Free Dead Wrong by Helen H. Durrant Page A

soft.
    Calladine opened his eyes and stared at the young woman in front of him. She was young — well, a good few years younger than he, and blonde. He’d never seen her before and her accent wasn’t local.
    “Lydia Holden from the Leesworth Echo.” She took a card from her bag. “Can you give me anything? The heads up on what’s going on here?”
    If she hadn’t been a woman he’d have told her to piss off. He wasn’t in the mood. But she was, and his mother had brought him up to be a gentleman, so he pursed his lips and shook his head.
    “You shouldn’t be here. Behind the tape is where you belong.”
    “I’ll get nothing back there.”
    “As yet there’s nothing to tell, and you should know better, Miss . . .”
    “Holden.” She continued to smile. “This is so very extraordinary.” Her gesture encompassed the crowded scene. “I can count, Inspector,” she dipped her eyelashes, “. . . and there are four tents. I’ve seen the pathologist arrive. So am I to take it you’re dealing with more than one murder here?”
    He gave her a long hard look.
    “You can take it any way you want. I’ve said nothing about murder, and I can’t discuss details yet, so you’re wasting your time.” Calladine shook his head. He’d like to tell this woman to go to hell, but he knew his public relations. Nonetheless, he had to tell her something; the press would be all over this soon in any case. In no time they’d be clinging to him like leeches. “We’re dealing with an incident, Miss Holden, for now that’s all I can say. When I have more I’ll be in touch.”
    He nodded curtly. As he tried to sidestep her, she caught hold of his arm.
    “I’m not stupid, Inspector. This is something big. You can’t kid me.”
    The sweet smile had soon vanished. She was just another hack after scandal. She’d be wasting her time using those looks to get anything out of him.
    “It could be in your interest to give the story to me first. We could help each other. You can’t keep us out of this, Inspector. I suspect it’s too big.”
    Lydia Holden wasn’t a name he recognised. The local reporter he usually dealt with was a crusty old character called Morton. What had happened to him? He frowned and looked at her. He wasn’t happy; it was early and he hadn’t slept. This woman, whoever she was, was a nuisance he could do without. But she was right. He would be able to keep the press at arm’s length for just so long.
    She smiled again. Her teeth were white and she had sparkling blue eyes. Her blonde hair billowed in soft curls around delicate features. The more she smiled at him, the more he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
    Lydia Holden met his stare. She was probably aware of the effect she was having on him; most men would find her beguiling. Tom Calladine was no different. She coughed lightly and finally succeeded in handing over her card. “We’ll talk again, Inspector. My instincts tell me that before this is finished you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

 
    Chapter 8
    “Mrs Edwards? Donna?”
    “What the hell do you want, this time in the morning?” She’d seen at once that he was police. Her hands rested on scrawny hips, and a cigarette hung from her crudely painted mouth.
    “May we come in, Donna?” This isn’t something we should discuss out here.” He was aware of faces peering at them from the neighbour’s front doors.
    She shook her head in disgust and discarded the fag, letting it fall over the railing. Calladine watched it flicker and spin to the ground seven floors below.
    “I can tell you now I’ve got nowt to say. Nowt about me and nowt about that son of mine. And it’s Miss, not Mrs.”
    Calladine, Ruth and a uniformed female officer followed her inside the untidy, poky flat.
    “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you, Donna.”
    This was never easy. It was the worst part of his job and it never got any better. Even if it was a son like Ice, it wasn’t a task he