someone else had done so, if it came to that. Once, she’d catered a birthday party when someone had been poisoned, which had been a bit tricky, you had to admit. She’d also cooked on board a river-boat when someone else had been killed and dumped in her pantry, if you please. She’d even been snowed in at a remote farmhouse where a killer had been on the loose, when for the first time ever, she’d nearly burned the brussels. She’d even, for Pete’s sake, helped out an aristocratic family when someone had had the bad manners to bump off the governess.
And now here she was, in that bastion of genteel aloofness,an Oxford college, and someone else lay dead a few feet away. There was no getting away from it – she seemed to have a knack for dead bodies. Well, for those and Yorkshire puddings and Dundee cake.
Which was something that any investigating officer called out to this particular crime scene was quickly going to cotton on to.
Gloomily, she wondered what the chances were that before the day was out, she’d have to telephone one of her parents to get her out of jug and stand her bail. They had to be pretty fair, she supposed, which posed all the usual problems. Would she be able to even get in touch with her mother who was no doubt off somewhere inaccessible saving the planet? She couldn’t see her dear mater wanting to climb down out of a tree house in some doomed forest simply in order to get her only offspring out of the pokey. Her father wasn’t much of a better bet either: a celebrity chef, he was probably either in Hollywood cooking for a double-D bra-sized starlet, or maybe in Paris making some five-star hotelier’s life miserable. Either way, getting on a jet and riding to the rescue was probably not going to be his number one priority.
She glanced up as she saw two uniformed policemen walking towards her. One of them was talking into a radio attached to his collar. Perhaps she should have called the bursar, or Art McIntyre for back up. Then she realized that the bursar would put the college first and foremost, and, if throwing her, Jenny Starling, to the wolves would save his establishment from embarrassment, he’d probably do it in a heartbeat, and with all the will in the world, Art would probably be about as useful in a crisis as a well-known odoriferous commodity in a colander.
Jenny watched them bleakly as they approached her, and then stopped by the entrance to ask her if she was the lady who’d reported a dead body.
Jenny briefly contemplated whether or not to admit to being a lady, then decided that now was probably not the time for semantics, and simply nodded curtly, and pointed into the hall with one finger. One of the uniformed men went inside whilst the other remained standing just in front of her.
Jenny wondered if he really thought she was going to make a run for it, and sighed gently. Her Junoesque curves weren’t exactly built for speed, but even so, if she’d thought that her knees were in any shape to take the strain, she might have given serious thought to giving it a go. As it was, she was still feeling distinctly shaky and so decided to stay put.
She took a long, deep breath as the uniformed officer came out and gave his companion a speaking look. Without looking at Jenny, he bent his head to talk into the radio again, no doubt confirming that this wasn’t a crank call and asking for back-up and a SOCO team.
Here we go again, Jenny thought grimly.
Detective Trevor Golder indicated left at the Martyr’s Memorial and said, ‘Bloody Chief Inspector Morse.’
Beside him, Sergeant Peter Trent bit back a grin.
When their boss had called them in to tell them that they had a suspicious death at St Bede’s College, and that the case was theirs, Peter Trent had known that they’d be in for it. Whilst Inspector Morse, that wonderful creation of an Oxford don, had been popular for so many years with the public in general, DI Golder was known not to be a fan.
And now here she was, in that bastion of genteel aloofness,an Oxford college, and someone else lay dead a few feet away. There was no getting away from it – she seemed to have a knack for dead bodies. Well, for those and Yorkshire puddings and Dundee cake.
Which was something that any investigating officer called out to this particular crime scene was quickly going to cotton on to.
Gloomily, she wondered what the chances were that before the day was out, she’d have to telephone one of her parents to get her out of jug and stand her bail. They had to be pretty fair, she supposed, which posed all the usual problems. Would she be able to even get in touch with her mother who was no doubt off somewhere inaccessible saving the planet? She couldn’t see her dear mater wanting to climb down out of a tree house in some doomed forest simply in order to get her only offspring out of the pokey. Her father wasn’t much of a better bet either: a celebrity chef, he was probably either in Hollywood cooking for a double-D bra-sized starlet, or maybe in Paris making some five-star hotelier’s life miserable. Either way, getting on a jet and riding to the rescue was probably not going to be his number one priority.
She glanced up as she saw two uniformed policemen walking towards her. One of them was talking into a radio attached to his collar. Perhaps she should have called the bursar, or Art McIntyre for back up. Then she realized that the bursar would put the college first and foremost, and, if throwing her, Jenny Starling, to the wolves would save his establishment from embarrassment, he’d probably do it in a heartbeat, and with all the will in the world, Art would probably be about as useful in a crisis as a well-known odoriferous commodity in a colander.
Jenny watched them bleakly as they approached her, and then stopped by the entrance to ask her if she was the lady who’d reported a dead body.
Jenny briefly contemplated whether or not to admit to being a lady, then decided that now was probably not the time for semantics, and simply nodded curtly, and pointed into the hall with one finger. One of the uniformed men went inside whilst the other remained standing just in front of her.
Jenny wondered if he really thought she was going to make a run for it, and sighed gently. Her Junoesque curves weren’t exactly built for speed, but even so, if she’d thought that her knees were in any shape to take the strain, she might have given serious thought to giving it a go. As it was, she was still feeling distinctly shaky and so decided to stay put.
She took a long, deep breath as the uniformed officer came out and gave his companion a speaking look. Without looking at Jenny, he bent his head to talk into the radio again, no doubt confirming that this wasn’t a crank call and asking for back-up and a SOCO team.
Here we go again, Jenny thought grimly.
Detective Trevor Golder indicated left at the Martyr’s Memorial and said, ‘Bloody Chief Inspector Morse.’
Beside him, Sergeant Peter Trent bit back a grin.
When their boss had called them in to tell them that they had a suspicious death at St Bede’s College, and that the case was theirs, Peter Trent had known that they’d be in for it. Whilst Inspector Morse, that wonderful creation of an Oxford don, had been popular for so many years with the public in general, DI Golder was known not to be a fan.
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