explained that I was a regular client of Jennifer, and about the note which had brought me there. I took it out of my pocket and handed it over. They both read the note in silence, and then DI Palmer spoke again,
“Was this a normal thing, her sending notes to ask you to visit?”
“No,” I replied, “This is the first time it’s ever happened.”
“And what was so urgent that she had to see you?”
“I have no idea.” I replied, feeling slightly foolish. “I was hoping that she was going to explain it to me when we met.”
DI Palmer’s voice was becoming much more businesslike and sceptical. “And you say that when you got here the door was pulled to, but someone had gone to the trouble of fixing the lock so the door would open.”
“Yes.” I answered, a little more tensly.
“Are you sure there isn’t something else you’d like to tell us?” He enquired, his voice now taking on the tone of a friendly confidante.
“I’ve told you everything that happened.” I said as firmly as I could.
He nodded, his lips pursed, and then went outside to use his radio. DI Smith came over and took down my name, address and telephone number.
“Don’t worry about him,” she murmured, “He’s not usually like this – cases like this don’t come along every day in York. But it is vital that you tell us absolutely everything you know.”
The doorbell rang again, and I went to open the door to an ambulance crew. “I’m afraid you’ll have to hang on until after the Crime Scene boys have got here. It’s far too late for you to be able to do anything to help her, anyhow.” said DI Palmer, coming back into the house behind them.
He looked back at me. “I think we can handle things from here, Mr. Bailey. I'm sure we'll be wanting to speak to you again, but for now you’re free to go.” He turned and then, almost as an afterthought, added, “Would you mind calling in at the police station before you go home. I’d like to get a record of your fingerprints so that we can tell them from any others we find here.”
“I’d be happy to.” I replied. “Is it the main station on the waterfront?”
“That’s the one,” DI Palmer confirmed. “I’ll give them a ring and let them know you’re coming so you shouldn’t have to hang around too long.”
I walked out of the house and back to the street. The sun was still shining, but to me it felt much colder than it had earlier. I checked my watch, and was amazed to discover that it was still morning. I’d probably only been in Jennifer’s house for about an hour.
I knew where the police station was because it was only about a hundred yards further up the waterfront from the Crisis Centre. The walk into the city took me through crowds of excited families, many already clutching bags full of shopping from the Christmas market. Given the events of the morning, it seemed somewhat horrific that life was just going on as normal.
I went into the police station, and walked up to the main desk. It was staffed by a policeman in uniform, whose badge identified him as PC Brian Taylor.
“I’ve come to be fingerprinted,” I began to explain.
“You must be Mr. Bailey.” He replied with a smile. “DI Palmer said you’d be calling in.”
He produced a blank fingerprint form and a pad of ink from underneath the desk. Within a few minutes, I had rolled my thumb and fingers in the ink and pressed them against the paper, leaving a pattern of lines and swirls. I signed the form to confirm that they were my fingerprints, and left.
Back at the flat, I gave up on any thoughts of shopping or the cinema. Instead, I washed my hands and then sat out on my balcony, staring blindly at the river.
Chapter Seven
Sunday Express Sunday, 25th November
BRUTAL MURDER OF
YORK THERAPIST
Police yesterday discovered the body of prominent York therapist Jennifer Carter. Mrs. Carter, 54 years old, was found murdered at her home near the centre of the city.
“This was a
“Was this a normal thing, her sending notes to ask you to visit?”
“No,” I replied, “This is the first time it’s ever happened.”
“And what was so urgent that she had to see you?”
“I have no idea.” I replied, feeling slightly foolish. “I was hoping that she was going to explain it to me when we met.”
DI Palmer’s voice was becoming much more businesslike and sceptical. “And you say that when you got here the door was pulled to, but someone had gone to the trouble of fixing the lock so the door would open.”
“Yes.” I answered, a little more tensly.
“Are you sure there isn’t something else you’d like to tell us?” He enquired, his voice now taking on the tone of a friendly confidante.
“I’ve told you everything that happened.” I said as firmly as I could.
He nodded, his lips pursed, and then went outside to use his radio. DI Smith came over and took down my name, address and telephone number.
“Don’t worry about him,” she murmured, “He’s not usually like this – cases like this don’t come along every day in York. But it is vital that you tell us absolutely everything you know.”
The doorbell rang again, and I went to open the door to an ambulance crew. “I’m afraid you’ll have to hang on until after the Crime Scene boys have got here. It’s far too late for you to be able to do anything to help her, anyhow.” said DI Palmer, coming back into the house behind them.
He looked back at me. “I think we can handle things from here, Mr. Bailey. I'm sure we'll be wanting to speak to you again, but for now you’re free to go.” He turned and then, almost as an afterthought, added, “Would you mind calling in at the police station before you go home. I’d like to get a record of your fingerprints so that we can tell them from any others we find here.”
“I’d be happy to.” I replied. “Is it the main station on the waterfront?”
“That’s the one,” DI Palmer confirmed. “I’ll give them a ring and let them know you’re coming so you shouldn’t have to hang around too long.”
I walked out of the house and back to the street. The sun was still shining, but to me it felt much colder than it had earlier. I checked my watch, and was amazed to discover that it was still morning. I’d probably only been in Jennifer’s house for about an hour.
I knew where the police station was because it was only about a hundred yards further up the waterfront from the Crisis Centre. The walk into the city took me through crowds of excited families, many already clutching bags full of shopping from the Christmas market. Given the events of the morning, it seemed somewhat horrific that life was just going on as normal.
I went into the police station, and walked up to the main desk. It was staffed by a policeman in uniform, whose badge identified him as PC Brian Taylor.
“I’ve come to be fingerprinted,” I began to explain.
“You must be Mr. Bailey.” He replied with a smile. “DI Palmer said you’d be calling in.”
He produced a blank fingerprint form and a pad of ink from underneath the desk. Within a few minutes, I had rolled my thumb and fingers in the ink and pressed them against the paper, leaving a pattern of lines and swirls. I signed the form to confirm that they were my fingerprints, and left.
Back at the flat, I gave up on any thoughts of shopping or the cinema. Instead, I washed my hands and then sat out on my balcony, staring blindly at the river.
Chapter Seven
Sunday Express Sunday, 25th November
BRUTAL MURDER OF
YORK THERAPIST
Police yesterday discovered the body of prominent York therapist Jennifer Carter. Mrs. Carter, 54 years old, was found murdered at her home near the centre of the city.
“This was a
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