Free Hell Hath No Fury by Rosie Harris

should have her solicitor present, for one thing.
    She shot him a glance and was startled to see he was watching her reaction. His own face was impassive. What the hell was he doing? Was he testing her out; pushing his authority to the ultimate just to see how she responded?
    Her mouth tightened. Two could play at that game, and she had no intention of letting him use Marilyn Moorhouse as some sort of test case in order to see how she would react to his techniques.
    Apart from the ethics involved, Marilyn Moorhouse had gone through quite enough. Finding her husband dead, and in that state, was a sufficiently harrowing experience without being subjected to a third degree.
    The arrival of Jim and Peggy Greenside came at a propitious moment. Peggy, a matronly woman in her late forties, explained that she was the dead man’s sister, and immediately tried to take charge.
    â€˜You can’t stay here, Marilyn,’ she declared emphatically. ‘You and the boys must come back to our place for the night.’
    Marilyn shook her head. ‘No, Peggy, I can’t do that. I don’t want to wake the boys . . . I wouldn’t know what to tell them,’ she protested, her lower lip trembling.
    â€˜You can’t stay here,’ her sister-in-law argued. ‘Supposing the murderer came back again!’
    Marilyn’s blue eyes widened in fear.
    â€˜We can leave a uniformed officer on duty,’ Ruth told her, ‘but I do think it would be better if you did as Mrs Greenside suggests, and went and stayed with her.’
    Marilyn Moorhouse’s shoulders sagged. She looked as limp as a rag doll inside her bulky white sweatshirt. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
    â€˜Just one point, Mrs Moorhouse . . .’ Paddy’s voice was diffident. ‘Was your husband expecting a visitor this evening?’
    â€˜I have no idea. Not as far as I know!’
    â€˜I ask because there is no sign of forced entry.’
    She looked puzzled. ‘Then John must have let him in, I suppose.’
    â€˜Him?’
    She stared blankly, the colour draining from her face.
    â€˜I think perhaps you should collect whatever things you are going to need overnight, Mrs Moorhouse,’ Ruth cut in sharply. ‘We can discuss this further tomorrow . . . after you’ve spoken to your solicitor,’ she added pointedly.

SEVEN
    T he atmosphere in the car was as chill as the inside of a fridge as DI Morgan and DS Hardcastle drove back to the station. Ruth suspected that Paddy was annoyed because she had forestalled him asking Mrs Moorhouse any further questions.
    Browbeating the witness was not a technique she intended to employ in her enquiries, so she certainly wasn’t going to stand quietly by and let him do it, she thought stubbornly.
    She shot a sideways glance at him. His large hands were grasping the wheel in an assured, competent way, and he appeared to be concentrating on the traffic ahead, but it was obvious from the set of his broad shoulders, and the tilt of his head, that he was waiting for her to say something.
    It needed careful handling. They would be working together for quite some time, and she didn’t want to antagonize him. She was well aware that he had probably forgotten more about police procedure than she had learned so far. Even so, she wanted to do things her way. And that didn’t include bullying witnesses.
    Keeping her voice neutral she remarked, ‘Did you think Mrs Moorhouse might have murdered her husband?’
    He remained silent long enough to make her feel uncomfortable.
    â€˜I always assume everyone is a suspect until proved otherwise,’ he commented in an equally impartial tone.
    â€˜It could hardly have been her though, could it? There wasn’t a spot of blood on her clothes . . .’
    â€˜But there was a knife missing from the rack on the kitchen shelf over the right-hand worktop.’
    Ruth drew in a quick breath. She should have noticed