Free Bad Press by Maureen Carter Page B

to slash a tyre on the police motor. She remembered it well but not the woman sitting opposite. “Still one up on me, love.”
    Kendall smiled, tucked a glossy strand of hair behind a tiny ear. “You probably didn’t notice. I was right at the back of the hall. I wanted to grab an interview when you’d finished but the news desk called...”
    “...with a better offer?” A thin smile diluted the irony.
    “Sorry.” She had the grace to lower a sheepish look. “I was impressed actually, thought you handled the kids well.”
    Yeah right. Bev shifted her sleeve, checked the time. 3.15.
    “Sorry. You must be busy. How can I help?”
    Stop apologising for one thing. “I’m after Matt Snow.”
    “I’ll see what I can do.” She was on her feet already. “You OK here for a minute?”
    Bev watched as Kendall waited for the lift. There was something about her stance; the way she rubbed the small of her back. The loose fitting rust coloured smock hardly flattered the woman’s figure. But maybe that wasn’t the reason for wearing it?
    A beep from her mobile cut short the speculation. The text was from Powell: Bath Road. Now. She frowned. Had Gladys Marsden finally seen the light? She was about to hit the DI’s number when Kendall reappeared showing empty palms.
    “Can’t help. Sorry. Matt took off a couple of hours ago. There’s no pointer in the diary. One of the subs thinks he took a call from a contact.”
    Bev rose with a can’t-win-’em-all sigh, handed Kendall a card. “Ask him to give me a bell, would you, love?”
    “It’s Anna.” The tone was icy. Oops. Didn’t like the ‘love’. Or was that Bev’s imagination? All of a sudden, Kendall was Little Miss Sunshine again. “Tell you what... I’m meeting him for a drink later. If I don’t see him before, I’ll mention it then.”
    “Ta, love.” The grin was a tad smug. She should’ve bowed out gracefully at that point but couldn’t resist another. “By the way, when’s the baby due?” In the one-upmanship stakes, Bev reckoned she was now on equal footing.
    “January.” Anna smiled, gestured to the door. “When’s yours?”
    Gladys Marsden would never see the light again. Powell, grim-faced, arms crossed, slowly shook his head as he stared at the wasted body slumped in the rocking chair.
    “Coincidence or what?” His question was rhetorical.
    Bev squatted close by, concerned gaze scouring the flesh for signs of injury. They were back in the now even stuffier sitting room at Bath Road where – an hour after they’d left – a carer had discovered Gladys Marsden’s still warm corpse.
    What sounded initially like a routine call had struck a chord with an on-the-ball operator in Highgate control. The report had been channelled straight through to the incident room. Lucky. Or it could’ve taken hours to filter down.
    Bev had done a Lewis Hamilton getting here; shame it wouldn’t be him on the speed camera. The sharp exit had also distanced her from Anna Kendall. But not the writer’s parting remark. Once Bev had got over the shock, she knew the dithering had to stop. She’d called the clinic on the way over, arranged another appointment. Camera had probably clocked that too. At the moment there were more pressing issues to deal with.
    Like most cops she didn’t do coincidence but also acknowledged that from time to time they happen. On the other hand, Gladys had been a sick woman. The GP had been in the house when they arrived, and he’d given a rundown: cirrhosis, osteoporosis, dementia, glaucoma: mortality-pick-and-mix. Bev rose, pursed her lips. “Can’t see nothing obvious. Could be natural...”
    “I could win The X-Factor but it ain’t gonna happen,” Powell sneered.
    “Too right. You have to be good at something.” The response was automatic, her focus elsewhere. Something wasn’t right here. Something missing? Something extra? Either way, she couldn’t put her finger on it.
    “I know this: we turn up asking questions