Free Bad Blood by Geraldine Evans Page B

income, either, he must have more than his share of street wisdom. Run him and Jane Ogilvie through the computer when you get back to the station, Dafyd. For that matter, run them all through the computer, including Freddie Talbot and, when we find out their names, the fathers of Mrs Ogilvie's two younger children whose identities I forgot to establish. Now, tell me about these interesting discoveries you mentioned.’
    Llewellyn told him that one of the residents, a Mrs Toombes, had said that somebody had rung her and her husband's apartment bell that morning at around 6.45. Mrs Toombes, who had answered the ring, had thought little of it at the time and it was only later, on being interviewed, that she had mentioned it to Llewellyn.
    Mr and Mrs Toombes lived in one of the five smaller apartments on the third floor, the one immediately above that of the victim. Mrs Toombes, to judge from the nervous chatter with which she greeted them after they had taken the lift to the top floor and knocked on her door, was no longer in any doubt about the possible significance of her information. She seemed to have worked herself into something of an anxious state about it.
    Mrs Toombes was a large, ungainly woman and her anxiety struck a jarring note as if it sat uncomfortably on her slow-moving body.
    After several minutes of earnest lamentations about the late Clara Mortimer and the repeated wish that her husband would return home, she urged them into her main room, a small lounge-diner, cluttered with the usual three-piece suite with a small, folding oak table in the window. A 28" television dominated the room and not only by virtue of its size for it was currently loudly blaring out some daytime quiz show.
    Mrs Toombes turned the set off and invited them to sit down. Then, clearly troubled, she confirmed what Llewellyn had already told him.
    ‘I've been wondering since if it was the killer trying to gain entrance here,’ she confided. In her agitation, her large hands clutched at one another. ‘Imagine, if I'd opened the door, it might have been me he killed, rather than poor Clara Mortimer.’
    ‘What did he say, this man when you answered the entry-phone?’ Rafferty asked Mrs Toombes. ‘Can you remember?’
    Obviously still upset and fixated on the fact that Clara's fate could so easily have been hers, Mrs Toombes frowned and asked him to repeat his question.
    When he did so, she bridled. ‘Of course I can remember.’ His question seemed to annoy her. Her voice was raised as she replied. ‘There's nothing wrong with my memory. I haven't been able to get his words out of my head. They sounded so ordinary, so normal. That's what's so strange.’
    ‘I can appreciate how upset you must feel, Mrs Toombes. But if you could just let us know what he actually said?’
    ‘I'm coming to that. Please don't try to rush me. My husband's always doing it and it always gets me flustered.’ She paused, stared at the silent TV with a frown as if she missed its loud companionship. Having gathered her thoughts, she went on. ‘Anyway, he seemed to be looking for someone called Esme. He must have been late because he seemed keen for this Esme to know that he had hurried. ‘I ran, Esme,’ he said.
    'I told him that he not only had the wrong apartment, but the wrong block, because I know there is no woman named Esme living here.
    ‘He didn't even thank me for putting him right,’ she complained. ‘He just put the phone down on me. I thought no more about it till I learned that Mrs Mortimer had been murdered.’ She shivered at the realisation that she, rather than Clara Mortimer, might have been the murderer's chosen victim.
    ‘Did you get any idea as to this man's age?’ Rafferty asked.
    ‘Not really, no. Though it wasn't the voice of an elderly man. Other than that, he could have been any age up to his forties.'
    Defensively, as if she felt he was criticising her, she added, 'He did only say three words.’
    Rafferty forced a smile.