A woman met them at the top of the stairs, her grey hair tied back into a severe bun and her hands clasped in front of her.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Detective Inspector Devon Sharp. I’m here to speak with Mr and Mrs Whittaker. You are?’
‘Grace Jamieson. I’m Lady Griffith’s housekeeper.’
Kay peered around Sharp’s shoulder as a door was wrenched open, and Debbie West stepped out of a room, looking harassed.
‘Sir, great timing,’ she breathed. ‘Mr and Mrs Whittaker are getting a bit—’
‘Thanks, Debbie.’ Sharp brushed past Mrs Jamieson and led the way into the guest bedroom.
The housekeeper began to follow, before the young police officer held up her hand. ‘You’ll need to wait here with me, Mrs Jamieson.’
Kay followed Sharp, gave Debbie a quick nod, and steeled herself.
Dealing with the family of a murder victim was never easy, let alone when that victim was only sixteen years old.
The mother, Diane Whittaker, Sharp had informed her on the way from the terrace, was known as “Lady Diane Griffith”, and was somehow, through a myriad of cousins, reportedly related to the Royal family.
She sat, bolt upright, on a pale green velvet ottoman, her dark hair held back from her face with what Kay realised were real tortoiseshell hair ornaments. She wore a navy-coloured dress that bared her shoulders, although she adjusted a wrap over her collarbone before raising pale blue eyes to Sharp as he stood before her and her husband.
‘Mr Whittaker, Lady Griffith, I’d like to introduce you to DS Kay Hunter, who will be co-managing this investigation with me.’
Kay took the woman’s hand, fought down a sudden panicked thought as to whether she should curtsey, discarded it almost immediately and returned the firm handshake.
She turned to Matthew Whittaker.
As he was taller than her by at least four inches, she had to lift her chin to make eye contact.
Dark brown irises peered out from under bushy eyebrows and the faint whiff of alcohol reached her as he introduced himself.
‘Inspector, I hope you’re not going to keep us from our own bedroom much longer,’ he said. ‘My wife is obviously upset, and it’s quite outrageous that we have to be kept in here.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Whittaker,’ said Sharp. ‘We’re working as fast as we can.’
Kay noticed that he made no mention of the Whittakers’ bedroom being methodically searched by two of Harriet’s team at the present time.
‘Well instead of standing around here, you should at least go and speak to that despicable boy that was always hanging around here,’ said Diane, her voice full of venom.
Kay spun round to face her, surprised. ‘Josh Hamilton? I though Sophie was going to get engaged to him?’
Diane rolled her eyes. ‘Not Josh, for goodness’ sake. The other boy that was always turning up and making a nuisance of himself.’ She clicked her fingers while her eyes roamed the ceiling. ‘Peter… Peter—’
‘Peter Evans,’ said Matthew. He turned his attention to Sharp. ‘She’s right. You should talk to Peter Evans. He hated the idea of Sophie marrying Josh one day.’ His face darkened. ‘Last time he turned up here, I had to threaten him with calling the police. The lad’s a bloody nuisance. Like a lovesick puppy.’
Kay pulled out her notebook. ‘What’s his address? Do you know?’
Matthew rattled off the flat number and street name with the anger and precision of a machine gun.
Kay glanced at Sharp.
‘Go,’ he said. ‘And get uniform to go with you in one of their cars. Hurry.’
Kay spun on her heel and raced from the room.
Three
Kay gripped the steering wheel and concentrated on the rear lights of the patrol car in front of her.
They’d burst from the lane and onto the slightly wider B-road heading back into town five minutes ago, and were now barrelling along a dual carriageway that, fortunately at this time of night, was empty save for a lone taxi that kept in its lane, well out of their way.
The patrol car killed its siren as they entered the fringes of the sprawling suburbs, and Kay was thankful for their foresight.
There was no need to forewarn a potential suspect of their imminent arrival, nor did they need to deal with the wrath of the local populace the next day for being woken from their slumber by an over-zealous patrol.
She braked as the car in front took a left exit off a roundabout, and followed in its wake as it weaved through a maze of terraced houses before sliding to a stop outside a plain-looking three-storey end of terrace.
She yanked the handbrake and launched herself out of the driving seat.
The patrol car driver, an older constable by the name of Derek Norris, met her at the gap between their vehicles.
‘With all due respect, we’ll go first,’ he said, his voice gruff and his meaning clear.
Kay gestured to him to lead. ‘Sounds good to me, Derek. Mind how you go.’
He winked as he passed, nodded to his passenger, a young probationer whose name escaped Kay, and pushed through the rotted wooden gate that separated the property from the pavement.
‘It’s the basement flat,’ she said.
Norris held up a hand in response.
A stubbly garden filled the first few yards between the house and the road, and then she saw it in the beam from the younger policeman’s torch.
Steps, leading downwards.
She held her breath as Norris gestured for the probationer to move aside, and then descended the concrete steps to a single wooden door.
He rapped his fist against the surface, setting off a dog in one of the flats above, its yapping silenced by harsh words closely followed by a single yelp.
Kay didn’t doubt the abilities of Norris or his sidekick, but she extracted the telescopic nightstick she’d brought with her from the car and held it ready.
Norris raised his fist to knock a second time, but a light came on above his head, and the door opened.
A
