Free Scene of Crime by Jill McGown Page A

security conscious, you seem to have been very uninterested in what was going on.”
    “Wasn’t my problem,” said Eric. “My property was intact. I’m not in the job anymore. And everyone round here’s security conscious. Why do you think Bignall had his gates locked? There have been burglaries round here, Sergeant. Just like tonight.”
    “To be honest, I was wondering why he bothered to lock his gates, since it’s so easy to get on to his property via yours. And you don’t keep your gates locked.”
    “I do if I’m leaving the house empty. A bloke up the road had his house broken into a month ago and the thieves backed a bloody van up his driveway and filled it up with his belongings. We don’t have to make it that easy for them.”
    “And yet,” said Finch, “you hear a window breaking, come out to find your security light on, and don’t notice an intruder in your own garden?”
    “I’m sorry if I don’t come up to scratch as a witness, Sergeant.”
    “And you don’t notice that your neighbor’s French window is wide open with the rain getting in?”
    “I’m not the bloody neighborhood watch! As long as it isn’t me, I don’t give a bugger who’s been turned over.”
    “So you did see something.”
    Eric shook his head and smiled. “All right, yes. I saw the French window open, and I just didn’t give a shit. But I saw nothing else, and if you sit here until hell freezes over, you can’t make me say I did. I’ve got better things to do with my time than sit around the bloody magistrates’ court waiting to give evidence against some kid who’ll get off with a smacked wrist anyway. My time’s money.”
    “What do you do for a living these days?”
    “I’m a photographer. I’ve got a studio in Welchester.”
    The sergeant looked interested. “What got you into that?”
    “I was a police photographer, but they civilianized the job fourteen years ago. I didn’t fancy being back in the front line, so I left and started up a business.”
    “You’ve done all right, then?”
    “Can’t complain.”
    “The thing is, this’ll be going further than the magistrates’ court.” Finch was watching him closely as he spoke. “This is manslaughter, at the least.”
    “Manslaughter?” Eric repeated. “I thought it was just a break-in. Who’s been killed?”
    He could see the sergeant try to work out if it was genuine surprise or not, but it didn’t really matter what he thought. With the police, all that mattered was what you said. And that only mattered if they’d cautioned you.
    “I’m sorry,” Finch said. “I thought someone would have told you. Mrs. Bignall was found dead.”
    “Bloody hell.” He hadn’t known there was anyone at home.
    “Does her death change your mind about what you saw?”
    Eric shook his head. “I didn’t see anything,” he said. “How can it change my mind?”
    “Thanks very much,” said Judy, who could have walked home by the time Marianne finally stopped flapping and left the theater.
    During the day it was actually quicker to walk, especially since there was a shortcut through the park. Because not only couldn’t cars use the shortcut, but the one-way system meant it was necessary to drive for a considerable distance in the opposite direction before finally making it into the center of Malworth where she lived.
    “It’s very good of you to give me a lift home,” she said. “It’s taking you out of your way.”
    “Oh, no trouble at all, darling!” Marianne started the car, and the windshield wipers cut two semicircles in the fine spray of rain on the glass. “We couldn’t have you walking home through the park, not at this time of the night—I don’t care if you are a police officer. A warrant card isn’t a suit of armor, and there are some very funny characters about. And you couldn’t really run, could you, darling? Not in your condition.” She backed carefully out of the parking space, and that maneuver completed, the brief