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Authors: Siân Busby
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with his bare hands. That’s why we’re not up at Scotland Yard, you and I. We’re not cut out for homicide. Our skills lie in other directions – but you’re hardly likely to find out who a murderer is from a friendly nark in exchange for a ten-bob straightener, are you?”
Of course, Lucas was quite right in all of this. And as is often said, murder is an intimate act: only two people know for sure what took place between them, and one of them is dead.
Cooper gripped the stem of his pipe between his teeth.
“All we can do, old chap,” he said, “is follow the procedures and hope to God we don’t miss anything.”
He called over the fingerprint specialist and watched him collect a set of prints from the dead woman. If she was a tart chances were that her dabs would be on file and then at least they’d have a name.
Lucas lit a cigarette and took a deep draught, releasing clouds of obscuring smoke from his nostrils.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of Upstairs sending one of their murder experts over, is there, sir?”
Both tacitly acknowledged the absurd unlikelihood of that. Lucas drew again on the cigarette, coughed, removed it, and contemplated the glowing tip between his thumb and forefinger. Cooper spent a few moments fussing with his pipe, relighting it and puffing away until he was satisfied he would be able to respond in as mild a tone as was possible. Policemen live at the edge of frustration and resentment and it can wear you down, if you let it.
“I’m afraid we can’t pick and choose which cases we investigate , Frank.”
“It makes no difference to me, sir, my twenty-five years will be up this time next year, thank bloody Christ – but you’re still young. You still have a career.” Lucas attacked his cigarette: he was laconic in everything he did and said, but he smoked furiously, taking it out on the hapless fag. “You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know that this one can’t be cracked, no matter how hard you try. Bet you a bob to a bootlace on that. You’d be better off sticking to the racketeers. That’s the way to get Upstairs to notice you. They shan’t thank you for wasting time and money on a commonplace killing – not in the middle of a blasted crime wave.” He smoked the cigarette down to the bitter end, throwing the butt to the ground and grinding it underfoot as if to make sure that it really was dead.
Cooper bit irritably on the stem of his pipe.
“Murderers are generally in an agitated frame of mind,” he said. “They do idiotic things – make mistakes.”
Lucas lit another cigarette.
“I shall have to let DS Phillips go by six o’clock, sir,” he said. “He’s supposed to be on stake-out over in Enfield tonight.”
“Keep him here until the light goes. And for God’s sake, get those blasted uniforms out searching the dustbins.”
8
S he had been standing in the queue for half an hour or more when the woman behind her jabbed her in the small of her back.
“Shift yourself, why don’t you.”
A gap had opened up in the line in front of her and she moved into it. She might have said something to the woman but didn’t because she was never rude to people, even in these sparse times when manners and good behaviour seemed to have gone along with so much else. She might have said that, she supposed. She considered turning around, but the moment had passed.
She had become transfixed by a vast hoarding on the opposite side of the road, an advertisement for Snowfire Vanishing Cream affixed to an exposed end-wall where a cinema used to be. She was wondering whether the line drawing of a woman’s head was supposed to be the actress Pat Kirkwood, and whether actresses were paid in jars of vanishing cream. She couldn’t see the point of advertising things that you can’t buy anywhere. Only available in strictly limited quantities. Ask your grocer to save you some from his next supply. This is produced in complete conformity with
Of course, Lucas was quite right in all of this. And as is often said, murder is an intimate act: only two people know for sure what took place between them, and one of them is dead.
Cooper gripped the stem of his pipe between his teeth.
“All we can do, old chap,” he said, “is follow the procedures and hope to God we don’t miss anything.”
He called over the fingerprint specialist and watched him collect a set of prints from the dead woman. If she was a tart chances were that her dabs would be on file and then at least they’d have a name.
Lucas lit a cigarette and took a deep draught, releasing clouds of obscuring smoke from his nostrils.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of Upstairs sending one of their murder experts over, is there, sir?”
Both tacitly acknowledged the absurd unlikelihood of that. Lucas drew again on the cigarette, coughed, removed it, and contemplated the glowing tip between his thumb and forefinger. Cooper spent a few moments fussing with his pipe, relighting it and puffing away until he was satisfied he would be able to respond in as mild a tone as was possible. Policemen live at the edge of frustration and resentment and it can wear you down, if you let it.
“I’m afraid we can’t pick and choose which cases we investigate , Frank.”
“It makes no difference to me, sir, my twenty-five years will be up this time next year, thank bloody Christ – but you’re still young. You still have a career.” Lucas attacked his cigarette: he was laconic in everything he did and said, but he smoked furiously, taking it out on the hapless fag. “You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know that this one can’t be cracked, no matter how hard you try. Bet you a bob to a bootlace on that. You’d be better off sticking to the racketeers. That’s the way to get Upstairs to notice you. They shan’t thank you for wasting time and money on a commonplace killing – not in the middle of a blasted crime wave.” He smoked the cigarette down to the bitter end, throwing the butt to the ground and grinding it underfoot as if to make sure that it really was dead.
Cooper bit irritably on the stem of his pipe.
“Murderers are generally in an agitated frame of mind,” he said. “They do idiotic things – make mistakes.”
Lucas lit another cigarette.
“I shall have to let DS Phillips go by six o’clock, sir,” he said. “He’s supposed to be on stake-out over in Enfield tonight.”
“Keep him here until the light goes. And for God’s sake, get those blasted uniforms out searching the dustbins.”
8
S he had been standing in the queue for half an hour or more when the woman behind her jabbed her in the small of her back.
“Shift yourself, why don’t you.”
A gap had opened up in the line in front of her and she moved into it. She might have said something to the woman but didn’t because she was never rude to people, even in these sparse times when manners and good behaviour seemed to have gone along with so much else. She might have said that, she supposed. She considered turning around, but the moment had passed.
She had become transfixed by a vast hoarding on the opposite side of the road, an advertisement for Snowfire Vanishing Cream affixed to an exposed end-wall where a cinema used to be. She was wondering whether the line drawing of a woman’s head was supposed to be the actress Pat Kirkwood, and whether actresses were paid in jars of vanishing cream. She couldn’t see the point of advertising things that you can’t buy anywhere. Only available in strictly limited quantities. Ask your grocer to save you some from his next supply. This is produced in complete conformity with
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