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fingertips.
    ‘There’s a receipt in here dated this evening,’ he said, looking up at her from his position bent over the table. ‘You’re some sort of fucking genius. You should do
this for a living.’
    ‘I’m thinking about it,’ she said, moving away from the kitchen area to the short hallway leading to the other rooms. ‘These rooms have been given a quick look-over by
the PC on the door but I’m going to move into the bedrooms now. Apparently one’s a bit odd.’
    Harry turned towards the direction of Joanna’s voice although there was now a wall separating them. He thought about following her but figured he would only get in the way and had seen all
that he needed to for now.
    Curiosity took him towards the television and the shelf of DVDs next to it. Harry had spent many years on child protection teams when he was a detective constable and had a bet with himself that
somewhere in the flat he would find a box set of Star Trek episodes.
    He nodded his head with a sense of satisfaction as he stood in front of the shelf where a box set of DVDs sat beside another containing the latest collection of the series.
    ‘What is it with nonces and Star Trek ?’ he said to himself, interrupted by Joanna’s voice coming from the direction of the bedrooms.
    ‘Is it right that this bloke lived alone?’
    ‘Yeah,’ he shouted back. ‘Why?’
    ‘Then I can only think of one reason why he’s got this stuff in here.’
    Harry wondered what new depths of depravity his day was going to take him to as he walked the short distance to join Joanna beside the bedroom door.
    ‘Then he really was a totally sick person,’ said the CSI as she pushed the door open for Harry to get a better look.
    All Harry could find to say was, ‘For fucking fuck’s sake.’

Chapter 9
    Any Friday night without either a performance of the East Rise Players or a rehearsal found Eric Samuels sitting in his study, brandy in hand, stressing over budgets, casting
or ticket sales. Guy Fawkes Night was no exception as far as the worrying was concerned, but this time, although it was to do with the amateur dramatic society he had been a part of for over thirty
years, chairman of for sixteen of them, what was on his mind was a meeting he had called and the fall-out from it.
    Previously, two young detectives had come to see him and asked to speak to him in private, giving an even greater air of mystery to their unannounced arrival. The only times he had ever had
occasion to deal with the police were when his house was broken into and when he was stopped for not wearing a seat belt, admonished and sent on his way. That had been that.
    To see police at his door had been worrying, but then slightly thrilling when he realized that death messages were delivered by uniform officers. It surely couldn’t be about anything that
bad, he’d reasoned, whatever it was.
    It merely went to show how wrong he could be.
    He had just applied on behalf of the East Rise Players for Lottery funding. They wouldn’t want to know now. He’d had a dream that if they could secure funding for their own premises
to rehearse and store their costumes, they wouldn’t have to make do with cupboards at the back of the village hall or under the stage and they’d have their own base to work from. That
way they’d go on to bigger and better things.
    Eric had been delighted to welcome any new member and had even approached the local schools to see if they had any up-and-coming performers.
    He nursed his temples with his free hand and swilled the brandy with the other.
    He realized that not only would he have some explaining to do as far as the schools went – angry parents wanting to know exactly what checks were carried out on cast and production-team
members – but also he’d have to call an immediate halt to unsupervised get-togethers in members’ houses. He wasn’t at all sure the Players would survive.
    All this was a mere bagatelle in comparison to the