threw an A–Z street map onto her lap, which she thought was rather rude of him.
‘Christ, I hate death notices, but you gotta do what you gotta do. I guarantee it won’t be pleasant, never is. When we get there, you stay quiet, but if the mother has a meltdown take her to the kitchen, or wherever, so I can chat to the father in private. Right, which way?’ he snapped as he started the engine and reversed out of the parking bay. He was such a big man his shoulder almost touched hers when he changed gear and drove out of the yard at speed.
Jane had her notebook open beside the A–Z. ‘Dalston Lane, Balls Pond Road, Holloway Road, Archway Road and er . . . it’s off Aylmer Road.’
‘Good knowledge. You must be a London girl.’
‘Maida Vale, sir.’
‘Posh place,’ he remarked.
It was a nerve-wracking drive as Bradfield hurtled down the streets and swore profusely at every red light. The rain was still pouring down, making it difficult for Jane to see the road signs and street names through the windscreen wipers. The car didn’t have ‘blues and twos’, just a tinny-sounding bell, which she had to keep pressing so they could get through the heavy traffic and red lights. Clinging on to the handle of her passenger door she found it hard to concentrate enough to locate their destination, and now it was dark she had to use her pocket torch to see the street map.
‘Are we on the right bloody road?’ he asked impatiently.
‘Yes, sir, left here into Winnington Road, then right, and the address is the next left . . . Oh sorry, it was first right you wanted.’
‘Jesus Christ, get it together.’ Jane took a deep breath and tried not to react to Bradfield’s brash manner.
‘Sorry, sir, it was the first right.’
Bradfield did a fast three-point turn and at last they found Church Mount. He slowed his pace as they approached number 48 and peered from the car window.
He jerked on the handbrake. ‘Looks very upmarket . . . if I’ve been given the wrong fucking address somebody’s head is going to roll.’
He got out of the car then leaned back in, clicking his fingers.
‘Envelope . . . back seat, grab it for me.’
Whilst reaching over to the back seat Jane felt the ladder in her tights split open even further. She got out and hurried to join the DCI as he walked up the path, lighting the way with her pocket torch. Bradfield coughed repeatedly and straightened his tie before taking a deep breath and ringing the doorbell. There was the sound of a dog barking from somewhere in the house. He waited briefly and then rang the bell again. Lights came on in the hall, and through one of the glass panels beside the front door a man peered out.
Bradfield already had his black warrant card in his hand and held it up. The door was unlocked and opened by a tall, hawk-nosed man, his thinning hair standing up on end.
‘Mr Collins?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good evening. I’m DCI Leonard Bradfield and this is WPC Tennison. Do you mind if we come in, sir?’
The door opened wider, revealing Mr Collins wearing pyjamas under a thick dressing gown, and slippers.
‘What is this about?’
‘Is there somewhere we can sit down and talk, sir?’
George Collins closed the front door behind them, as a pale-faced woman, also wearing nightclothes and with her hair in clips, came from the lounge.
‘What is it? Has another house been broken into?’
As they were led into the comfortable living room Jane kept tugging at the hem of her skirt. Mr Collins sat with his wife on the sofa and Bradfield sat on the armchair opposite. Jane remained standing to one side; she could see the Collinses looking very confused.
On a piano was a large photograph of a smiling, innocent-looking girl, aged about fifteen. She had glorious blonde wavy hair and wide blue eyes. With a jolt of recognition, Jane could see similarities to the murdered girl in the Polaroid pictures, although the photograph on the piano had obviously been taken before Julie
Leslie Charteris, David Case