almost certain that Fletcher and the rest of them would probably be armed, or have quick access to arms, but it was not her old friend Dobbin who’d be leading it this time, but a younger man she didn’t know.
Raleigh’s eyes were gleaming as he spoke, and as the sunshine outside picked up the more golden highlights in his light brown hair, Hillary could sense the tension in the man. Her mother had once had a Yorkshire Terrier called Nero, who all but quivered with intense concentration whenever his ball was about to be thrown for him to fetch, and Raleigh suddenly reminded her of the animal. There was something almost inhuman about the energy he seemed to exude.
Once again she wondered what drove him. And how he’d got so close to Fletcher so soon. But perhaps she was just nitpicking. She knew that, although the raid was an exciting development, and might well lead to nabbing Fletcher red-handed at last, she herself would be something of an also-ran at the event. It was obvious that Raleigh and Regis were to be the two main driving forces behind it. On the other hand, her own murder case was hers alone, where she was the big fish in the small pond, and was champing at the bit to get back to it. Could it really be that she was feeling nothing short of dog-in-the-mangerishabout the whole affair? Was that why she was so sceptical? She didn’t like to think so.
Just then she glanced across and saw the heavy-lidded, pale-eyed gaze of Marcus Donleavy on her. Although he turned away the next instant, she had the definite feeling he’d picked up on her unease.
She glanced surreptitiously at her watch, wishing the briefing wouldn’t take much longer. Although the whole force would celebrate if they actually nailed Fletcher, including herself, she had things to do and people to see.
As it happened, it was nearly eleven o’clock before she went downstairs to her own desk, and Frank Ross, the poisonous little git, made a great show of looking at his watch. Janine, who probably knew from Mel that her boss had been upstairs in the big man’s office, looked at her with far more interest, but Hillary merely sat down in her chair, and reached for the pile of reports in her in-tray. As expected, there was a full background report on both Malcolm and Valerie Dale, which she read quickly. Next came the preliminary forensics report – with nothing too startling. Most of the dabs taken at the scene had been eliminated as belonging to either the Dales, Marcia Brock, or a cleaning woman from the village who came in twice a week. But there were traces of another person, recently present, who hadn’t yet been accounted for. These prints had been run through the computer, but matched nobody with a criminal record. Tommy was now running them through other databases that required fingerprinting – the armed forces, prison staff, etc. – but Hillary had no great hopes of a match.
Still, the dabs would come in useful if they zeroed in on a suspect. Providing, of course, they didn’t belong to a local plumber who’d been called in to unblock a sink, or any other stray person who might have had a legitimate reason to be in the Dales’ kitchen recently. Nowadays, most killers wore gloves as a matter of course.
Unless the killing had been unpremeditated, Hillary mentally amended. And yet the lack of murder weapon at the scene made that decidedly unlikely. Unless the killer had snatched up a nearby object, then retained enough of a cool head afterwards to take it with him or her when they left?
‘Janine, get Mrs Dale and the cleaner to check the kitchen and see if anything’s missing,’ she said, turning the last page over and closing the file shut with a slam.
‘Already done it, boss,’ Janine said, with quiet pride. ‘I dropped in first thing this morning and found the cleaning lady in. It wasn’t her usual day, but you know what it’s like.’
Hillary did. People generally reacted to murder in one of two ways; either
Raleigh’s eyes were gleaming as he spoke, and as the sunshine outside picked up the more golden highlights in his light brown hair, Hillary could sense the tension in the man. Her mother had once had a Yorkshire Terrier called Nero, who all but quivered with intense concentration whenever his ball was about to be thrown for him to fetch, and Raleigh suddenly reminded her of the animal. There was something almost inhuman about the energy he seemed to exude.
Once again she wondered what drove him. And how he’d got so close to Fletcher so soon. But perhaps she was just nitpicking. She knew that, although the raid was an exciting development, and might well lead to nabbing Fletcher red-handed at last, she herself would be something of an also-ran at the event. It was obvious that Raleigh and Regis were to be the two main driving forces behind it. On the other hand, her own murder case was hers alone, where she was the big fish in the small pond, and was champing at the bit to get back to it. Could it really be that she was feeling nothing short of dog-in-the-mangerishabout the whole affair? Was that why she was so sceptical? She didn’t like to think so.
Just then she glanced across and saw the heavy-lidded, pale-eyed gaze of Marcus Donleavy on her. Although he turned away the next instant, she had the definite feeling he’d picked up on her unease.
She glanced surreptitiously at her watch, wishing the briefing wouldn’t take much longer. Although the whole force would celebrate if they actually nailed Fletcher, including herself, she had things to do and people to see.
As it happened, it was nearly eleven o’clock before she went downstairs to her own desk, and Frank Ross, the poisonous little git, made a great show of looking at his watch. Janine, who probably knew from Mel that her boss had been upstairs in the big man’s office, looked at her with far more interest, but Hillary merely sat down in her chair, and reached for the pile of reports in her in-tray. As expected, there was a full background report on both Malcolm and Valerie Dale, which she read quickly. Next came the preliminary forensics report – with nothing too startling. Most of the dabs taken at the scene had been eliminated as belonging to either the Dales, Marcia Brock, or a cleaning woman from the village who came in twice a week. But there were traces of another person, recently present, who hadn’t yet been accounted for. These prints had been run through the computer, but matched nobody with a criminal record. Tommy was now running them through other databases that required fingerprinting – the armed forces, prison staff, etc. – but Hillary had no great hopes of a match.
Still, the dabs would come in useful if they zeroed in on a suspect. Providing, of course, they didn’t belong to a local plumber who’d been called in to unblock a sink, or any other stray person who might have had a legitimate reason to be in the Dales’ kitchen recently. Nowadays, most killers wore gloves as a matter of course.
Unless the killing had been unpremeditated, Hillary mentally amended. And yet the lack of murder weapon at the scene made that decidedly unlikely. Unless the killer had snatched up a nearby object, then retained enough of a cool head afterwards to take it with him or her when they left?
‘Janine, get Mrs Dale and the cleaner to check the kitchen and see if anything’s missing,’ she said, turning the last page over and closing the file shut with a slam.
‘Already done it, boss,’ Janine said, with quiet pride. ‘I dropped in first thing this morning and found the cleaning lady in. It wasn’t her usual day, but you know what it’s like.’
Hillary did. People generally reacted to murder in one of two ways; either
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