Free Already Dead by Stephen Booth Page A

idea about not wanting to scare him off, as if he was a wild stag and she was the stalker, or he was a suspect under observation, and she was a surveillance officer. It was probably just professional instinct, then. Not some silly superstition at all.
    In fact, she would have difficulty explaining to anyone why she was in Welbeck Street in the first place. Hadn’t she told them all plainly enough that she wouldn’t do it? But instead of arguing with her, they’d sat gazing at her with their cow eyes, all four of them, and they’d let her think about it herself, without any hassle. That was a dirty trick.
    With the ignition turned off, her wipers had stopped. The blue door at number eight was gradually disappearing in the streaks of rain running down the glass. Fry could have sat there all evening. She could have waited until it grew dark and the street lights came on, and then just gone home. But Becky Hurst was a woman on a mission.
    ‘Okay, then,’ she said, pulling up her collar. ‘Let’s do it.’
    But there was no answer to the bell of Flat One, or to their banging on the door. Fry tried dialling the landline number, and they could hear the phone ringing inside the flat, until the answering machine cut in.
    Like many of these houses whose windows looked directly on to the pavement, this one had net curtains and a couple of plants on the window ledge to discourage passers-by from peering inside. It didn’t deter Hurst, who pushed her face close to the glass, shaded her eyes with a hand, and twisted herself into a position where she could squint into the sitting room.
    She was quite still for a few moments, and Fry began to fidget impatiently, looking up and down the street anxiously, feeling like a potential burglar. Then Hurst started to tap on the window, as if trying to attract someone’s attention.
    ‘What is it?’ said Fry at last. ‘What can you see?’
    Hurst straightened up. ‘Pretty much what I expected,’ she said. ‘A cat.’
    ‘That’s it, then. A washout.’
    ‘His landlady lives in the house next door.’
    ‘Oh. I think you’re right.’
    Hurst strode boldly to the door of number six and rang the bell. They heard a dog barking inside. She rang again, and rapped the knocker.
    ‘I remember Ben saying she’s quite elderly. She’s probably a bit deaf.’
    Eventually, a chain rattled and the door creaked open a few inches. An anxious face appeared in the narrow gap.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    ‘Oh, you must be Mrs Shelley?’
    ‘Yes, that’s right.’
    Fry wondered how Hurst had memorised the name of Ben Cooper’s landlady. She couldn’t recall him ever mentioning it to her. Though Hurst had been here once or twice in the past, so perhaps it had cropped up.
    ‘We’re police officers.’ Hurst showed her warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Constable Hurst. This is Detective Sergeant Fry.’
    Mrs Shelley didn’t even look at her ID. From the way she was squinting, she probably couldn’t have read it anyway. But she responded with a big smile.
    ‘Oh. You must be friends of Ben’s,’ she said, opening the door an inch or two more. She peered at Fry, as if she might actually remember her face.
    ‘Yes,’ said Hurst. ‘We’re his friends. Aren’t we, Diane?’
    ‘Of course. His colleagues.’
    ‘Do you know where he is, Mrs Shelley?’
    ‘No. Well, he went out a while ago. I couldn’t tell you where. At least … no, I don’t think he said where he was going. You could phone him.’
    ‘We’ve tried. He doesn’t answer,’ said Fry.
    ‘Do you want me to give him a message?’
    ‘We were just wondering,’ said Fry, speaking up clearly on the assumption that Mrs Shelley was also deaf. ‘Well, do you have a key to his flat?’
    ‘Of course I do.’
    ‘We’re a bit worried about him, you see.’
    ‘So am I.’
    ‘Could we perhaps…?’
    Mrs Shelley hardly hesitated. ‘Oh, yes. I’ll fetch it, shall I?’
    Fry and Hurst exchanged glances while they waited for her to come