the safety chain, turned the key in the two deadlocks and opened the reinforced front door.
The stairwell light came on. She heard footsteps. Moments later she saw the familiar uniformed figure of Rob Spofford, his tall, trim frame almost dwarfing the petite figure of uniformed Sergeant Karen Nelson following behind him. She had wavy fair hair that bounced down as she took off her hat, and despite a composed demeanour she had a distinct presence of authority about her, Red thought, that no one sensible would want to mess with.
Her colleague had a friendly face beneath close-cropped dark hair that made him look much younger than his twenty-nine years, and gave him the air of a listener. And boy, Red thought, had he listened! On the frequent visits he had paid her, responding to her 999 calls, and then checking up on her during the days and weeks that followed to ensure she was okay, she had talked and he had listened and offered his wisdom. She liked him enormously, and he seemed wise beyond his years.
Red invited them in and closed the door behind them, then looked at them anxiously. ‘What’s . . . what’s happened?’
‘We need to ask you a few questions, Ms Westwood,’ Sergeant Nelson said.
‘Yes, of course. Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee, a glass of wine?’
The sergeant shook her head. ‘No, thank you. But perhaps we could sit down.’
Red led them through to the sitting room, grabbed the remote and muted the television. ‘Terrible, that fire,’ she said.
‘My wife’s favourite restaurant,’ Constable Spofford said. ‘Not that we can afford to go there, except on very special occasions.’
The three of them stared at the silent images for some moments after they had sat down. ‘It’s nice to see you, Rob – Constable – Spofford,’ Red said, wondering if it was inappropriate to use his first name in front of his superior.
‘Been a few months,’ he said. ‘All’s quiet?’
‘Yes. Maybe Bryce has moved away – or hopefully found someone new.’
‘Good, I’m glad to hear it.’ He looked a tad uneasy.
‘Ms Westwood,’ Sergeant Nelson said, ‘records we’ve obtained from the O2 phone company indicate you’ve made numerous calls to one particular number during the past twenty-four hours.’ She gave her the number. ‘Is that correct?’
Red nodded hesitantly, suddenly feeling sick in the pit of her stomach. ‘Why . . . why are you asking?’
The two police officers glanced at each other in a way that made Red feel extremely uncomfortable. Then the sergeant responded in a bland, impersonal way.
‘The registered owner of this phone is a Dr Karl Murphy. Do you mind if I ask how you know him?’
The flickering images on the television screen were too distracting. Red grabbed the remote and switched the television off. ‘Why? What . . . what’s he done? Has something happened to him?’
‘Can I ask what your relationship with Dr Murphy is?’
Spofford’s phone started ringing. He removed it from his pocket, looked at the display and silenced it, giving his colleague and Red apologetic glances.
‘We’re going out together,’ Red replied. Then she shrugged. ‘He was meant to pick me up at seven o’clock yesterday evening and he never showed up. Why? Has he had an accident?’
‘How long have you been seeing each other?’
She thought for a moment. ‘About six weeks.’
‘Without being too personal, Ms Westwood, how would you describe your relationship with Dr Murphy?’
‘What is all this about?’ Red asked, her nerves making her irritable. She looked at Spofford, but only got a blank expression and uncomfortable body language back from him.
The sergeant stared sympathetically at her and for a moment Red thought she was softening. But then she responded with the distancing, formal tone of a professional copper.
‘I’m afraid you might want to prepare yourself. We’ve found a body, in strange circumstances, that might be Dr Murphy, and we think you might
The stairwell light came on. She heard footsteps. Moments later she saw the familiar uniformed figure of Rob Spofford, his tall, trim frame almost dwarfing the petite figure of uniformed Sergeant Karen Nelson following behind him. She had wavy fair hair that bounced down as she took off her hat, and despite a composed demeanour she had a distinct presence of authority about her, Red thought, that no one sensible would want to mess with.
Her colleague had a friendly face beneath close-cropped dark hair that made him look much younger than his twenty-nine years, and gave him the air of a listener. And boy, Red thought, had he listened! On the frequent visits he had paid her, responding to her 999 calls, and then checking up on her during the days and weeks that followed to ensure she was okay, she had talked and he had listened and offered his wisdom. She liked him enormously, and he seemed wise beyond his years.
Red invited them in and closed the door behind them, then looked at them anxiously. ‘What’s . . . what’s happened?’
‘We need to ask you a few questions, Ms Westwood,’ Sergeant Nelson said.
‘Yes, of course. Would you like a drink? Tea, coffee, a glass of wine?’
The sergeant shook her head. ‘No, thank you. But perhaps we could sit down.’
Red led them through to the sitting room, grabbed the remote and muted the television. ‘Terrible, that fire,’ she said.
‘My wife’s favourite restaurant,’ Constable Spofford said. ‘Not that we can afford to go there, except on very special occasions.’
The three of them stared at the silent images for some moments after they had sat down. ‘It’s nice to see you, Rob – Constable – Spofford,’ Red said, wondering if it was inappropriate to use his first name in front of his superior.
‘Been a few months,’ he said. ‘All’s quiet?’
‘Yes. Maybe Bryce has moved away – or hopefully found someone new.’
‘Good, I’m glad to hear it.’ He looked a tad uneasy.
‘Ms Westwood,’ Sergeant Nelson said, ‘records we’ve obtained from the O2 phone company indicate you’ve made numerous calls to one particular number during the past twenty-four hours.’ She gave her the number. ‘Is that correct?’
Red nodded hesitantly, suddenly feeling sick in the pit of her stomach. ‘Why . . . why are you asking?’
The two police officers glanced at each other in a way that made Red feel extremely uncomfortable. Then the sergeant responded in a bland, impersonal way.
‘The registered owner of this phone is a Dr Karl Murphy. Do you mind if I ask how you know him?’
The flickering images on the television screen were too distracting. Red grabbed the remote and switched the television off. ‘Why? What . . . what’s he done? Has something happened to him?’
‘Can I ask what your relationship with Dr Murphy is?’
Spofford’s phone started ringing. He removed it from his pocket, looked at the display and silenced it, giving his colleague and Red apologetic glances.
‘We’re going out together,’ Red replied. Then she shrugged. ‘He was meant to pick me up at seven o’clock yesterday evening and he never showed up. Why? Has he had an accident?’
‘How long have you been seeing each other?’
She thought for a moment. ‘About six weeks.’
‘Without being too personal, Ms Westwood, how would you describe your relationship with Dr Murphy?’
‘What is all this about?’ Red asked, her nerves making her irritable. She looked at Spofford, but only got a blank expression and uncomfortable body language back from him.
The sergeant stared sympathetically at her and for a moment Red thought she was softening. But then she responded with the distancing, formal tone of a professional copper.
‘I’m afraid you might want to prepare yourself. We’ve found a body, in strange circumstances, that might be Dr Murphy, and we think you might
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