‘What else did she do?’
‘She would make sure they had something to eat, as well as do their homework. I trusted her until…’
‘Until?’
‘Do I have to tell you this?’ The doctor had come in to tell Sara that she had five minutes only, no more, as Mrs Chalmers was still critically ill and in need of rest.
‘If you want us to find her, bring her to justice.’
‘It was Gregory.’
‘Yes.’
‘He couldn’t help himself.’
‘Take it slowly,’ Sara said.
‘Gregory strayed.’
‘Other women?’
‘Not that I gave him any reason, but that was Gregory. Any bit of skirt, and he wanted some of the action.’
‘Ingrid?’
‘Not for the first three months that she’s with us, and then he’s using our bed.’
‘With Ingrid?’
‘With her.’
‘Did you confront him?’
‘I had become used to his behaviour, but not to him using our bed to seduce the hired help.’
‘You said nothing?’
‘No. I know it seems silly, but he was a good man, and I did like Ingrid. After that night, I assumed they had cooled the relationship, and I had not seen any reason to doubt for some time.’
The doctor returned. ‘Two minutes, no more. I must be firm.’
‘What happened at the house?’ Sara asked. She still needed to know, two minutes or no two minutes.
‘I entered the kitchen, and Ingrid was standing over Gregory. She was holding a knife. I shouted out to her. She came over to me, grabbing me, forcing me to the ground. She was wild and out of control. I pushed her away. After that, I do not remember.’
‘Why do you think she killed your husband?’
‘He probably told her that the relationship was off. They only last a few weeks with him, anyway.’
‘A lover’s tiff?’
‘I assume it was, but Ingrid was always so placid. If I had not seen her there, I would not have believed her capable.’
Sara left soon after. A nurse came into the room and administered an additional sedative to the wife of the murdered man.
Chapter 3
‘This is your case. How are you going to handle it?’ Bob Marshall asked. He was sucking a mint, careful not to let Sara know that he still enjoyed the occasional cigarette. There’d be hell to pay if she knew, he knew that, and for two months he had gone cold turkey, but the occasional drag, he thought, would do no harm.
In the office, Bob was always demanding of Sara. Everyone knew they were living together, and it had led him to receive a warning from Detective Superintendent Rowsome about fraternising in the office.
Not that it was any of his business, Bob had even told him, but the superintendent was a pedantic man who worried obsessively about the Key Performance Indicators in his department.
‘Look here, DCI, you can sleep with whoever you like, but stuff up and you know what happens,’ Rowsome had said. ‘Just make sure it doesn’t impact on the efficiency of your department.’
Bob Marshall, keenly aware of his senior’s concerns, and also conscious of the other members of his department, kept the pressure up on Sara. Not that he had any concerns, as she had proven herself to be competent; she had even acquired begrudging respect from DI Greenstreet, a curmudgeonly old-school police officer. He did not hold with the modern ideas on policing with their emphasis on graphs and charts and performance indicators. In his day, the police dealt with the criminals using a kick up the arse and a slap around the head.
Nowadays, they had to read them their rights, accord them respect, and then lock them up in prison, three meals a day, and the luxury of a three-star hotel. He knew what Sara Stanforth represented the moment she joined the department: political correctness, policing by the book, female equality.
Still, he had to concede that she had done well dealing with a serial rapist in the area; even arrested him on her own and brought him to the police station in handcuffs.
Not many men would have stood up to him, he had thought at the time. Even Keith Greenstreet had to admit she was a good police officer, although, to him, her relationship with their DCI was something else. The sideways glances in the office, the passing too close to each other, the occasional whisper in each other’s ear. Greenstreet knew what they were talking about, even if it was a long time since he had experienced any of it.
‘Find Ingrid Bentham,’ Sara replied to Bob’s earlier question.
‘Do you need any help?’ Bob Marshall asked.
‘DI Greenstreet, if he’s willing. Also, the police constable at the Chalmers’ house, Sean O’Riordan. I know he is keen to get into plain clothes. He was there at the scene; he’s a smart man to have with the team.’
‘Okay with you, Keith?’ Bob looked over at Greenstreet.
‘Fine by me.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Sara said. ‘Thank you, DI.’
‘Don’t go wasting my time,’ Keith Greenstreet replied. He was approaching sixty, not in the best of health: high blood pressure, an irregular heartbeat, and carrying twenty pounds more weight than was healthy. His temperament in the office varied from morose to cheerful and back to morose; it spent more time at morose. He was not sure why Sara Stanforth had chosen him, and besides, he was the more senior of the two officers. He knew that he should be leading the investigation, but then he reasoned, DI Stanforth had something that he did not: a tight arse and the bedroom ear of Bob Marshall.
***
Police Constable O’Riordan arrived in the office at the police station later in the day.
