Stop Dead (DI Geraldine Steel)

reason.’

     
    Guy’s theory made as much sense as Amy’s. Some love affair, Geraldine thought, as she mused over how quickly they had switched from giving one another an alibi to accusing each other of committing an evil double murder.

CHAPTER 37
     
    S am wasn’t surprised when Geraldine admitted to feeling under the weather. She looked exhausted. For once she readily accepted Sam’s offer to go to Westfield shopping centre to track down the girl who had been singing at Mireille the night Corless was killed.
    ‘Are you sure you can trust me to go by myself?’ Sam asked, with a grin.
    She had warned Geraldine in the past of her reputation for refusing to delegate tasks. They both knew the singer was unlikely to add to their knowledge of what had happened the night of the murder. Nevertheless, Sam was gratified that Geraldine trusted her enough to allow her to work alone. Any witness might provide vital information, however far removed from the action they were.

     
    The centre was buzzing with people chattering, loaded with carrier bags, as Sam made her way past a row of shop fronts and up an escalator to the café. Stepping inside the beige interior, she saw a grand piano on a raised platform along one wall. Behind it a cream curtain hung from ceiling to floor, forming an elegant backdrop to the performance space where a girl was perched on a stool, playing the piano and crooning softly into a microphone. Her dark hair accentuated the pallor of her skin. She was slim, with thin lips and glittery make-up on her eyes whose colour was impossible to determine from several yards away. Sam stood by the door for a few moments, listening to the singing float across the room in sporadic bursts. Low notes were indistinguishable from the general chatter above which high notes hovered with a haunting quality. A few young women were sitting at a table nearby, drinking cocktails. Their easy laughter drowned out the sad music. Sam caught a few words of the lament: ‘sad… lonely… lost.’ They seemed to suit the girl’s mournful expression. For some reason, the melancholy lyrics reminded Sam of Geraldine.

     
    Conscious of her responsibility, Sam crossed the room to sit on a high stool at the bar where she ordered a soft drink, so she could engage the barman in conversation.
    ‘I see you’ve got a singer in,’ she said as the young man set her glass down on the gleaming beige top.
    One of the benefits of her cropped spiky white blonde hair was that people rarely spotted she was a police officer. She didn’t mind the public stereotyping her profession. It worked in her favour.
    ‘Yes, that’s Ingrid. She’s here most weeks,’ the barman replied readily, leaning his elbows on the gleaming bar to chat. ‘We get some great bands in at the weekends, if you’re interested. There should be a few flyers on the tables, or you can always check the website to see what’s going on. We’re the only café that has live music every night of the week at Westfield.’

     
    Ingrid came to the end of a song and slipped off her stool. Most of the customers paid no attention. Only one elderly man seated beside the stage applauded feebly, nodding his head with a toothless grin. Taped music began to play loudly. Sam stepped across to intercept the singer as she stepped off the podium.
    ‘Nice,’ Sam said vaguely. ‘Do you write your own songs?’
    ‘Some of them,’ the singer paused, before adding, ‘I’m glad you liked it.’

     
    Now she had the singer’s attention, Sam introduced herself. The girl’s expression didn’t alter on hearing she was talking to a police officer.
    ‘What do you want with me?’
    Sam suggested they step outside for a moment.
    ‘Well – I’m on a break but I need to get back soon.’
    ‘This won’t take long. And I’d prefer not to have to shout.’
    They found a bench in the shopping centre and sat down.
    ‘How well did you know Patrick Henshaw?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Patrick Henshaw. He owned the restaurant Mireille. You sang there recently.’
    The singer’s face remained impassive. She looked bored.
    ‘I never met him.’

     
    Her gaze drifted past Sam to stare vacantly past her shoulder, as though she was watching for someone. Close up Sam saw that her eyes were green, and her dark hair had a reddish sheen that was probably dye.
    ‘You sang at Mireille recently.’
    ‘Yes. But I don’t know the owner. I dealt with the manager. His name’s Jed. You can ask him. I was