Sara had seen the photos of Ingrid. She was a beautiful woman, slim but not skinny. Her complexion was very pale; that may have been the photo’s exposure, although more likely indicative of a woman from the north of England; her Viking heritage showing through. Sara imagined that if the woman stayed in the sun for too long, she would burn, not go brown.
Sara, objectively taking Gregory Chalmers’ point of view, could see the attraction to a man in his forties, feeling for the first time the lessening of passion in his loins, the need to bed someone as fresh and sensual as Ingrid. According to her flatmate, Ingrid had been with no other man, yet she was the sort of woman that men would have lusted over.
In an age where sexual equality was taken for granted, it was strange that Ingrid Bentham remained the wallflower when all around were engaging in musical beds. That had been her life too, Sara reflected, until she had met Bob. Now, all she wanted him to do was to propose and put a ring on her finger.
Chapter 4
Sean O’Riordan arrived at the Chalmers’ house at ten in the evening. A uniform stood outside. As he had driven up the road, he could see the uniform relaxing: the night was cold, and the policeman at the door was struggling to stay focussed. Crime scene tape had been placed across the front door to the house. Sean showed his badge, ensured to put on foot protectors and gloves.
The kitchen was clearly off limits, and besides, it was not the place to find a recording. The sitting room appeared to offer no possibility. There were several DVDs, but they were commercial, mainly children’s cartoons and films. He was looking for something with a hand-written label. The house was still officially on lockdown as a crime scene, and Sean was aware that blundering around was not advisable. He made his way upstairs. The first bedroom was obviously the parent’s room where the Chalmers had slept, and the husband had first seduced Ingrid. The next bedroom was not used, other than as a hobbies room.
The third bedroom, belonging to Billy, judging by the computer and the plane models, offered more of a prospect. It was clear that the young child was well-organised. His school books and DVDs were all lined up and in their place. Sean thought it offered the best chance of finding what he wanted.
He stood back and scanned the room, reluctant to move anything other than was necessary. He took a few photos before he touched anything. At the end of the row of DVDs, six in total, he saw one labelled ‘birthday party’. The label had been printed, probably by the printer next to the computer.
He removed the DVD, placed it in a plastic bag, identified it, took a photo of where he had taken it from. The girl’s room he checked on the way out of the house. He then returned to the office. He knew that his girlfriend would be fast asleep by the time he got back home in the early hours of the morning, and was aware that she would not object if he woke her up on his arrival.
Back in the office, Sean took a copy of the disk and placed it in his laptop, the screen lighting up after a few seconds with a group singing an out-of-tune rendition of ‘Happy Birthday.’
There were two children and one adult; the one adult they wanted to hear.
‘Billy, it’s your birthday. You get to cut the cake,’ Ingrid said.
Sean texted Sara, knowing that she would want to know immediately.
‘Great. Six in the morning in the office. We’ll need to find an expert on regional accents,’ Sara replied.
She had been wide awake when the SMS had come through, going over her notes, evaluating the case, and what to do next. Bob was lying next to her; he was fast asleep. She had not heard from Keith. She called him.
‘Still up,’ he said.
‘The same as you.’
‘I’ve been staking out Ingrid Bentham’s flat. Her flatmate has only just arrived home, drunk by the look of it. I was just about to knock on her door. Give me thirty minutes, and I’ll message.’
‘Thanks. Six in the morning. Okay by you?’
‘I may as well not go home,’ he said sarcastically, but Sara knew it was only his dry humour.
Keith gave the flatmate fifteen minutes before he knocked on the door. She had brought company home; a male voice bellowed for her not to answer the door, and to get back in the bed.
The door to the flat opened. ‘Detective Inspector Greenstreet. I have a few questions.’
‘It’s late?’ the drunk woman slurred back at him. She was naked.
‘It’s a murder enquiry. It’s not a nine to five, sociable hours’ investigation. You spoke to Detective Inspector Stanforth before.’ Keith knew he was verging on harassment, but he was determined to get a result.
‘I’ve told her all I know. Go away. I have a man here, and he’s more attractive than you.’
Keith Greenstreet, not an attractive man, he knew, had been insulted enough times over the years, even shot at on a couple of occasions. The last time put him in the hospital for three weeks, while he recuperated after they had removed the bullet from his spleen.
‘That may be, but he will have to wait.’ Keith wedged his shoe in the door as she attempted to close it.
‘If you’re not going away?’
‘I’m
