Stop Dead (DI Geraldine Steel)

some urgency about questioning his widow further so Geraldine returned to the large house in Hampstead later that afternoon. This time Amy was at home. The polished white door opened at once, as though she had been expecting a caller, an impression reinforced by her evident disappointment on seeing Geraldine.
    ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Henshaw. I’d like to ask you a few more questions and then we’d like to take a routine DNA sample.’

     
    When Amy expressed surprise, Geraldine explained that traces of a woman’s DNA had been found on her husband’s body.
    ‘A woman’s DNA?’
    She sounded puzzled.
    ‘Yes. I appreciate this must be very difficult for you, but we do need to ascertain whether the DNA belonged to you or another woman was involved.’
    ‘Another woman?’ Amy echoed. Her expression hardened. ‘It was Stella Hallett, wasn’t it? I hope you lock the bloody cow up and throw away the key.’
    ‘What makes you think she’s responsible?’
    ‘Isn’t it obvious? With nearly a million pounds to gain, anyone would-’ She broke off, realising what she was saying. ‘Come on then, let’s get this over with. Do whatever you have to do.’
    She turned and led the way to the back of the house.
    Geraldine glanced admiringly around a spacious kitchen, elegantly appointed. A huge square picture window overlooked a series of narrow terraced gardens which led down to a row of trees.
    ‘What a lovely view.’
    ‘Patrick did the garden,’ Amy said curtly as she perched on a padded kitchen chair holding herself stiffly upright.

     
    ‘Where were you on Sunday night?’
    ‘Here.’
    A dark red flush rose from Amy’s throat to her cheeks.
    ‘Were you here all evening?’
    ‘Yes … er …’
    Amy fell silent.
    ‘Mrs Henshaw?’
    ‘Well, I might’ve gone out briefly – to post a letter –’
    Amy gazed helplessly around the immaculate kitchen. Once again, Geraldine was sure the widow was lying. She gave her an encouraging smile.
    ‘That’s fine. The post mark will confirm what you’ve told me. Which letter box did you use, and who was the letter addressed to?’
    ‘No – I mean, I could be wrong. I’m so confused right now. It might not have been Sunday. I can’t remember. I really can’t remember.’

     
    Geraldine read aloud from the notes she had taken down, careful not to betray any hint of the scepticism she was feeling.
    ‘So you were here at home on Sunday evening. You might have gone out to post a letter, but if you did you returned home straight away and didn’t go out again, is that right?’
    Amy nodded.
    ‘Is there anyone who can confirm you were here all night?’
    ‘No. I told you, Patrick didn’t come home. I was here on my own.’
    Her worried expression cleared.
    ‘I tell you what, my cleaning lady came round first thing Monday morning. She’ll tell you I was here. Ask Christina.’
    Geraldine didn’t reveal that she had already spoken to the cleaning lady.

     
    ‘Tell me about your affair,’ Geraldine hazarded, impatient to move things on.
    ‘Affair?’
    Amy arched her eyebrows with an expression of surprise that was also wary.
    ‘What affair?’
    ‘We know you’re having an affair with a young man,’ Geraldine said softly. ‘It’s no use pretending otherwise. And it’s not clever to lie about it, not when we’re investigating a murder. It’s better not to keep secrets at a time like this.’

     
    Amy rose to her feet, agitated. Her shoulders slumped forward but her eyes were defiant.
    ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know what you’re implying, but it seems you’ve been listening to some silly gossip. Who have you been speaking to? Where did you get hold of this ridiculous idea?’ She paused, gulping to catch her breath. ‘I loved my husband. Patrick was everything to me.’
    There was no mistaking the genuine emotion in Amy’s voice. At the same time, there was no way of knowing whether it was driven by grief for her husband or fear of discovery that she had been implicated in his death.

     
    In the face of Amy’s consternation, Geraldine wondered whether Christina had been telling the truth. It was feasible her account had been mistaken, or malicious.
    ‘Mrs Henshaw, please sit down. Good. Now, you were having an affair, that much we know.’
    She hoped it wasn’t a false accusation.
    ‘It would be far better for you if you simply tell me what I need to know. Adultery isn’t a crime. I really don’t