were still fumbling for a way in. Foster wanted to find the detail, the piece of information that would flick the switch and illuminate the investigation.
The house was silent, save for the odd creak from some shifting floorboard or the rattle of an ageing radiator. The first spots of rain spattered against the bay window. Foster took another hefty slurp of wine, and then went back into the kitchen to make sure there was more. There was: he could see the bold vermilion lettering of a Petrus, albeit one of the 1980s bottles, which he found a bit underwhelming compared to the complex vintages of other years, but that was why it was one of his favourites among his dad’s collection. Who wants wine that tastes the same every year? Not him, and not least when there were another six years downstairs to drink.
The wine was doing some good, smoothing the
edges. He looked around for something else to do, an activity to help the wine take his mind off the day so that he could sleep, wake up in the morning and get this case out of neutral. He sat at the kitchen table and fired up his computer, a sleek silver laptop dormant. Then he uncorked the Petrus and poured himself a glass without allowing it to open up, an act he knew would make oenophiles swoon. It tasted tight. He knew he should buy in some lesser-priced, easy-drinking wines for times like these, but he never remembered. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearing eleven.
The computer was primed and ready for action.
He opened his Internet connection and was straight on to the Net. Once online, the question was where to go. None of his favourite distractions appealed: Formula One racing websites, luxury car dealers and makers, spoof news sites. He checked his email but found only unsolicited invitations to enlarge his penis. As he pondered what to do, the images of the day seeped back into his mind, like smoke under a door.
One detail in particular: Why would someone not only commit murder but also sever the victim’s hands while he was still alive, if not to inflict maximum pain? Someone truly hated Darbyshire.
His mobile rang, vibrating and trilling next to the bottle of wine on the sideboard. He answered it.
‘Sir,’ Drinkwater said.
‘Yes, Andy.’ Foster admired his young colleague’s stamina. He’d been the first at the scene that morning and was still at it.
‘Notting Hill have picked up the tramp who lived in the churchyard. Sheena Carroll, aka Ciderwoman.
She went back to the churchyard for the night.
They’ve got her at the station now.’
‘What state is she in?’
‘Roaring pissed, apparently. I could go and have a word with her tonight. If I don’t get anywhere, we could always try again in the morning.’
Foster was tempted to let him handle it. It meant he could get some rest. If the call had come ten minutes later, he might have already been asleep. As it was, he was dressed and still - hopefully, at least under the limit. And he knew he could force himself to stay awake for another hour or two.
‘I’ll meet you at Notting Hill in half an hour,’ he said eventually.
Foster walked into the interview room at Notting Hill police station and was almost floored by Cider woman’s pungent scent, an unholy trinity of booze, grime and urine. She was sitting at the table, slouched back in her chair. Guessing her age was impossible.
Her ravaged, pink face might have been anywhere between forty-five and sixty-five. Her sagging skin looked as if it had tired of being attached to her body and was heading south. Her black hair was matted and few of her teeth were their original white. She looked up at Foster when he entered and scowled, her piggy eyes boring into him.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ she spat out, the
words tumbling into each other as they fell haphazardly from her mouth.
Inwardly he smiled: he knew immediately that
she was a frazzled, cantankerous drunk, and not mentally ill - though it was too early to gauge the
The house was silent, save for the odd creak from some shifting floorboard or the rattle of an ageing radiator. The first spots of rain spattered against the bay window. Foster took another hefty slurp of wine, and then went back into the kitchen to make sure there was more. There was: he could see the bold vermilion lettering of a Petrus, albeit one of the 1980s bottles, which he found a bit underwhelming compared to the complex vintages of other years, but that was why it was one of his favourites among his dad’s collection. Who wants wine that tastes the same every year? Not him, and not least when there were another six years downstairs to drink.
The wine was doing some good, smoothing the
edges. He looked around for something else to do, an activity to help the wine take his mind off the day so that he could sleep, wake up in the morning and get this case out of neutral. He sat at the kitchen table and fired up his computer, a sleek silver laptop dormant. Then he uncorked the Petrus and poured himself a glass without allowing it to open up, an act he knew would make oenophiles swoon. It tasted tight. He knew he should buy in some lesser-priced, easy-drinking wines for times like these, but he never remembered. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearing eleven.
The computer was primed and ready for action.
He opened his Internet connection and was straight on to the Net. Once online, the question was where to go. None of his favourite distractions appealed: Formula One racing websites, luxury car dealers and makers, spoof news sites. He checked his email but found only unsolicited invitations to enlarge his penis. As he pondered what to do, the images of the day seeped back into his mind, like smoke under a door.
One detail in particular: Why would someone not only commit murder but also sever the victim’s hands while he was still alive, if not to inflict maximum pain? Someone truly hated Darbyshire.
His mobile rang, vibrating and trilling next to the bottle of wine on the sideboard. He answered it.
‘Sir,’ Drinkwater said.
‘Yes, Andy.’ Foster admired his young colleague’s stamina. He’d been the first at the scene that morning and was still at it.
‘Notting Hill have picked up the tramp who lived in the churchyard. Sheena Carroll, aka Ciderwoman.
She went back to the churchyard for the night.
They’ve got her at the station now.’
‘What state is she in?’
‘Roaring pissed, apparently. I could go and have a word with her tonight. If I don’t get anywhere, we could always try again in the morning.’
Foster was tempted to let him handle it. It meant he could get some rest. If the call had come ten minutes later, he might have already been asleep. As it was, he was dressed and still - hopefully, at least under the limit. And he knew he could force himself to stay awake for another hour or two.
‘I’ll meet you at Notting Hill in half an hour,’ he said eventually.
Foster walked into the interview room at Notting Hill police station and was almost floored by Cider woman’s pungent scent, an unholy trinity of booze, grime and urine. She was sitting at the table, slouched back in her chair. Guessing her age was impossible.
Her ravaged, pink face might have been anywhere between forty-five and sixty-five. Her sagging skin looked as if it had tired of being attached to her body and was heading south. Her black hair was matted and few of her teeth were their original white. She looked up at Foster when he entered and scowled, her piggy eyes boring into him.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ she spat out, the
words tumbling into each other as they fell haphazardly from her mouth.
Inwardly he smiled: he knew immediately that
she was a frazzled, cantankerous drunk, and not mentally ill - though it was too early to gauge the
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