Free Murder in Court Three by Ian Simpson Page A

Traynors lived on a private road in the affluent suburb of Colinton. The police pool car, its springs knackered, bumped along the uneven surface before pulling into a well-raked gravel driveway in front of a pristine-looking two-storey snowcemmed house with red pantiles. Neatly-clipped boxwoods sat in terracotta pots on either side of a front door studded with black metal bolts designed to hint at a historical pedigree but were shiny enough to have been recently taken off a shelf at B and Q. Bordering the gravel, the sharply-edged lawn completed the impression of order and pride. This could be ‘Craigperfect’, the lovely home of the MacPerfect family, all of whom, naturally, lived ideal lives.
    â€˜This place must have cost a packet,’ Flick said as Di Falco parked beside the sole discordant note, a grimy white Polo slewed at an angle to the house and carrying battle scars on its front wing.
    Flick pressed the bell button and winced at the twee chimes that announced their arrival. After a minute she rang again. ‘I wonder if she’s round the back,’ she said. Di Falco went to see and Flick stepped back to check the windows.
    â€˜Can I help you?’ It was a woman’s voice with the lilt of the west coast. Her tone was not welcoming. Wearing a crumpled and faded cotton dress with fancy-looking sunglasses pushed up to sit on her shoulder-length blonde hair, her appearance and posture were too casual for her to be the lady of this house. Her smooth, lightly-tanned skin glistened with sun cream. When asked however, she agreed that she was Mrs Lynda Traynor.
    When Flick told her the nature of her inquiry the woman’s face darkened. With evident reluctance, she led the way through a wood-panelled hall into a sitting room facing the back of the house, the slap of her flip-flops on the polished floor expressing her irritation. She gasped with surprise when she saw di Falco peering through a window, but pointed him towards the French door with an expression of semi-amused disdain, as if Inspector Clouseau had come calling. Without offering refreshment or inviting them to sit, she reclined on the sofa, nonchalantly pushing a cushion to the floor. It was a strange, arrogant gesture, one that dissociated her from her immaculate surroundings. Flick’s dislike for her intensified.
    â€˜Well?’ said Lynda Traynor.
    Flick sat on an upright chair facing her. With almond-shaped eyes, a prominent nose and full lips, Lynda Traynor was not classically beautiful, but she had an hour-glass figure and a confidence about the way she carried herself that explained why men were attracted. Di Falco was having difficulty taking his eyes off her legs, which she had angled to give a hint of an intimate view. Flick frowned at him but he paid no heed.
    â€˜As I said, we’re here to see you about the murder of Farquhar Knox,’ Flick said. ‘And we thought we should do it while your husband was not here.’
    â€˜Stop right there,’ Lynda Traynor snapped. ‘Have you read my file?’ Seeing Flick’s look of astonishment, she carried on quickly. ‘Yes. I can see you have.’ She turned to stare at di Falco. ‘But you haven’t, though you’ll have heard what it says. I’m a “loose cannon”, am I not? Correct? Well, I live my life in my way and have every right to do so. I’m not going to help you. And don’t try that “we’ll do it down at the station” routine, because it won’t wash. Now excuse me but I have an appointment with a sun lounger.’
    Flick did not move. ‘Mrs Traynor, we have reason to believe you had sex with Mr Knox just before he was killed. Is that the case?’
    â€˜That is a very impertinent question.’
    â€˜As I just said, this is a murder inquiry. We have witnesses who saw you talking to him in a confidential manner and one who saw you heading for Court Three, which you probably entered