Stop Dead (DI Geraldine Steel)

Harrison.
    ‘Not sure where you’re going with this, Geraldine. Just because her aunt’s a convicted killer, that doesn’t make her a suspect. I’m not sure what your point is.’
    He sounded tired and leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed as she explained her suspicion that the DNA found on Patrick might have come from Linda’s niece.

     
    ‘Oh, I see. Very well, of course you must follow it up in that case,’ he told her, opening his eyes and sitting upright. He glanced at his watch.
    ‘Reg you have to admit –’
    ‘Yes, yes, I said follow it up, Geraldine.’
    Narked by his apathetic response she left the office, her enthusiasm dampened. She was on her way back to her desk when a sergeant stopped her. A constable had come across a boy he thought might have encountered the killer. It sounded like a long shot, but they had to follow it up. The most unlikely of possibilities sometimes turned out to be invaluable.

     
    She went back to her office and was about to summon Sam when her phone rang. The intelligence unit had come up with an address for a singer called Ingrid Tennant.
    ‘What are the chances it’s her?’ Geraldine asked.
    ‘Oh, it’s her alright. We checked it out with the pubs and restaurants where she sings. Most of them were pretty cagey – no doubt paying her cash from takings on the side – but a few of them came up with the same mobile number and it checks out. She’s renting a flat from a Mr Delaney. I’ve just sent you all the details.’
    Geraldine thanked her colleague and hung up, checking her screen as she did so. A second later the details came through.
    ‘Bingo,’ she muttered.

     
    Sending her sergeant to speak to the constable who had interviewed the boy, Geraldine decided to proceed to Bounds Green and check out the singer’s address. Without a DNA sample from Ingrid Tennant, the evidence was circumstantial. The girl had performed at Mireille on the evening when Henshaw was killed, and may have been there when Corless died too, but that was inconclusive, as she often sang there. Apart from that, there was nothing to link her to the other two murder victims.
    ‘You’ve found out nothing at all about her earlier life?’ Geraldine asked. ‘There must be something, surely.’
    The intelligence officer just smiled and shook her head.
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘Isn’t that a bit unusual? I mean, doesn’t that suggest there’s something dodgy about her?’
    ‘Oh, we’ll dig something up, sooner or later. Do you want us to ask around? Although you’ll have to sort out the man power.’
    Geraldine shook her head.
    ‘No, don’t worry, you’ve got her address. That’s good enough. We can ask her to tell us what she’s been up to.’

     
    The address she had been given was only a short walk from the station but she would have to take the Northern line into Kings Cross and change to the Piccadilly line out to Bounds Green so she decided to drive to the dingy street of terraced properties where Ingrid lived. Climbing a few stone steps to the front door she rang the unnamed bell for 26a. There was no answer. She rang again then knocked loudly several times until she heard footsteps approach. The door swung open to reveal a short stout man in his fifties, wheezing from the exertion of running downstairs, his bald head emphasising his ruddy complexion and bulging eyes.
    ‘What’s all the racket?’ he demanded.

     
    Geraldine introduced herself and explained she was looking for the woman who lived at flat number 26a. As soon as she mentioned her business his stance altered. No longer posturing belligerently, he ducked his head in an obsequious gesture, his expression suddenly craven. He blinked up at her with eyes almost closed by creases of flesh that threatened to envelop them.
    ‘It’s about time you lot turned up,’ he declared. ‘One blinking constable, that’s all I’ve ever seen, and he didn’t do anything, just took down a few details, and that was the end of it. I never heard anything more. I’ve been calling you for months.’
    ‘I’m sorry, calling about what?’

     
    ‘The woman at 26a. The one who lives downstairs. It’s about time someone started to take this seriously.’
    Ingrid’s neighbour laboured his point, but what it boiled down to was that her singing irritated him. His face turned a deeper shade of red as he worked himself up into a temper.
    ‘All the bloody time,’ he fumed, ‘she’s at it all the bloody time with her