Free Blood Money by Maureen Carter Page B

his initials in all his tools apparently.” He wiped the back of his neck with a crumpled hankie.
    “Her?”
    “A Mrs Cummings. Joy, I think she said.”
    Bev arched an eyebrow. They had come across a bit of joy then. “Prints?”
    He snorted. “Now that is funny.”
    The screwdriver was so clean it squeaked. Not a solitary whorl. It had been carefully wiped before being left almost in full view. Bev stamped her feet, more to keep the blood flowing than
signal frustration, though there was a smidgen of that, too. The Sandman obviously wanted the cops to find it. Why? Because nicking neighbours’ tools to gain access was the sign of a pro. In
this case – a two-fingered wave to show the cops how clever he was. Like they needed further proof. The guy was savvier than a smart arse convention.
    “We can’t go on meeting like this, Danny.” Bev winked.
    “Sarge.” Still on door duty, PC Rees blushed as he stood to one side to let her in. Wiping her boots on the mat, Bev was still smiling when a waif carrying a tray of crockery stepped
gingerly down the Masters’s wide staircase. The tray looked too heavy for the girl’s slender frame. Her dull blonde ponytail was scraped back so tight it brought tears to the eyes and
accentuated what were already sharp features. The shapeless cheap-looking gear had charity shop written all over it. The girl had to be the hired help. Marie, was it?
    “Hiya.” Bev raised a hand. “I’m Detective Sergeant Morriss. Bev. Can you tell Mrs Masters I’m here, love?” She’d told the widow four-thirty on the
phone, it was only a few minutes after.
    “Sure. Would you like to come through to the kitchen?” Bev did the honours with the doors. Cups and saucers rattled as the girl laid the tray on a heavily scarred butcher’s
table. “She was having a nap. I’ll just see if she’s awake.”
    Lucky for some. Bev stifled a yawn. Mind, if the widow wasn’t ready... “Cup of tea’d be nice while I wait.”
    Slight hesitation then: “No prob.” She pulled one of the Bentwood chairs out from the table, Bev ignored it, took a nose round. The racing green and buttermilk colour scheme
wasn’t to her taste. Kitchen itself was a weird blend of retro and high tech gleam machines. Probably need an engineering degree to work the Gaggia; mind, it could double as a mirror. She
peered at her reflection. Save a bit of time in the mornings – you could apply the slap waiting for your espresso to perk or whatever it is espresso does.
    Perp’s point of entry was easy to spot: lower right casement window was boarded up. Bev homed in for a closer look, clocked traces of dab dust on the sill. Not that there’d been any
prints. A guy canny enough to wear socks over his footwear was hardly going to oblige by leaving greasy fingermarks all over the shop.
    Mother’s little helper was fixing a pot of Earl Grey. Bev pulled a face. No problem with the Jaffa cakes though. The girl looked as if she could do with scarfing a few packets herself, not
so much slender as painfully thin. She was keeping her back to Bev. Chatty little thing.
    Bev ran an exploratory finger along the granite worktop, played with one of the brass weights that went with a set of scales. It slipped through her fingers and landed in the sugar bowl. Without
a word, the girl fished it out, ran it under the tap, put it back in its proper place.
    Suitably chastened, Bev shoved her hands in her pockets, carried on with the tour. She twitched a lip at the celebrity cook books. The blessed Delia was bang next to the hairy bikers; the naked
chef rubbed shoulders – make that spines – with the domestic goddess. Maybe the Masters had done a lot of entertaining? Mr and Mrs Dinner Party. Bev pursed her lips, somehow
didn’t see Diana getting steamed up over a hot Aga.
    She perched on a corner of the table, swinging a foot. “How long you worked here, love?” The girl turned, leaned against the sink, her gaze seeming to weigh up