Page 3 of Making a Killing (DI Fawley #7)
The view from Gareth Quinn’s flat is spectacular even on a bad day, and this isn’t a bad day. The sky is almost jewel-bright and Maisie can feel the sun-warmth on her bare feet when she goes out on to the balcony, even this early in the morning. She stands at the balustrade for a moment, taking it all in.
She’s been living here nearly six years, and she never tires of it. She loves everything about it – the location, the design, the space. In fact, the only thing wrong with this flat is the idea of getting a stroller up and down four flights on a daily basis. But that’s a conversation for another day. She folds her hands round her mug of herbal tea and takes a deep breath of bright blue air. Behind her, in the big open-plan living space, she can hear her husband at the Nespresso machine.
‘Maise,’ he calls, ‘you want a coffee?’
‘No, I’m fine. I’ll stick to tea.’
He joins her a few moments later. ‘Very snazzy,’ she says, looking him up and down. ‘Though isn’t full uniform a bit warm in this weather? You going for an interview or something?’
He puts the cup down on the table. ‘No such luck. Not yet anyway. Nah, this is just for that residents’ meeting about the bloody Botley Road closure. There’s a gift that keeps on sodding giving.’
‘I bet you don’t have to wear all that stuff.’ She grins at him over her mug. ‘You just like the dressing-up.’
He lets out a sharp laugh. ‘If I liked dressing-up I’d have gone into the bloody Church. There was a whole crowd of them in town yesterday. Some sort of conference. You should have seen the bling.’
She considers. ‘I wonder what the collective noun for priests is. A collar?’
He shakes his head. ‘That sounds more like a bunch of cops to me. Either way, I’ll need another shirt for tomorrow. It’s that surgery in Summertown, which I’m sure will be every bit as riveting as our scintillating agenda items today.’ He stretches out his legs. ‘If I die of boredom, make sure it goes down as in the line of duty.’
***
DI Marcia Tate is barely through the door when she starts machine-gunning questions, but given it’s her standard operating procedure, no one’s that surprised. Though the decibel count does tend to go up in direct proportion to the profile of the case, so right now she’s at pretty much full volume.
‘Any news on the vic? Bradley, where are we on the ID? Is it Ellie?’
Triona Bradley grits her teeth; six months of working with Tate and she’s surprised she hasn’t got a permanent case of lockjaw.
‘We don’t know yet, boss – they pulled it up the roster but they only started at nine –’
Tate heaves a theatrical sigh and makes great show of looking at her watch.
‘You didn’t decide to sit in, then, Sarge?’ DC Holloway asks Bradley with a smirk. ‘Bit too soon after the old avo toast?’
There are some titters from the back of the room. Bradley raises an eyebrow but says nothing; revenge is best served cold, where Holloway is concerned. ‘I’ve been to plenty of postmortems, DC Holloway, and I’ve never found my breakfast interfered. For your information, DS Heston is attending and will report back as soon as possible. He’s already texted me to say that they’ll be using dental records to confirm the identity.’ She gives Holloway a steady look. ‘And if you’ve bothered to read my initial report, you’ll also know that the victim was found face down, with her hands tied behind her back with duct tape. The sort of thing you’d find in any garden shed.’
‘Right,’ says Tate crisply, who’s evidently decided Bradley’s had quite enough airtime. ‘So is it too much to hope that a house-to-house is already in progress? What about the woman who found the grave, have we talked to her?’
‘Took a statement last night,’ mutters Holloway. ‘About as useful as a chocolate teapot. Just kept crapping on about the bloody dog –’
‘We’re starting the house-to-house this morning,’ says Bradley quickly. ‘The nearest properties are some distance away, but they still need covering off –’
‘Thank you, DS Bradley,’ says Tate, ‘for that helpful reminder from the Beginner’s Guide to Policing. And by way of reward, you get to spend the morning doing precisely that with DC Holloway.’
There’s a malicious glint in Tate’s eye that Bradley hopes she’s imagining but probably isn’t. Holloway, meanwhile, looks like his pet goldfish has just died.
‘House-to-house? Isn’t that what Uniform are for?’
‘That’s what you’re for, Holloway,’ says Tate crisply. ‘Until I say otherwise.’
‘And that grave must’ve been dug weeks ago – what are the chances anyone will even remember?’
‘Well, you won’t know until you ask, will you? And besides, it’s pretty thinly populated out there – not to mention rolling in it. People like that tend to notice anything out of the ordinary. And have security cameras.’