few deep breaths, trying to relax, but as she drove along dark streets the image of a white corpse kept flitting into her mind, and she was filled with anger. Angela Waters' killer might have been in the pub that evening, laughing with his mates. The DCI was rigorous and demanding, which was encouraging. Carter had worked with her before and he said she was a fine detective. But they still had nothing to go on.
By the time she reached the gate to her block, Geraldine felt completely washed out. She pressed the button on her remote control and watched the gates whirr open. She drove slowly along the cul de sac where each of the front doors opened on to a small entrance hall to two flats. Geraldine had bought a ground floor flat, the one before last in the row. Access to her garage was at the end of the cul de sac, round the back of the flats. An unofficial one-way system was in operation. Everyone drove up the close to reach their garage, driving out past the garages to the gate. There was a mirror image of the arrangement on the other side of the close; a total of twenty flats. Apart from the electronic entry gates there was no way in to the complex. The far end of the close was inaccessible without climbing over a high perimeter fence. It was a secluded and secure place to live, exactly what Geraldine wanted.
She cruised up the close, thinking about the discussion at the bar that evening, and approached the corner at the end. An untrained eye might have overlooked a motionless silhouette lurking in the shadow of the fence. Not yet familiar with her surroundings, she almost missed the figure as she drove past. She shook her head and carried on round the corner, locked her garage firmly and hurried through the back entrance to the building. The narrow passageway inside was eerily silent and she felt nervous, relieved to lock her front door behind her.
Geraldine only realised how exhausted she was when she kicked off her shoes and sat down. Too tired to mess about in the kitchen, she grabbed a hunk of bread and cheese and settled down with a stack of paperwork: reports to read, statements to study, files to scan through. In addition, she wanted to know all about the area where the murder had taken place.
Woolsmarsh was a town of contrasts. On the East side a neglected estate festered. Built in the sixties to house employees of a local ready-mix concrete plant, using raw materials from the gravel quarries South West of Canterbury, when the plant had closed down a generation later, those who hadn't moved from the area to find work had gravitated to the Chartwell Estate where prostitution and drug trafficking rapidly became endemic. To the West a very different picture emerged. Bordering an exclusive golf club, the only estates in the West were those belonging to wealthy individual households.
It was late when Geraldine finally undressed and fell into bed. She was worn out but slept fitfully, disturbed by images of Angela Waters. When she woke up she realised that the face of the body on the mortuary table in her dream had been her own.
14
Facts
There was a buzz of activity in the Incident Room as Geraldine went to her desk the following morning. She paused by the Incident Board to see what information had been added overnight. The board was tidy, everything presented in neat lists below the pictures, with arrows to indicate connections.
Carter came over and stood beside her. 'The Chief's a stickler for neatness,' he said and Geraldine murmured in agreement. 'And punctuality,' he added. Before Geraldine could reply, Kathryn Gordon swept into the room. Geraldine propped herself against her desk and focused on the DCI. Geraldine imagined the hardiest of villains might quake before Gordon's penetrating gaze. The genial woman of the previous evening had retreated once more behind a rigid mask, her hair a grey helmet, her eyes harsh slits. Geraldine felt
By the time she reached the gate to her block, Geraldine felt completely washed out. She pressed the button on her remote control and watched the gates whirr open. She drove slowly along the cul de sac where each of the front doors opened on to a small entrance hall to two flats. Geraldine had bought a ground floor flat, the one before last in the row. Access to her garage was at the end of the cul de sac, round the back of the flats. An unofficial one-way system was in operation. Everyone drove up the close to reach their garage, driving out past the garages to the gate. There was a mirror image of the arrangement on the other side of the close; a total of twenty flats. Apart from the electronic entry gates there was no way in to the complex. The far end of the close was inaccessible without climbing over a high perimeter fence. It was a secluded and secure place to live, exactly what Geraldine wanted.
She cruised up the close, thinking about the discussion at the bar that evening, and approached the corner at the end. An untrained eye might have overlooked a motionless silhouette lurking in the shadow of the fence. Not yet familiar with her surroundings, she almost missed the figure as she drove past. She shook her head and carried on round the corner, locked her garage firmly and hurried through the back entrance to the building. The narrow passageway inside was eerily silent and she felt nervous, relieved to lock her front door behind her.
Geraldine only realised how exhausted she was when she kicked off her shoes and sat down. Too tired to mess about in the kitchen, she grabbed a hunk of bread and cheese and settled down with a stack of paperwork: reports to read, statements to study, files to scan through. In addition, she wanted to know all about the area where the murder had taken place.
Woolsmarsh was a town of contrasts. On the East side a neglected estate festered. Built in the sixties to house employees of a local ready-mix concrete plant, using raw materials from the gravel quarries South West of Canterbury, when the plant had closed down a generation later, those who hadn't moved from the area to find work had gravitated to the Chartwell Estate where prostitution and drug trafficking rapidly became endemic. To the West a very different picture emerged. Bordering an exclusive golf club, the only estates in the West were those belonging to wealthy individual households.
It was late when Geraldine finally undressed and fell into bed. She was worn out but slept fitfully, disturbed by images of Angela Waters. When she woke up she realised that the face of the body on the mortuary table in her dream had been her own.
14
Facts
There was a buzz of activity in the Incident Room as Geraldine went to her desk the following morning. She paused by the Incident Board to see what information had been added overnight. The board was tidy, everything presented in neat lists below the pictures, with arrows to indicate connections.
Carter came over and stood beside her. 'The Chief's a stickler for neatness,' he said and Geraldine murmured in agreement. 'And punctuality,' he added. Before Geraldine could reply, Kathryn Gordon swept into the room. Geraldine propped herself against her desk and focused on the DCI. Geraldine imagined the hardiest of villains might quake before Gordon's penetrating gaze. The genial woman of the previous evening had retreated once more behind a rigid mask, her hair a grey helmet, her eyes harsh slits. Geraldine felt
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