Free Beside a Narrow Stream by Faith Martin Page B

have gone through the bag had she left it behind? Were her own less than lily-white motives for joining the team colouring her own judgement? She didn’t think so. There were no flies on her new boss, and Hillary had noticed her slipping the folders out of sight when she’d come into the room. No, she was going to carry on being just as careful. Before she went back to the open-plan office she shared with the rest of her colleagues, she’d take the incriminating reading material back to records.
    With this in mind, she opened up the file to where she’d left off and began to scan it quickly.
     
    Hillary pushed open the door to Interview Room 2, and smiled as a woman rose slowly to her feet. A watchful WPC stood in one corner, saying nothing, as Hillary approached the single table, which was bolted to the floor, hand held out in greeting.
    ‘Hello, I’m DI Greene.’
    The visitor was short, about five feet one, with curly brown hair and large hazel eyes. Her handshake was passive and slightly damp. She was wearing a voluminous, rainbow-hued kaftan of pure Indian silk, over lightweight white slacks. Theoutfit probably cost more than Hillary made in a month. Or two months. She was wearing long dangling turquoise and silver earrings, and her make-up was light but clever. A diamond and platinum lady’s watch adorned one small wrist, that was already tanned a deep brown.
    ‘I asked to speak to the man in charge,’ the woman said, her voice accentless but high-pitched. ‘But I suppose he’s busy?’
    As the woman sat down again, Hillary smiled wryly. ‘I dare say he is,’ she said, disinclined to put her right. She was obviously one of those women who played off her dainty, feminine charms, a woman who much preferred the company of men. It had probably never occurred to her that a member of her own sex might be heading up a murder inquiry, and Hillary was in no mood to enlighten her.
    ‘Mrs Berdowne, isn’t it?’ Hillary said, glancing at the scrap of paper the desk sergeant had given her.
    ‘Stella Berdowne, yes. Of Berdowne Ceramics.’
    Hillary nodded. She’d never heard of it. Probably the woman made pots in her expensive studio conversion and sold them to long-suffering friends.
    ‘You have something to tell us about Wayne Sutton?’ she asked, coming straight to the point.
    ‘I heard on the radio this morning that he was dead. Is that true?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And the radio said that you were treating his death as suspicious?’ the voice rose even higher in pitch. Stella Berdowne had long, peach-painted fingernails that fiddled with the clasp of her bag, then moved up to stroke one earring, then went back to the table top, where she absently scratched a loose sliver of wood.
    Hillary watched all the twitching, trying to decide whether the woman was on something, nervous, or terrified. Or all three.
    ‘Yes, it is officially a murder inquiry, Mrs Berdowne. I take it you knew Wayne Sutton?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Socially?’
    ‘Oh no. Well, sort of. That is, I took private art classes with him. I’m a potter by inclination, but I wanted to improve my general painting skills. A friend of mine told me about him. I admired one of her paintings at a coffee morning, oh, about four months ago now, and she told me it was a Sutton original. When she told me he also took on a few select students, I asked for his number, and …’ the peach-painted nails spread wide before moving to the toggle on her kaftan and pulling on it, ‘… he came to my studio to see my work, and liked it, and agreed to give me some classes. He was a wonderful artist, a generous man with his time and talent.’
    Hillary nodded. She’d just bet he was. ‘And you became friends?’
    ‘Well, of course,’ Stella Berdowne laughed falsely, and her nails went up to her hair, patting the curls, fluffing, smoothing. ‘He was a friendly young man. Interested, and so supportive of my work. Throwing pots isn’t all that easy, and the market for