Stop Dead (DI Geraldine Steel)

there.’
    He pointed along a corridor brightly illuminated by lights placed at intervals along the walls.
    ‘Wish I could stay around to hear you give her a dressing down but my sister’s expecting me and I’ll be in hot water if I’m late. I hope you give her what for. She’s had it coming for a long time.’
    With a quick grin, he bounced down the steps and trotted away, whistling.

     
    There was no response when Geraldine rang the bell. Wondering if Ingrid was in the shower, or listening to music, she pulled out her phone to call Sam. As she did so, the door to the flat was suddenly opened by a blonde woman in steel rimmed glasses. The interior behind her was dark as she peered out, blinking into the brightly lit hall. There was a strong stench coming from the flat. It smelled like insecticide.
    ‘What do you want?’ the blonde woman asked in a low voice.
    ‘I’m looking for Ingrid Tennant.’
    ‘Ingrid? She’s my flatmate.’
    The woman took a step back, her head lowered. Her shoulders were bowed and a bedraggled fringe fell down to her eyes, brushing the top of her glasses.

     
    As Geraldine introduced herself, something warned her to be discreet. She played her interest down, claiming she just wanted to have a brief word with Ingrid concerning an ongoing enquiry.
    ‘What’s it about?’
    Ingrid’s flatmate didn’t sound very interested. She shuffled back so Geraldine couldn’t see her features, half concealed by the door. Geraldine hastened to reassure her it was nothing important. When the other woman wanted to know if it was to do with the neighbour upstairs, Geraldine gave a non-committal grunt, adding that she was unable to disclose the reason for her visit.
    ‘Do you know when Ingrid will be back?’
    The blonde woman shook her head, hesitating.
    ‘You can come in and wait if you like.’

     
    She turned and led Geraldine into a small kitchen where she pulled a three-legged stool out from underneath a work surface.
    ‘You can sit down there, while you’re waiting.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee?’
    Geraldine sat on the stool and looked around the kitchen which was small but immaculate. The worktops were clear, four matching mugs stood in a neat line next to a polished kettle, and two identical saucepans stood on the hob, their handles exactly parallel. A row of metal kitchen implements hung on pegs by the sink, beside a row of sharp knives. Geraldine checked that none of the knives was missing, even though the victims had been battered, not stabbed; it was an automatic reaction. Everything was gleaming as though the kitchen had just been scrubbed.

     
    With her back to Geraldine, the blonde woman switched on the kettle and took a carton of milk from the fridge.
    ‘How long have you shared a flat with Ingrid?’
    ‘What did you say you wanted to see her about?’ the girl answered with a question.
    Her voice was oddly flat. As she shut the fridge she turned to face Geraldine for an instant, before her eyes flitted away. Something about the situation didn’t feel right, although Geraldine couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong. She had experienced that sensation before, a feeling that she had seen or heard something significant, if she could only work out what it was.
    ‘I didn’t,’ she replied, smiling pointlessly because the woman didn’t look round.
    It was odd how Ingrid’s flatmate had invited her into the flat, although she was apparently too shy to even look at her.

     
    ‘What’s your name?’
    The woman didn’t answer. Instead she stretched out her arm to lift a large black handbag from the floor, still without turning round. Thankful that everything in the kitchen was polished and gleaming, Geraldine kept her eyes fixed on the woman’s reflection in the metal toaster, watching closely as the distorted image reached into the bag. Something moved in the reflection, glinting silver. As the woman spun round and threw herself across the room, Geraldine leaped from the stool. Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of something flashing past the side of her head to crash down on the edge of the work top. She was trapped in a cramped kitchen with a homicidal maniac. Her mind raced as she registered what the woman was wielding. A hammer. It had struck the worktop with such force it made a dent in the surface, leaving scattered dark flecks. The blow would have crushed a human skull.

     
    Ingrid brandished her weapon again as she turned