launched a major search up at Bently. Husband’s giving a press conference later. So it’s looking bad.’
‘I might come to the press conference if I’ve got time,’ Laura said grudgingly. ‘I want to do a follow-up on the Julie Holden murder case before it comes to trial. I’m furious that they’ve charged her at all, really. It was an obvious case of self-defence.’
‘You’ve been called as a witness?’
Laura nodded, her face grim, not wanting to relive the moment she saw a domestic dispute end in tragedy.
‘Really not where I want to be,’ she said. ‘But I’m sure you’ll enjoy the cross-examination.’
‘I’m sure we all will,’ Baker said with an unfriendly smile. ‘A bit embarrassing for your copper, wasn’t it, all that?’
‘He’ll cope,’ Laura snapped, not even wanting to think about her private life in close proximity to Bob Baker.
‘Well, I may see you later, lover,’ Baker said. ‘It looks like this is another domestic gone badly wrong. Right up your street. Ciao for now.’
Laura sighed. She never intentionally tried to get close to the cases Michael Thackeray handled, but again and again their paths crossed, making their respective professional lives almost always more difficult than they needed to be. And the Julie Holden case had been a particular disaster as she had ended up witnessing what could have been a preventable death. She logged off her computer screen and picked up her jacket. She had, she thought, different, if not bigger, fish to fry,and she knew Ted Grant’s gimlet eyes were on her as she left the office. Life, since she met Michael, had never been easy, but she had a depressing certainty that it was about to get seriously worse.
This time when Laura Ackroyd arrived at Sibden House, the electronically controlled gates swung open in response to her call, and she drove up the gravelled drive and parked outside the portico of a squat Victorian mansion overlooking manicured gardens which stretched as far as the eye could see. It must have taken more labour than Fred Betts could provide, she thought, to have kept this estate in good order before the advent of the garden machinery that now kept the lawns as smoothly striped as a first-class cricket ground. As Laura got out of her car she was conscious of a CCTV camera on the corner of the portico, no doubt recording her every move. As the landlord of the Shoulder of Mutton had said the first time she came to the village, the security was high tech and extensive; only the most determined burglar would gain access here.
The front door was opened before she had time to reach the top of the steps leading up to it and she found herself face to face with a tall, slim black man in a smart suit whose smile of welcome did not quite reach his dark eyes.
‘Winston Sanderson,’ he said, holding out his hand in Laura’s direction but only allowing the briefest of touches when she responded. ‘And you must be the persistent Miss Ackroyd. I’m David Murgatroyd’s personal assistant and he’s asked me to give you some help with your article. Do come in.’
He led her into a broad tiled hallway, furnished withantique furniture of lustrous beauty, which no doubt justified the security systems. The solid oak doors on each side were closed and the hall ended in a broad, branching, oak staircase which rose in shallow steps to the upper storeys. Sanderson opened a doorway to the left of the front door and led Laura into an equally elegantly furnished sitting room, overlooking the front drive.
‘A beautiful house,’ Laura said, as she took the seat Sanderson waved her into.
‘It wasn’t much to look at when he decided to refurbish,’ Sanderson said, pausing with his hand over a bell beside the marble fireplace. ‘Would you like tea?’
‘Not really,’ Laura said, slightly reassured that there was someone in the house to make it. ‘You said you hadn’t much time.’
Sanderson hitched his trousers carefully
‘I might come to the press conference if I’ve got time,’ Laura said grudgingly. ‘I want to do a follow-up on the Julie Holden murder case before it comes to trial. I’m furious that they’ve charged her at all, really. It was an obvious case of self-defence.’
‘You’ve been called as a witness?’
Laura nodded, her face grim, not wanting to relive the moment she saw a domestic dispute end in tragedy.
‘Really not where I want to be,’ she said. ‘But I’m sure you’ll enjoy the cross-examination.’
‘I’m sure we all will,’ Baker said with an unfriendly smile. ‘A bit embarrassing for your copper, wasn’t it, all that?’
‘He’ll cope,’ Laura snapped, not even wanting to think about her private life in close proximity to Bob Baker.
‘Well, I may see you later, lover,’ Baker said. ‘It looks like this is another domestic gone badly wrong. Right up your street. Ciao for now.’
Laura sighed. She never intentionally tried to get close to the cases Michael Thackeray handled, but again and again their paths crossed, making their respective professional lives almost always more difficult than they needed to be. And the Julie Holden case had been a particular disaster as she had ended up witnessing what could have been a preventable death. She logged off her computer screen and picked up her jacket. She had, she thought, different, if not bigger, fish to fry,and she knew Ted Grant’s gimlet eyes were on her as she left the office. Life, since she met Michael, had never been easy, but she had a depressing certainty that it was about to get seriously worse.
This time when Laura Ackroyd arrived at Sibden House, the electronically controlled gates swung open in response to her call, and she drove up the gravelled drive and parked outside the portico of a squat Victorian mansion overlooking manicured gardens which stretched as far as the eye could see. It must have taken more labour than Fred Betts could provide, she thought, to have kept this estate in good order before the advent of the garden machinery that now kept the lawns as smoothly striped as a first-class cricket ground. As Laura got out of her car she was conscious of a CCTV camera on the corner of the portico, no doubt recording her every move. As the landlord of the Shoulder of Mutton had said the first time she came to the village, the security was high tech and extensive; only the most determined burglar would gain access here.
The front door was opened before she had time to reach the top of the steps leading up to it and she found herself face to face with a tall, slim black man in a smart suit whose smile of welcome did not quite reach his dark eyes.
‘Winston Sanderson,’ he said, holding out his hand in Laura’s direction but only allowing the briefest of touches when she responded. ‘And you must be the persistent Miss Ackroyd. I’m David Murgatroyd’s personal assistant and he’s asked me to give you some help with your article. Do come in.’
He led her into a broad tiled hallway, furnished withantique furniture of lustrous beauty, which no doubt justified the security systems. The solid oak doors on each side were closed and the hall ended in a broad, branching, oak staircase which rose in shallow steps to the upper storeys. Sanderson opened a doorway to the left of the front door and led Laura into an equally elegantly furnished sitting room, overlooking the front drive.
‘A beautiful house,’ Laura said, as she took the seat Sanderson waved her into.
‘It wasn’t much to look at when he decided to refurbish,’ Sanderson said, pausing with his hand over a bell beside the marble fireplace. ‘Would you like tea?’
‘Not really,’ Laura said, slightly reassured that there was someone in the house to make it. ‘You said you hadn’t much time.’
Sanderson hitched his trousers carefully
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