Chapter 12
PC Donna De Freitas carries a tray of teas into the incident room. A local builder, Tony something, has been murdered, and judging by the size of the assembled team, it’s a big deal. Donna wonders why. If she takes her time with the teas, maybe she can find out.
Detective Chief Inspector Chris Hudson is addressing the team. He always seems nice enough. He once opened some double doors for her, without looking like he wanted a medal for it.
“There are cameras at the property, and plenty of them. Get the footage. Tony Curran left Coopers Chase at two, and he died at three thirty-two, according to his Fitbit. That’s only a small window to search.”
Donna has placed the tea tray on a desk while she stoops to tie her shoelace. She hears Coopers Chase mentioned, which is interesting.
“There are also cameras on the A214, around four hundred meters south of Curran’s home, and half a mile north, so let’s get hold of that footage too. You know the time frame.” Chris stops for a moment and looks over at where Donna De Freitas is crouching.
“Everything all right, constable?” he asks.
Donna straightens up. “Yes, sir, just tying my shoelaces. Wouldn’t want to trip with a tray of tea.”
“Very wise,” agrees Chris. “Thank you for the tea. We’ll let you get on now.”
“Thank you, sir,” says Donna, walking toward the door.
She realizes that Chris, a detective, of course, has probably spotted that her shoes have no laces. But surely he wouldn’t blame a young constable for a bit of healthy curiosity?
As she opens the door to leave, she hears Chris Hudson continue.
“Until we get all that, the biggest lead is the photograph the killer left by the body. Let’s take a look.”
Donna can’t resist turning, and she sees, projected onto the wall, an old photograph of three men in a pub laughing and drinking, their table covered in banknotes. She has only a moment, but she recognizes one of the men immediately.
Things would be very different when Donna was part of Murder Squad; very different. No more visiting primary schools to write serial numbers on bikes in invisible ink. No more politely reminding local shopkeepers that overflowing bins were actually a criminal off—
“Constable?” says Chris, snapping Donna from her train of thought. She takes her eyes off the photo and looks at Chris. Firmly but kindly, he motions that she is free to leave. She smiles at him and nods. “Daydreaming—sorry, sir.”
She opens the door and walks through, back to the boredom. She strains to hear every last word before the door finally swings shut.
“So, three men, all of whom we obviously know very well. Shall we take them one by one?”
The door clunks shut. Donna sighs.