Free Cold Sacrifice by Leigh Russell

discover the ostensible cause of his customer’s aggression. Henry let it go. It was certainly one explanation for his volatile behaviour, if not the right one. Clutching the bottle of Scotch, he hurried home. Later on he would sort out an alibi, once he had done some serious thinking. But first he was going to get plastered. He could afford the most expensive bottle of Scotch, and there was no one to spoil his enjoyment by nagging him about wasting money.

15
    A FTER AN EARLY LUNCH , Ian drove back to Herne Bay and parked in the street alongside Henry Martin’s house. He and Rob would be returning together to speak to the widower again soon. With any luck, they would make an arrest and the investigation would be over. But before that, there was a lot of work to get through. Right now it was vital to gather as much information as possible. They not only had to make an arrest, they had to make sure their case was watertight. A prosecution that failed to get a conviction was a waste of police time and effort, as well as an opportunity for the killer to make good his escape – and possibly kill again.

    For the second time in two days, Ian knocked on the Jamiesons’ front door. This time it was opened by a short, stout man with greying hair. His bushy beard and moustache were white.
    ‘Yes? What is it? What do you want?’
    His brisk tone softened after he had put on steel-rimmed spectacles to peer at Ian’s warrant card.
    ‘Hmm, a detective sergeant? Well, in that case, perhaps you’d better come in.’ He hesitated. ‘What’s this about?’
    Briefly Ian explained the purpose of his call and Mr Jamieson nodded, his head turned quizzically to one side.
    ‘Yes, Patsy told me you’d been here, asking questions.’
    ‘Your wife?’
    ‘Yes, yes. Come on in. I expect she’ll want to see you.’
    He turned and bawled his wife’s name and a second later she came into the hall, wiping floury hands on a dish cloth.
    ‘Sorry, I’ve got a cake in the oven.’

    She led them into a large square kitchen, neat and clean apart from a floury work surface.
    ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess,’ she added hurriedly.
    Her husband smiled complacently at her and Ian felt a surge of optimism. Baking on a Sunday afternoon, content in her marriage, Mrs Jamieson could appear before any jury as a decent, reliable witness. He accepted the offer of a cup of tea and was disappointed when it wasn’t accompanied by a slice of the cake he could smell. It couldn’t have been ready yet. Bad timing, he thought. He hoped that wasn’t a bad omen. Sipping his tea, he listened to Mrs Jamieson discussing her neighbours as though she had been preparing for his visit. It was hardly necessary for him to prompt her with questions.

    ‘I always said he’d do her an injury one day,’ Mrs Jamieson began, speaking very loudly.
    Her husband remonstrated with her.
    ‘There’s lots of couples argue.’
    ‘Not like that,’ she replied, turning to face her husband.
    There was a pause.
    ‘Like what?’ Ian asked and the Jamiesons both turned to him looking slightly surprised, as though they had forgotten he was there.
    ‘You weren’t here during the day,’ she went on, speaking to her husband. She turned back to Ian. ‘He wasn’t here in the day. He didn’t hear it all.’
    ‘All what?’
    ‘Now, Patsy,’ her husband warned her, but she rounded on him.
    ‘Stop interfering, Donald. I’m only saying what I heard, no more and no less. You don’t know what went on.’ She turned to Ian and lowered her voice. ‘You wouldn’t know it, because he lip-reads, but my husband’s deaf.’

    Ian sat down and took out his notebook. Mrs Jamieson’s account of her neighbours was petty and inconsequential, but she was keen to talk about them and Ian was prepared to listen to her again. Somewhere in her ramblings she might inadvertently furnish him with a lead. It was five years since the Jamiesons had moved into their ground floor flat, next door to the