The Edge by Clare Curzon

children’s blood. At the morgue she’d seen that they weren’t.
    An alternative explanation was that the same knife had been used on both Hoad and Angela by a third party, and the children killed first. It wasn’t the sadly familiar pattern of a family massacre, where the enraged husband went first for his wife, then the children – usually by smothering — finally killing himself. From his complex wounds, it was quite clear that Frederick Hoad had been totally incapable of that last act. He’d been shot dead with a single .22 bullet which she’d watched being removed from the body. His stabbing was post-mortem, as indicated by the amount of blood loss. But apparently the little girls had been stabbed in between.
    Yes, she decided: a) Hoad is shot dead; b) the children are stabbed; c) the killer returns to stab Hoad. It must have been in that order. So where did the barn killing and mutilation fit in? As the mad, grand finale?
    Hoad killed by a single small-calibre bullet. So was that a skilled shot, or a lucky one? With a small-bore gun, rifle or target pistol, using a bullet suited to pinging tin cans rather than murder, you’d expect the killer to empty his gun into the victim
to make sure. But he hadn’t. He’d gone away on a stabbing spree, then come back to mutilate the body. Unsure he was dead? Or as an act of frenzied hate?
    Nothing in this hideous case made sense. Perhaps it was the wrong time to try. Have a nightcap, get to bed: your brains are blown, Z told herself.
    She felt too weary to garage the Ford and left it outside to whatever ravages the weather might threaten.

Chapter Six
    As the two sergeants made for their desks in the CID office next morning, they found Superintendent Yeadings there before them, in his shirtsleeves. ‘We’ve found family,’ he told them as they came in together.
    He paused. ‘Or rather, the family’s found us. Mustn’t underrate so formidable a lady as the late Mrs Hoad’s mother. Squadron Leader Anna Plumley, MBE, no less.’
    â€˜Joanna Lumley?’ Beaumont couldn’t resist mishearing.
    Yeadings mouth quivered. ‘An altogether different proposition.’
    â€˜And Daniel? Is he with her?’ Z demanded.
    â€˜He’s not. There’s regrettably no news on him. For which the lady’s prepared to hold us liable. I’ve spoken with her on the phone and have an appointment with her at 9.15 a.m., after which I shall be passing her to DCI Salmon and then to yourselves. This is at her request. She has experience, it seems, of working through hierarchies. The Deputy Chief Constable was called out of bed to meet her at 3 a.m.’
    â€˜Wow,’ Beaumont breathed in awe. ‘But formidable, man.’
    â€˜So long as everyone understands.’ The Boss regarded them evenly. ‘I’ve read both your reports from yesterday. Is there anything overnight that I should be updated on?’
    They disclaimed, so he nodded and left for his own office. ‘Where can she stay?’ Z asked herself aloud. ‘Alma Pavitt’s booked in at the nearest pub. It’s pretty cramped. I’d better ring around for an alternative, in case they don’t hit it off together.’
    â€˜I’ve never met a RAF lady with clout,’ Beaumont said wonderingly, ‘though she’s probably retired by now and just hanging on to her rank.’
    â€˜Why not? Male officers do.’
    â€˜Yes; most of them after some kind of war service. This one would have won no wings, flying a desk.’
    â€˜For all we know she could be one of the Red Arrows. You should leave sexism to our Acting-DCI,’ Z riposted.
    He shrugged. ‘Well, if she needs chauffeuring, it’s up to you, Z.’

    â€˜Your new Toyota’s classier.’ But Beaumont had already left, bound for the Incident Room. She picked up her file and followed, to find Salmon there attaching fresh