Free Post Mortem by Kate London Page A

eyes and smiled, and Lizzie felt for a moment ridiculously happy. In spite of the wedding ring, she couldn’t help wondering. She’d heard his family lived somewhere near the south coast: he kept a flat for himself in London for when he was on duty.
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Storm in a teacup. You want to come to this call?’
    There was a moment’s regret: it would, at the very least, have been a pleasure to sit next to him in the response car.
    â€˜No, sir, I can’t. I’ve got a shoplifter to deal with.’
    â€˜Oh, good. Well done, you have been busy. Never mind. Another time.’
    She had stood, she remembered, and watched as his car pulled out of the yard with its blue lights on.

15
    C ollins’ phone started ringing. She glanced down to where it sat in the plastic moulding by the handbrake and saw the name across the screen. DCI Baillie . She pulled over.
    â€˜Boss.’
    â€˜Any news for me?’
    â€˜We’ve released the body of the girl to the family.’
    â€˜Good. Well done.’
    A pause.
    â€˜Did you get anything from the autopsy?’
    â€˜Looks like she self-harmed. Nothing dramatic. Just a few scars on her left arm and some recent cuts.’
    â€˜Makes sense. Anything else?
    â€˜A phone number. Could be nothing. We don’t know whose it is yet.’
    â€˜OK. What about PC Griffiths? Any news on her?’
    â€˜Nothing new since we last spoke, sir.’
    There was a pause. Baillie said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to get on. Call if you’ve got anything new for me.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    Collins flashed her warrant card at the gate. She drove past a group of new recruits marching quickly towards the main building, their breath frosting in the morning air.
    Training school: she still recoiled at the memory of it. In the dawning sunlight she had stared out across the playing fields and imagined herself elsewhere. A young ex-military man, Ian, had been put in charge of them. He was a recruit like the others, but because of his two years in the army, he knew how to march. Every morning he had shouted at her. ‘Retard!’ he called after her. ‘Fuck-ing Christ!’ The ordeal had not been the abuse, as some would think, but rather the uniquely stupid experience of being insulted while being made to stand to attention. She had passed out top of her class in tests and somewhere near the bottom in terms of popularity. She didn’t like marching, she was bored by drunkenness and she wouldn’t pretend to be like them. As soon as she could, she had stopped wearing the uniform. Nothing would ever convince her to put it on again. She would live and die in investigation even if it meant she never achieved any rank beyond sergeant.
    She found her way along the corridor and knocked on the trainers’ door. Even the waiting, she remembered bitterly, had been part of the experience. Trainee officers were not to put their hands in their pockets, not to lean on the wall. Today she opened the door without waiting for a response to her knock and stepped into the room. Three men in uniform were crowded together round a desk, staring at a computer screen. She wondered what could be so interesting. One of them clicked on the mouse. The others looked up, ready to deliver a bollocking.
    She took another step forward and said, ‘DS Collins.’
    One of the men – short and somewhat fat, with the blotched skin of someone who ate too much red meat – came over to her. He did not offer his hand.
    â€˜Sergeant Hill,’ he said. ‘Alan.’
    The tips of his shoes shone with a terrifying patina. His shirt was starched brilliant white. She guessed he must be ex-army,one of those Para types who had spent his whole police service in uniform and for whom it was a badge of honour to despise CID. He regarded her evenly – he had probably already identified her as a possible troublemaker.