Free Beside a Narrow Stream by Faith Martin Page A

Hillary went on. ‘I take it time of death is confirmed as the evening of the 30th of April?’
    ‘Yes, guv,’ Keith said quickly.
    ‘OK. Gemma, any response to the radio appeal yet?’
    ‘Filtering through, guv. You want to be kept appraised?’
    ‘Please.’
    ‘One other thing, guv,’ Gemma said. ‘Before you pulled me off house-to-house, I was talking to a woman who goes to night-school in Banbury, and she was telling me that she thought she saw an art club advertised that had Wayne Sutton as either president or founder or something. Want me to check it out?’
    ‘Yes. It sounds like a good place for our vic to find more potential customers to me. Get a list and start interviewing them. Keith, you help her out. I want a short précis on them all when you’ve finished. I might want to re-interview.’
    Keith, who was beginning to learn her methods, was already nodding. His guv had a way with witnesses, and was no desk jockey. She liked to get out and about and do things hands on. Gemma Fordham, however, looked slightly surprised, but quickly got to work, phoning the college in Banbury and asking if she might come over and photocopy something from their notice board. Given the go-ahead, she grabbed her car keys and quickly left.
    Taking her bulky, file-filled bag with her.
    Hillary ground her teeth.
    Frank strolled off, talking about more interviews – no doubt at Wayne Sutton’s local pub – and Keith began to transcribe the autopsy notes.
    Hillary sighed, and reached for a pile of witness statements, but barely ten minutes later, she was buzzed from downstairs by the desk sergeant.
    Someone had come into the station after hearing the radio appeal that had been repeated on that morning’s breakfast news. And she wanted to talk to the officer in charge.

chapter five
    G emma Fordham stood at the top of a flight of concrete steps and looked around at the technical college spread out before her. The sight, sound, and smell of it, was taking her right back to her own student days, and she sighed, just a shade regretfully.
    At nineteen she’d just got her first belt at karate; studying criminology, she was half-shacked up with a chemistry student and worked a bar at nights to make ends meet. But she hadn’t yet met Ronnie Greene. Looking back at her life then, she wondered what she’d have done if she could have time-warped herself ten years to this spot, and this moment. Would she recognize herself?
    Probably not.
    She scrutinized the signs pointing out various departments, and decided that her best bet was probably the Administration Office. At this time of day, the students were all in classes, and the institutional corridors were eerily empty. At Admin, a secretary listened to her request, obviously dying to ask questions , but restraining herself.
    ‘Sounds like you want the common room,’ she said, when Gemma had explained what she was looking for. ‘If the woman was at night school here, that’s where she’d probably have seen the general notice board. Take the stairs back down to the front, turn left, and you’ll see a big green door. Gothrough, take the first right, then it’s the second door on the left. Or maybe the third. Anyway it’ll have a sign on the door. There’s a small office just opposite – the Principal’s secretary’s place. She’ll have a photocopier and if you ask, she’ll run some copies off for you.’
    Gemma thanked her, and followed her instructions with ease. The witness had indeed remembered it correctly. The ‘Ale and Arty club’ promised a combination of pub crawls where real ale was the primary motivating force, plus ad-hoc ‘art lessons’ by, amongst others, Wayne Sutton. Founder members were listed, as well as some endorsements by happy recruits.
    With the notice copied and in her bag, Gemma returned to her car and slipped inside. She glanced at her heavy tote bag beside her, and frowned. Was she just being paranoid in believing that Hillary Greene would