Stop Dead (DI Geraldine Steel)

thanked the forensic scientist and asked to be informed as soon as they had an identity from the DNA provided by the hairs.

     
    Stella Hallett was a dumpy little woman in her thirties. With mousy hair that fell to her shoulders and a plump figure, she was an unlikely choice of mistress for the husband of glamorous Amy Henshaw – which had been Geraldine’s first suspicion on hearing the terms of the will. Looking at her, Geraldine thought Stella was more likely to be a relative; Henshaw’s younger sister or a daughter, perhaps. Yet a woman with brown hair had been lying on the passenger seat of Henshaw’s car not long before he died, and Stella’s hair was brown.

     
    Stella was the first person to express any grief on hearing about Henshaw’s death. Visibly shocked, her face lost its colour and she clutched at the door frame as though in need of support.
    ‘Patrick’s dead?’ she repeated several times.
    Geraldine waited for her to absorb the news that Henshaw had been murdered.
    ‘I’m afraid so. I’m here to ask you a few questions, Stella. Shall we go inside and sit down?’
    ‘Yes, please come in. But how did you find me?’
    Geraldine didn’t answer. She didn’t yet know if Stella had known about Henshaw’s will. If she had, that might provide a motive for wanting him dead.

     
    When they were settled in Stella’s tidy but threadbare living room, she dissolved in tears again, hiccupping and snuffling into a large tissue.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ she stuttered, ‘it‘s just such a shock. I had no idea anything had happened to him. I haven’t seen him for five years.’
    Geraldine sat back in her chair and waited for the other woman to regain her composure. She couldn’t help thinking Stella’s grief was a disproportionate reaction from someone who hadn’t seen the dead man for so long. And Stella had dark hair.

     
    In a calf length brown skirt, cream shirt and beige jumper, Stella looked dull, although her clothes were clean and neat. Her skirt wasn’t creased and her shirt must have been starched, the points of the collar were so perfectly symmetrical. Her flat was equally spick and span, with shelves gleaming as though they had just been polished. Gazing around, Geraldine recognised a younger Patrick Henshaw in a framed photograph on a shelf. Turning her head, she saw another similar framed photograph hanging on the wall. It took her a few seconds to realise the slim woman smiling at his side in both pictures was Stella. It seemed strange that she would have photographs of Patrick displayed in her living room, if she and Patrick were no longer seeing one another.

     
    ‘Yes, that’s me,’ Stella admitted with a shy grin, following the direction of Geraldine’s gaze. ‘I’ve let myself go a bit since that was taken!’
    Her eyes watered again.
    ‘Tell me about your relationship with Patrick,’ Geraldine said gently.
    ‘Like I said, I haven’t seen him for five years. We were together for two years and of course I knew all along he was married. I knew he’d never leave her for me, really, although I still hoped. You do, don’t you? When you love someone. I never stopped hoping until – until now –’
    She broke off, her voice wavering, her face creased in an effort to control her sobbing.
    ‘There’s never been anyone else –’

     
    Stella was convincing, but Geraldine had to question whether there was something strange about her extreme attachment to Henshaw. If they had been apart for so long, it seemed unlikely he would still be the man in her life, the one whose photographs she wanted to see every day in her living room. On the other hand, why would she lie about it, unless she wanted to distance herself from his death? That would suggest she had been involved in his murder..

     
    ‘How did you meet?’ Geraldine asked.
    ‘We met about eight years ago. I was his personal assistant then. That’s how we met, at work. He was married so I never wanted anything to happen between us, but somehow –’
    She shrugged.
    ‘But I’m not sorry,’ she added, her voice rising with a flash of spirit. ‘I knew he was married when I met him, but once we started seeing each other I didn’t care about that any more. And I wanted him to leave her, I actually prayed their marriage would fall apart. Was that so terrible? He wasn’t happy with her and I knew I could make him happy. I wanted to be the other woman, the marriage wrecker – only it never happened. She was so