Free The Other Woman by Jill McGown Page B

getting himself involved in a fight over a woman. This woman? Jack Woodford said that she had gone off before the police got to them. He’d need confirmation of who the woman was, but she was probably nothing to do with anything.
    DI Barstow was setting up the murder room at the station, plucked from sleep like most of the people already hard at work on the case. But they really had nothing to go on, so far. All they knew right now was that there had been two hundred people here tonight, and that meant two hundred potential witnesses, with the consequent huge amounts of legwork and paper-work. Her shoulder bag had been found, complete with purse, which still had money in it, so robbery was unlikely to be the motive. It had no credit cards, no driving licence, nothing to say who its deceased owner was. It had a receipt, dated that day, for clothes she had bought at the superstore, which might be some sort of lead, and a key, which seemed to be to a street door. But they didn’t know who she was, and until they knew that … He sighed for the third time.
    The groundsman arrived, but Parker had not accompanied him. Lloyd watched as the powerful lights began their sequence. When they were all lit, he turned towards the fence. The fog was lifting; the light was good. He sent two DCs to interview Parker about the evening’s altercation, and resigned himself to waiting for answers.
    He heard Freddie’s car long before it nosed its way into the line of cars by the entrance, its powerful engine humming through the stillness as it came along the bypass, growing to a roar as the car made its way towards the ground. Even at the low speed enforced on it by the weather, it sounded angry. It growled to a halt, and Freddie’s tall thin frame emerged with some difficulty. In the summer, he would drive it minus its top, and would step out over the closed door.
    â€˜No assistant tonight?’ Lloyd asked.
    Freddie smiled. ‘No. She and her police sergeant are off on honeymoon.’
    Oh yes. Judy had told him that Bob Sandwell had finally married Kathy. He’d forgotten.
    â€˜Well,’ said Freddie, still smiling, despite what he was about to do. ‘Lead the way.’ Freddie enjoyed his work, and would set about it with an enthusiasm that was almost, but not quite, infectious.
    They picked their way through the scene of crime officers to the body, and Freddie crouched down to begin his examination. He didn’t touch the girl’s body until he had noted everything about it and its environment which might be of use to the investigation, writing quickly and neatly. He sketched out the area, the position of the body, the spot where her bag had been found.
    He looked at the tie, turning the end carefully to reveal the label. ‘If you were hoping it was the tie of a very exclusive club, forget it,’ he said, with a grin, looking up at Lloyd. ‘This is one of thousands.’
    â€˜You needn’t look so pleased about it,’ said Lloyd. He was all right once the investigation was under way, and the victim was just a name about whom they had to find out as much as they could. But until she had a name, the investigation would be being conducted in a void; Freddie could tell him how she had died, and give him an estimate of when. He and forensic could, with luck, give him pointers on the physical and mental characteristics of the murderer. Her clothes, her injuries, everything would tell part of the story. Perhaps even Finch’s sawdust. But every minute they lost before they could circulate her description, before they could start interviewing possible witnesses, the murderer was a minute better off.
    He went across to the car in which Finch was speaking to Gil McDonald, and got into the front passenger seat. It was the Gil McDonald. He felt the almost schoolboyish pleasure that he always did on meeting a famous face, and always wished he didn’t.
    â€˜This is Detective Chief