Free She Died Young by Elizabeth Wilson

want to meet him on a dark night in the back streets.
    ‘I have to go out for a while,’ murmured Blackstone, as he placed his hat on his head and made for the front door. ‘Thank you. I’ll be back shortly.’
    Outside he stood still for a moment and looked up and down the street. From within the hotel he heard Camenzuli shouting. He looked back through the glass door, but there was nothing to see. He wondered if he should go to the woman’s aid, but he was not a physically brave man and Camenzuli would be the sort to have a knife.
    A cold wind had got up. He wasn’t wearing a coat, so he made for the station. There were telephone kiosks there and a tea room. He needed a cuppa. After that, there’d be another taxi.

    Two days later, on the Friday, he met McGovern in the same pub as before. The policeman looked lined and older in the sallow light of the saloon bar with its grimed windows and its ceiling treacly from the smoke of a thousand cigarettes.
    McGovern had brought with him a pallid carrot-head, a loose-limbed young man, whose over-large raincoat drooped from his shoulders.
    ‘Detective Sergeant Jarrell,’ said McGovern and then: ‘Can we make this brief? I’m off to Oxford on Monday and I have to get ready. I spoke to Moules, he agreed to have a look at the case you mentioned – the girl in the hotel. I’ve brought Jarrell along because he’ll be dealing with it.’
    Blackstone didn’t want to let on quite how pleased he was, but gratitude was certainly in order. ‘Thanks. I’m glad you persuaded him. I think you’ll find it’s worth a look. I went round to the hotel. Just to have a dekko. Maltese chap, the manager. Shifty bastard. Very cagey. And he’s got form.’
    Blackstone had done his homework. He’d trawled through his exhaustive archive of newspapers, police reports and notes collected over a decade.
    ‘He was a hanger-on to one of the Maltese gangs. Got a couple of convictions, but recently he’s been clean. You could find out more about him at your end, I’m sure. I sweet-talked his wife a bit. And she told me something I found interesting – the name of the doctor at the scene. Swann. I vaguely remember the name. Rang a bell. I haven’t had time to follow it up. But I think you should. And there was something else. I looked at the carpet at the top of the stairs. It had been tampered with. Cut to make it look as if she could have tripped, you see. Camenzuli caught me at it, nosing around. He was very suspicious. Didn’t like it at all.’
    The Scot stood up. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said drily. ‘Moules has said he will have it followed up. But there’s no guarantee he’ll make it a priority or consider reopening the case. At this stage he just wants Jarrell to have a look at it. He has other things on his mind. If we don’t turn up something quickly, it may get forgotten again.’ He added rather coldly: ‘So I hope you’re right in thinking there’s something worth the investigation.’
    Left alone with Jarrell, Blackstone eyed the young man and pulled out his packet of fags.
    ‘I don’t smoke.’
    ‘Your superior officer didn’t seem in the best of moods.’
    Jarrell smiled. ‘He’s upset about something, got things on his mind. Trip to Oxford, I shouldn’t wonder.’
    Slyly, Blackstone took his chance. ‘Could it have anything to do with his new role?’
    Jarrell’s pale, watery eyes gave nothing away.
    ‘No point in stonewalling about it. He told me himself.’
    ‘We’re going to see some changes,’ said Jarrell and smiled.

chapter 8

    M RS WILLIAM DROWNES , Regine Drownes, formerly Mrs Neville Milner, before that Mrs Smith (at least, that’s what her first husband had called himself), earlier still, Roisin and originally – but never, never mentioned – Kathleen O’Kelly: in other words the London hostess familiarly known to her friends as Reggie, took Charles’ arm as they paced the length of Longwall. She liked to be seen in the company of a