Stop Dead (DI Geraldine Steel)

a young man entered the building. They waited a few moments before hurrying across the glistening road.

     
    Tall and sturdily built, in his early twenties, Guy had a broad high forehead, dark curly hair and boyish features. He folded his bulging arms and leaned against the door frame, staring from Geraldine to Sam and back again, chewing gum and glaring like a sullen adolescent. When Geraldine introduced herself he straightened up, arms dangling, eyes downcast.
    ‘May we come in, Mr Barrett?’
    He gave an awkward shrug without meeting her eyes.
    ‘Or we can talk at the police station.’

     
    With a grunt the young man led them through an untidy kitchenette. Several empty beer bottles stood on a narrow work surface, a crusty saucepan rested on the hob beside a greasy frying pan, and a pile of plates was stacked, unwashed, beside a sink full of cutlery. One soiled tea towel was scrunched up beside the sink, another lay discarded on the floor. They passed into a cramped living room furnished with a dark red carpet, chairs too large for the space, and curtains an inch too short for the window. An unsightly crack stretched diagonally across one wall from floor to ceiling.

     
    Guy remained standing, stammering awkwardly as he answered Geraldine’s questions. To begin with, he denied knowing the widow, but his lies were clumsy and he soon abandoned the pretence.
    ‘Oh Mrs Henshaw,’ he mumbled, frowning as though he had just recognised the name, and blushing. ‘Yes, I know her. That is, we’ve met. I was on a job at her house in Hampstead last year. That’s where I met Mrs Henshaw. And Mr Henshaw. I met them both.’
    He glanced furtively at Geraldine under long thick lashes, before his eyes flicked away again.

     
    ‘Was that when your affair began? Last year?’
    ‘Affair?’
    He turned his head and spat his gum into an open bin where it stuck, glistening, on top of an empty cigarette packet.
    ‘What affair’s that then?’
    Geraldine almost felt sorry for the gauche young man. He didn’t strike her as particularly intelligent.

     
    ‘We know about your relationship with Mrs Henshaw so it’s pointless lying about it,’ Sam said firmly. ‘You’re not protecting her. It was Mrs Henshaw who gave us your name and told us about the affair.’
    Barrett drew his broad shoulders back and raised his head, his face creased in a belligerent frown. He stared at Sam. He wasn’t much younger than her but he sounded like a stroppy teenager talking to his mother.
    ‘So? What of it? It’s not a crime to be seeing a woman, is it? And I don’t see that it’s any of your business either.’
    ‘No. But it is a crime to kill someone.’
    ‘Kill someone? What are you talking about? I thought you were talking about me and Amy. Who said anything about killing anyone?’

     
    He shifted his weight awkwardly from one leg to the other and leaned back against the door frame again in a crude attempt to appear nonchalant. Geraldine studied his face closely as she told him that Mr Henshaw had been murdered. He scowled but didn’t say anything straight away. At last he raised his eyebrows in a studied expression of astonishment. Amy had presumably already told him about her husband’s death but Geraldine wondered if he had known before that. If he had been the first person to know.
    ‘Poor Amy. This is terrible.’
    He gave an exaggerated sigh.

     
    He was such a poor liar that Geraldine challenged the young man outright about his relationship with Patrick Henshaw and he glared at her suspiciously.
    ‘What relationship? What are you talking about? I only met him once, when we were doing his conservatory.’
    ‘When did you last see Patrick Henshaw?’
    ‘I told you, last year, when we had a job on there.’
    Geraldine nodded.
    ‘Fine. Now we’d like you to come along to the police station to make a statement –’
    ‘What for? What sort of statement?’
    He narrowed his eyes and took a step backwards.
    ‘You think I did it, don’t you? I’m sleeping with his wife so it had to be me that killed him. Is that it? That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard so you can get lost with your stupid stereotypes. You haven’t got a shred of evidence.’

     
    He took a step backwards.
    ‘Are you refusing to come to the station?’
    ‘What if I am?’
    ‘I suggest you come voluntarily, so we can eliminate you from our enquiries.’
    ‘Do I have any choice?’
    ‘Not if you’re going to be sensible. Now come