Free No Reason To Die by Hilary Bonner Page B

ballroom through Latin American disco, to rock and roll.
    ‘I can just see Chris Tompkins doing the tango with a rose in his teeth,’ he said.
    In spite of herself, Karen laughed. Detective Sergeant Tompkins, one of Torquay CID’s longest serving officers, who had only recently managed to finally achieve promotion from detective constable, was very tall, very thin, moved with a bony awkwardness and had a permanently morose hangdog sort of face. Karen always thought he looked like an anorexic bloodhound.
    She punched the security code into the door ahead of her and led the way upstairs to her first-floor office. They had to pass through the open-plan incident room and Karen was aware of the eyes of every officerthere focusing on Kelly. That last case still weighed heavily on all of them, and Kelly had been at the hub of it. Kelly might be a kindred spirit and someone for whom most of the team had considerable professional respect, but he did spell trouble, and she had known that bringing him, unannounced, into the CID offices would be bound to create something of a stir.
    To hell with it, thought Karen. She had neither the time nor the inclination to pussyfoot around. Yes, Kelly did spell trouble, but that was because he had yet again encountered something troublesome, and being Kelly, he never seemed to learn to walk away. One thing Kelly didn’t do was cry wolf. Karen may have given Kelly little or no indication of her true opinion, but in fact she reckoned that if John Kelly thought there was something fishy about that young squaddie’s death, then there probably was. The only question was whether or not Karen wanted to take a potentially politically tricky matter further. And she was all too aware that she really wasn’t so different from Kelly. Almost certainly, she would be unable to resist.
    ‘Right, Farnsby,’ she called to a young woman detective constable sitting at one of the computer stations by the wall. ‘I want you to help Kelly build up an E-fit. We need to get a picture of two possible witnesses. Go on, Kelly, you know the form.’
    ‘Your wish …’ began Kelly, then let his voice trail away as he saw the look in Karen’s eye.
    Janet Farnsby, whose serious, rather humourless nature was somehow emphasised by the way she kept her straight, light brown hair tied back from her face and the round granny spectacles she affected, stood up and looked doubtfully around her. Torquay CIDdidn’t run to providing a computer for every CID officer. Instead, they shared the bank of machines where DC Farnsby had been sitting. Karen knew what the young woman was thinking. Was she really supposed to work with John Kelly, of all people, in the middle of the incident room?
    ‘You can use my office, I’m off to Middlemoor,’ Karen announced, once more leading the way. Once inside her little glass cubicle, Karen busied herself picking up and sorting out the various papers she needed for her meeting with the chief constable at headquarters. There was just one item on the agenda: CID budget. Karen’s favourite topic. No doubt, further economies were about to be demanded. Not only would her officers be sharing computers, Karen reckoned they’d be sharing notebooks and pencils if Harry Tomlinson had his way. She gritted her teeth and made herself concentrate on ensuring she had everything she needed for her unwelcome meeting.
    Janet Farnsby, who had recently completed a course on building E-fits, the modern computerised alternative to identikit, had settled in front of Karen’s screen with Kelly by her side and was already typing in data and calling up various images for him to study.
    Karen, still wearing the white cape, with an untidy bundle of papers tucked under one arm, the big denim Voyage bag under the other, watched them from the doorway for a few seconds.
    Kelly glanced up at her and looked for a moment as if he might be about to say something clever. Karen didn’t give him the chance.
    ‘Right, I’m