Free Secret Sins: A Callie Anson by Kate Charles

when it was her turn. ‘I hate to bother you…’
    Callie looked into her face and saw that it was troubled. ‘No bother at all,’ she said immediately. ‘I need to walk my dog right now, but perhaps if you fancy some exercise…’
    ‘That would be splendid.’ Morag’s smile was grateful. ‘I don’t get enough exercise as it is.’
    ‘Come along with me, then. We’ll collect Bella and take her to the park.’

    By the time that Neville got to the canal, the crime scene tape was up and the SOCOs had arrived. So had Sid Cowley, who stood with his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket—the rain had given way to a damp December chill, the sort that sat on your shoulders and seeped through to the bone. Cowley looked morose as his jaws worked on a piece of nicotine gum. ‘Evans has been here,’ he said, referring to their Detective Superintendent. ‘Didn’t stay long, but he’s putting you in charge. It’s not my case any more.’
    Fair enough: a Detective Sergeant could look into a missing person, but when a dead body was involved, a more senior officer was called for. Still, Neville felt sorry for Cowley. ‘Never mind, chum,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll be the one with the headaches, then.’
    ‘Headaches, for sure, Guv.’ Cowley gave him a grim smile. ‘As crime scenes go, this one isn’t the greatest. We don’t even know that it is the crime scene. He could have gone in anywhere along the canal.’
    Neville watched the white-suited SOCOs in action, going about their business—taking photos, crawling on their handsand knees looking for evidence. ‘He drowned, I suppose?’ he asked the sergeant.
    ‘The doc said so. Water in the lungs. Won’t know for sure till he gets him on the slab, of course.’
    Something didn’t quite add up, as far as Neville was concerned . ‘Are we sure it’s a crime?’ he demanded. ‘How do we know that he didn’t lose his footing in that wretched rain, and just fall in?’
    ‘He’s been bashed on the head,’ Cowley stated matter- of-factly . ‘Before he went into the water. I saw him—it wasn’t an accident. I didn’t need the pathologist to tell me that. Neither did Evans. That’s why he’s put you in charge.’
    ‘Bloody hell.’ He glanced at the bank of the canal, where a sheet concealed what was left of the victim. ‘And are we sure it’s our man? Trevor Norton?’
    Cowley took the gum out of his mouth, wrapped it in tissue, and popped a fresh piece before replying. ‘He’s not carrying any ID, if that’s what you mean, Guv. But he fits the description. White male, late twenties. Wearing running gear. Expensive trainers.’
    ‘And the iPod?’ Neville asked, remembering Cowley’s covetous expression the day before.
    ‘No iPod.’ Cowley gave a sage nod. ‘I know it’s your case now, Guv. But if I was in charge, that’s what I’d be looking for. I think the poor bugger was killed for his iPod.’

    Morag made a fuss over Bella, which endeared her to Callie. ‘I do miss Macduff,’ the older woman confided. ‘He was such a grand little dog. Small dog, big heart.’
    ‘Would you think about getting another dog?’ Callie suggested . ‘Lots of people in London have dogs. And we’re so close to Hyde Park.’
    Morag walked along the pavement beside Callie, looking straight ahead. ‘When Macduff died, I thought I’d never get another dog,’ she stated, her words visible as soft puffs of mistin the cold morning air. ‘Too much…pain. Losing him. Then, lately, I started thinking about how much company it would be to have one.’
    ‘Well, then.’ Callie was enthusiastic. ‘I’m sure you could get a rescue dog. Or if you wanted one like Macduff—he was a Cairn, wasn’t he? There must be breeders somewhere. I could look on the internet.’
    ‘No.’ Morag shook her head. ‘No, it wouldn’t be fair to the dog.’
    ‘But like I said. It’s not a big deal to have a dog in London. And you’re at home most of the time, aren’t