Free Murder in Mind by Veronica Heley

well-being and happiness. The paperback which advertised recipes for everlasting life sported the corpse of a bluebottle. Everything needed a good clean, including the prisms which dangled in the window.
    Ting! An old-fashioned doorbell.
    The fug inside assaulted the nostrils. Scented candles and incense.
    She lived above the shop but at this time of the morning she was usually downstairs, waiting for non-existent customers. Yes, there she was, sitting behind the counter on a high stool, a silk turban wrapped around fading, hennaed hair. She had draped what looked like an old lace curtain over her black dress, stained with her last meal. Or several recent meals. She’d been drinking something from a mug. Probably not straight coffee, though. Her tipple was gin, and she’d probably put a couple of shots in her morning pick-me-up, though with her diabetes she ought not to touch the stuff. Her eyelids were at half mast.
    There was another scent here, apart from the incense. Marijuana?
    Just her style.
    She blinked. ‘Back again so soon, you silly thing? I should tell the police about you and your mad ideas, shouldn’t I? Were you responsible for Abigail’s death?’
    Temper flared. One punch and she fell off her high stool, catching her foot in her draperies. Crash, bang, wallop. Over she goes. She hit her head on the edge of the counter and went down. Flop. Flip flop. Out for the count. Snoring.
    No need to shift her. She was too heavy to move, anyway. There was a quick way to help diabetics shuffle off this mortal coil. Pull up her dress – ugh – nasty sight! She always injected herself in her thigh. Another needle, another pin prick. Easy does it. And . . . leave the needle there. Clasp one podgy hand around it. And let it fall away.
    Confused diabetic overdoes it.
    Turn the ‘Open’ sign on the door to ‘Closed’. Drop the latch on the door.
    Perfect.
    Exit.
    Saturday morning
    Ellie stooped to pick up the newspapers which Thomas had strewn about the sitting room. Thomas was a ‘horizontal filer’, who covered every surface in his study with papers, claiming to know exactly where everything was. The same applied to the weekend newspapers with their supplements. One went this way, another went that; most of them ended up on the floor.
    As she arranged the newspapers in a pile, Ellie came across the print of the clown which Mrs Topping had given her. Should she phone Ms Milburn about it? It was the weekend and surely the girl would be off duty? On the other hand, leaving it till Monday might lay Ellie open to a charge of, well, not caring.
    Well, she did care. Of course she did. And the clown was certainly not Diana in disguise.
    The clown person might well be some student wanting to break into acting, who’d been hired to appear in costume at the play centre and give out balloons and biscuits . . . which had been supplied by whoever it was who’d employed them.
    So, you could argue that Diana might have done it, through someone else.
    But no; because as soon as an innocent person realized that his actions had led to the death of a child, he’d surely want to confess.
    Or would he? Perhaps he’d prefer to keep mum when he realized he’d been responsible for the death of a child?
    Ellie dialled the number Ms Milburn had given her and was told that the person she was calling was on the phone already. Of course. Please leave a message.
    â€˜Please call Mrs Quicke. I have a picture of the clown for you.’
    End of.
    She looked at the clock. Time was marching on, and the decorator person would be arriving in a minute. Ellie reached for the nearest piece of paper to make notes for her. So many adults. So many children. So many rooms to spare. A shortage of beds. Had Maria said Betsey could let Ellie have a bed or two? Bunk beds, perhaps, for two of the children? Or would the other child then feel jealous and want a bunk bed, too? Or, worse; suppose the