‘just for a day or two. But I’m off on Monday whatever happens.’
‘Absolutely. Thank you for your co-operation.’
And Maxwell left.
Warren pressed the intercom button on his desk and John McBride came in, jacketless, tieless, shirt-sleeves rolled. ‘Well?’ Warren asked.
‘Glib bastard,’ was McBride’s considered opinion.
‘And educationally a dodo,’ Warren agreed. ‘Can we use him?’
‘Sir?’
‘Switch him on. Wind him up. See what he stirs up, among the others, I mean.’
‘I think so,’ McBride nodded. ‘But we’ll have to watch him like hawks … He’s not our man, then?’
‘Good God, John,’ Warren picked up his sheaf of papers, ‘if I had second sight, I’d be the Doris Stokes of the ’90s. I’ve drip fed him a little today – pointing the finger at Gracewell, mentioning cause of death. Let’s see what he does with that first. Tomorrow, bright and early, we’ll start the interviews. Lydia Farr is first – assuming she’s more collected than she was today. And talking of cause of death, nothing from Anderson, I suppose?’
The Inspector shook his head.
‘Right,’ Warren sighed. ‘That’s one for you. I want his report on this desk by nine tomorrow. How you get it is up to you.’
How John McBride got Dr Anderson’s report was to knock the old duffer up at six thirty the next morning. McBride had always known that doctors did all right for themselves, driving TR7s when he rattled around in a clapped-out Montego. He wasn’t quite prepared for the palatial pad of the police surgeon however. In the past, the old boy had always presented his findings at the station in the incident room, but the guv’nor was in a hurry and no one had time to stand on ceremony. A woman was dead. It was time to move.
The torrent of abuse he received from the medico didn’t quite square with the refined-looking gent who opened the door to him in dressing-gown and slippers.
‘Do you realize’, Anderson wanted to know, ‘what the fucking time is?’
‘Six thirty, sir.’ McBride was a young man who was going places. Punctuality was the politeness of policemen.
‘Six fucking thirty!’ Anderson repeated as though he couldn’t believe his ears.
‘Chief Inspector Warren was wondering if your report was ready.’
‘Wondering, was he?’ Anderson snapped. ‘Miles Fucking Warren couldn’t fight his way out of a paper fucking bag on his own. Have you had any breakfast, McBride?’
‘No, sir. My shift doesn’t start for another hour.’
‘Well, you’d better come in, then. Gladys won’t be stirring for hours yet. It’s her bridge night on Fridays and it always takes it out of her. However, my coffee is legendary and I can still toast a mean slice of bread.’
‘That’s kind, sir, thank you,’ and the Inspector went inside.
At the door, Anderson paused to deliver a well-timed kick to the ginger torn mewling at his feet. ‘Why don’t you fuck off out of it?’ he snarled. It seemed a good idea to the cat and he roamed off in search of Anderson’s tabby in order to comply.
Over coffee, MacBride listened while Anderson gave him the gist of his experience, the Inspector rattling off the notes he knew his guv’nor would want to see.
‘There were three blows,’ the doctor said, spreading his marmalade with a sure hand. ‘The first was delivered from behind and to the right, horizontally, while the victim was still standing. I would say the killer is right-handed and a little taller than the late Mrs Striker, but I can’t be sure on that point. This first blow would have caused a radial fracture of the parietal area of the skull and almost certainly extensive haemorrhaging. She was probably still standing when the second blow fell.’ Anderson slurped his coffee. ‘Bugger, that’s hot. Marmalade?’
‘No thanks, sir,’ McBride declined.
‘The second blow was like unto the first, but from a different angle, probably because the victim was falling to her left. This
‘Absolutely. Thank you for your co-operation.’
And Maxwell left.
Warren pressed the intercom button on his desk and John McBride came in, jacketless, tieless, shirt-sleeves rolled. ‘Well?’ Warren asked.
‘Glib bastard,’ was McBride’s considered opinion.
‘And educationally a dodo,’ Warren agreed. ‘Can we use him?’
‘Sir?’
‘Switch him on. Wind him up. See what he stirs up, among the others, I mean.’
‘I think so,’ McBride nodded. ‘But we’ll have to watch him like hawks … He’s not our man, then?’
‘Good God, John,’ Warren picked up his sheaf of papers, ‘if I had second sight, I’d be the Doris Stokes of the ’90s. I’ve drip fed him a little today – pointing the finger at Gracewell, mentioning cause of death. Let’s see what he does with that first. Tomorrow, bright and early, we’ll start the interviews. Lydia Farr is first – assuming she’s more collected than she was today. And talking of cause of death, nothing from Anderson, I suppose?’
The Inspector shook his head.
‘Right,’ Warren sighed. ‘That’s one for you. I want his report on this desk by nine tomorrow. How you get it is up to you.’
How John McBride got Dr Anderson’s report was to knock the old duffer up at six thirty the next morning. McBride had always known that doctors did all right for themselves, driving TR7s when he rattled around in a clapped-out Montego. He wasn’t quite prepared for the palatial pad of the police surgeon however. In the past, the old boy had always presented his findings at the station in the incident room, but the guv’nor was in a hurry and no one had time to stand on ceremony. A woman was dead. It was time to move.
The torrent of abuse he received from the medico didn’t quite square with the refined-looking gent who opened the door to him in dressing-gown and slippers.
‘Do you realize’, Anderson wanted to know, ‘what the fucking time is?’
‘Six thirty, sir.’ McBride was a young man who was going places. Punctuality was the politeness of policemen.
‘Six fucking thirty!’ Anderson repeated as though he couldn’t believe his ears.
‘Chief Inspector Warren was wondering if your report was ready.’
‘Wondering, was he?’ Anderson snapped. ‘Miles Fucking Warren couldn’t fight his way out of a paper fucking bag on his own. Have you had any breakfast, McBride?’
‘No, sir. My shift doesn’t start for another hour.’
‘Well, you’d better come in, then. Gladys won’t be stirring for hours yet. It’s her bridge night on Fridays and it always takes it out of her. However, my coffee is legendary and I can still toast a mean slice of bread.’
‘That’s kind, sir, thank you,’ and the Inspector went inside.
At the door, Anderson paused to deliver a well-timed kick to the ginger torn mewling at his feet. ‘Why don’t you fuck off out of it?’ he snarled. It seemed a good idea to the cat and he roamed off in search of Anderson’s tabby in order to comply.
Over coffee, MacBride listened while Anderson gave him the gist of his experience, the Inspector rattling off the notes he knew his guv’nor would want to see.
‘There were three blows,’ the doctor said, spreading his marmalade with a sure hand. ‘The first was delivered from behind and to the right, horizontally, while the victim was still standing. I would say the killer is right-handed and a little taller than the late Mrs Striker, but I can’t be sure on that point. This first blow would have caused a radial fracture of the parietal area of the skull and almost certainly extensive haemorrhaging. She was probably still standing when the second blow fell.’ Anderson slurped his coffee. ‘Bugger, that’s hot. Marmalade?’
‘No thanks, sir,’ McBride declined.
‘The second blow was like unto the first, but from a different angle, probably because the victim was falling to her left. This
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