widow who was, of course, not implicated in the case at all, she thoroughly enjoyed the search. Her name, appropriately enough, was Alexandra Mistery and she heard his sketchy explanation with incredulous eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said excitedly. ‘I read about it in the paper.’ She frowned. ‘It was a bizarre case. I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.’
Neither, Shotton thought, could the police.
‘But then the newspapers don’t always get it right, do they?’ She waited, hoping he would volunteer more information, adding, ‘And the lady who went to the hospital was the same one who sold us the house. We-ell.’
She made a great fuss of the dogs, made Shotton a cup of tea, sat at the table and chatted on and on. He found it difficult not to give the game away as she was so curious.
‘I’m a big fan of crime fiction,’ she said. ‘I love Andrew Taylor and Val McDermid. Oh, they have such wicked minds.’ Her eyes gleamed at the memory of some of the plots. ‘And you think… you really think there might possibly be a dead body here?’ Her eyes shone with ghoulish glee. ‘Oh, what a thing. That would be amazing.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Another cup of tea, sergeant?’
‘No. Thank you. I’d better get on.’
The house was the neat, orderly abode of a middle-aged woman who lived alone. The only thing that interested Shotton was the pile of paperbacks stacked up by the side of the bed. A bookshelf downstairs was full of the same sort of titles. For Holmes and Watson, sniffing their way enthusiastically from room to room, there was nothing to interest them at all except a dead mouse they found at the bottom of the airing cupboard.
Mrs Mistery followed him around from room to room, enjoying herself, tut tutting at the dead mouse and practising what she would tell her friends.
‘The police. They thought… another body. Dogs… murder. Just like one of my books. And the dogs – all over the place. Scampering up and down the stairs, sniffing under the beds. All too thrilling.’
Like many people who live alone she made little comments to herself which left Shotton wondering whether he should join in the conversation or leave Mrs Mistery to carry on chatting to Mrs Mistery.
When he and the dogs had finished with the house she made another pot of tea and they sat and drank while she continued her attempted pumping of the officer. As soon as he had finished the first cup she offered him a second but Shotton stood up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Mistery. You’ve been really kind but no. If you don’t mind I’ll just check around the garden and then all will be done.’
The garden was quite small with a rectangular lawn and a couple of young trees at the end. Nearer the house it had been largely paved over. Shotton stepped through the patio doors straight onto an area paved with pink and cream slabs. Immediately Holmes and Watson began to yelp excitedly, their noses right down on the paving slabs. Shotton’s heart sank. It was so much easier to dig up a garden than lift a dozen or so concrete paving stones. But there was no doubt about it. The dogs were barking at something. And they expected their reward.
Through the patio doors the dogs’ behaviour had not escaped the vigilant Mrs Mistery’s attention. She rapped sharply on the glass, mouthing, ‘Have they found something, sergeant? Is there something there?’
Her excitement at being part of a real live murder was so great that it hadn’t occurred to her that this would mean the lifting of at least some of the patio slabs, disrupting her garden possibly for weeks. Shotton watched as both Holmes and Watson yelped and tried to stick their noses right into the crack between two of the slabs. He marked the spots then put the dogs in the back of the van, rewarding them for their skill. Then he returned to the house and the now wildly excited lady.
‘Was it you who had the patio laid, Mrs Mistery?’
‘Oh no,’ she said, with relish. ‘It was done before we came here. Clive, my husband, was already ill by the time we moved here to be nearer my daughter. Poor man, he wasn’t up to laying a patio or any other building work for that matter.’ Then her eyes widened. ‘You think somebody is buried under there, don’t you? That they laid the stones to conceal a body. Like that West chap. Oh yes, Sergeant Shotton, I have an interest in true crime as well as fictional works.’
Shotton couldn’t think of a suitable reply. Far from being upset at the thought of a body lying underneath her patio since before she had moved in with her dying husband, Mrs Mistery was delighted. ‘Oh how thrilling,’ she said. ‘Just wait till I tell my friends at the WI about this. They’ll be so
Shotton began to feel slightly alarmed. Mrs Mistery was jumping too far ahead. He tried to put the brakes on. ‘Umm, Mrs Mistery…’
She took absolutely no notice. It was as though he had not spoken.
As each realization hit her she grew more and more excited. ‘I’ll have to take them out cups of tea like Mary Archer did. Oh my word.’ Yet another idea landed. ‘What if there’s a second baby under there? What if there’s a serial baby killer around?’
Shotton felt quite dizzy. ‘Mrs Mistery,’ he said carefully, ‘let’s keep all these ideas to ourselves for now, shall we? Let’s not jump the gun and start making up stories. The dogs are trained to sniff out decayed bodies. Not necessarily
‘Oh, I’m not worried,’ said the lively widow.
He recalled the final words of the TV show as he said, ‘And don’t have nightmares.’
She looked at him. ‘Nightmares? You must be joking. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since my husband died.’
Shotton was even more taken aback at this. He studied her, now thoroughly puzzled and confused. He might have a good relationship with dogs, he reflected, as he returned to his van and called in to the station, but he didn’t get anywhere near understanding humans.
Grope Lane was a narrow passageway lined with shops near St Mary’s Church and the Bear Steps. It was a pretty, historic part of the town and was reminiscent of a medieval alleyway where all sorts of skulduggery would have gone on. One could almost imagine the shout of ‘
WPC Delia Shaw walked over the cobbles to a shop halfway up called Victor Plumley’s. She had been detailed to speak to the estate agents. Like many in the town, it was an old family business with a sign over the door which proclaimed that Victor Plumley had been an estate agent in this ‘shoppe’ for more than two hundred years. Delia smiled as she pushed the door open. This feeling of history underfoot was the very reason why she loved this town which so unashamedly and proudly flaunted its history and why she would never work anywhere else if she could help it.
A young man looked up as the doorbell jangled. His badge informed her that his name was David Plumley.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said politely, ‘Can I help you?’
She flashed her ID card. ‘I’m part of the team investigating the discovery of a child’s body in number 41 The Mount. You may have read about the case in the papers.’
David Plumley frowned. ‘Is that the lady who took a dead child to the hospital? About a week ago.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I really don’t see how we can help you?’
‘It’s to do with the history of the house where the child was found,’ she said. ‘Number 41 The Mount. The people who are the current occupants bought the property from another couple. They, in turn, bought the property through you.’
‘That must be years ago.’
‘Eight years.’
David Plumley couldn’t quite assimilate the information. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I don’t understand what this has to do with us.’
‘Forensic evidence,’ WPC Shaw said, ‘indicates that the baby had been dead for a number of years. The pathologist is not absolutely sure how many. We’re covering all possibilities.’
Plumley made an expression of distaste. ‘How horrible. How gruesome. Are you telling me that the body could
