large proportion of kids think the number to dial in an emergency is nine-one-one?’
‘Then that’s what they should change it to.’
‘Oh, come on, Natasha! What about cultural diversity?’
‘God, Ed, you can be a pain in the butt sometimes.’
‘Bum! Bum! Not butt. Americans have butts; we have bums. I am a pain in the bum.’
‘You said it.’
They fell silent for a moment. The superintendent’s secretary brought them coffee. ‘Won’t be long now,’ she assured them.
‘Yes, he said it was urgent,’ Newson said dryly.
The gory details of the Bishop murder had made it to the front page of the early edition of the Evening Standard , and the Chief superintendent had requested that Newson personally brief him on the progress of the investigation. As far as Ward was concerned, murders that made it into the papers had to be solved. It was a pride thing. If the public were interested, Ward was interested.
While they continued to wait for the great man to receive them, Newson told Natasha about visiting Friends Reunited.
‘Bit late, aren’t you? Everybody else did that about two years ago.’
‘Have you done it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did anybody get in touch?’
‘Mainly horny boys two years below me who I don’t remember. Nobody you would actually like to contact you does. I think everybody plays the waiting game and doesn’t want to look like
SEVEN
N othing. Absolutely nothing,’ Natasha conceded.
‘No shady tinkers lurking at the end of the drive, then?’ Newson asked.
‘No, if anyone was laying dodgy Tarmac it was the man himself, Mr Adam ‘Dead Bastard’ Bishop, and if anyone was likely to be doing any killing and torturing it would have been him as well. The bloke was a complete shit and everybody’s glad he’s dead.’
‘But nobody killed him.’
‘Apparently not.’
All of the neighbours appeared to be off the hook. The killer had been in the house for nearly a day and a night, a long period to be without an alibi, and everybody in the street had one.
‘On top of that,’ Natasha moaned, ‘the forensic search has turned up bugger all.’
The killer had been astonishingly careful. He’d spent nearly twenty hours in a strange house and appeared to have left no trace.
‘Quite an achievement,’ Newson said.
‘He must have used the toilet,’ Natasha said.
‘If he did he was careful to leave it as he found it.’
‘And he never went in the kitchen because Mrs Bishop and Juanita were in there.’
‘The bastard must have brought sandwiches.’ Newson and Wilkie were sitting in Chief Superintendent Ward’s outer office. Ward was the senior officer in charge of investigating unlawful killing. On the door beneath his name he had posted the legend ‘Murder Room’.
‘That’ll have to say ‘Homicide Room’ in a year or two,’ Newson observed.
‘What?’
‘That’s what the Americans call it, homicide, so we’ll call it that pretty soon. Have you noticed how half the force has already started wearing baseball caps? What’s all that about?’
‘They look cool,’ Natasha replied.
‘They, do not look cool. They look cool on Americans. We just look like farts who are trying to look like Americans.’
‘American stuff’s better.’
‘It just looks better.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that? I hated being in uniform, those stupid little girly hats.’
‘I think they look nice.’
‘You wear one, then.’
‘Did you know that a large proportion of kids think the number to dial in an emergency is nine-one-one?’
‘Then that’s what they should change it to.’
‘Oh, come on, Natasha! What about cultural diversity?’
‘God, Ed, you can be a pain in the butt sometimes.’
‘Bum! Bum! Not butt. Americans have butts; we have bums. I am a pain in the bum.’
‘You said it.’
They fell silent for a moment. The superintendent’s secretary brought them coffee. ‘Won’t be long now,’ she assured them.
‘Yes, he said it was urgent,’ Newson said dryly.
The gory details of the Bishop murder had made it to the front page of the early edition of the Evening Standard , and the Chief superintendent had requested that Newson personally brief him on the progress of the investigation. As far as Ward was concerned, murders that made it into the papers had to be solved. It was a pride thing. If the public were interested, Ward was interested.
While they continued to wait for the great man to receive them, Newson told Natasha about visiting Friends Reunited.
‘Bit late, aren’t you? Everybody else did that about two years ago.’
‘Have you done it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did anybody get in touch?’
‘Mainly horny boys two years below me who I don’t remember. Nobody you would actually like to contact you does. I think everybody plays the waiting game and doesn’t want to look like
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