Stop Dead (DI Geraldine Steel)

there. It was a crap gig. You wouldn’t think it, would you?’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘It’s such a posh place.’
    She turned to Sam with a sudden awakening of interest.
    ‘Why do you want to know?’
    ‘What can you tell me about Patrick Henshaw?’
    ‘Nothing. I told you, I never met him. Jed paid me.’
    ‘Did you speak to anyone else there?’
    ‘I can’t remember. There was a fat chef who shouted a lot, and that’s all I know.’
    ‘Who did he shout at? Was there an argument?’
    The girl stared blankly at her.
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘Can you remember anything he said?’
    ‘It was just a load of yelling in the kitchen – zis is no good, zat is no good, that kind of thing. I didn’t hear much. I think he fancied himself as a sort of Gordon Ramsay. But the food was crap.’

     
    She pulled a face, screwing up her long nose.
    ‘I’ve no idea why anyone would pay so much to eat there. Anyway, I’ve got to do another set.’
    She turned away.
    ‘If you think of anything that might help us, here’s my card. You can give me a ring.’
    ‘Help you with what?’
    Sam hesitated. There was no reason why Ingrid should have heard about Patrick Henshaw’s death, especially as she had never met him. Briefly, she explained the reason for her questions.
    ‘Murdered?’ the singer repeated. ‘Bloody hell. And you’re trying to find out who did it, right?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Bloody hell, murdered,’ Ingrid repeated. ‘That’s awful. Look, I’d like to help you, but I never met the guy and I wouldn’t have a clue who his enemies were. Isn’t it usually the wife?’
    With a casual shrug she turned away.

     
    Sam felt a flicker of envy. She wished she could turn away from the image of Patrick Henshaw on the slab at the morgue so easily. Much as she loved her job, and could never imagine doing anything else, it was hard. Every time she heard the phrase, ‘I’d like to help you –’ she experienced the same stabbing disappointment. Finding murderers mattered, yet other people shrugged off her questioning without a second thought. Ingrid probably wouldn’t even keep her card. Wretchedly Sam watched the singer disappear back into the café. Before she went down into the station she dashed off a quick email to Geraldine.
    ‘Wasted journey. Singer Ingrid never met Henshaw.’
    As the train jolted and rattled underground, Ingrid’s final throwaway remark lingered in her thoughts.
    ‘Isn’t it usually the wife?’

CHAPTER 38
     
    I t was time-consuming, co-ordinating the follow up investigation of all the staff who worked at Mireille. A team of constables had been occupied all day questioning every member of staff again, tracing travel cards, scrutinising CCTV film footage, and checking alibis. Only the chef, the manager and two waiters had been working on both evenings when the murders had been committed. All the other members of staff had alibis for one or other of the evenings. That reduced the police workload considerably. While it was feasible that the chef, the manager or one of the waiters who had been working both evenings could be guilty, it was difficult to see what possible motive any of them could have had. None of them stood to gain from the double murder. They appeared to have no contact with their former bosses outside work and, far from benefiting, would probably all lose their jobs as a consequence of the deaths of the restaurant owners.

     
    Sitting over a coffee that evening, Geraldine thought about Amy and Guy. It was fairly obvious what had brought them together in a relationship that was unlikely to last. Without the excitement of clandestine meetings they would soon tire of each other. Not clever enough to realise that Amy had levelled her accusation in retaliation, in the belief that he had deserted her, Guy would eventually work out what had happened. The two lovers might even discuss it, and clear the air together. But in the meantime Geraldine couldn’t help feeling a twinge of pity for the young man. He was scarcely more than a boy, and had seemed genuinely distraught. She wondered if there might have been any substance in either of their accusations; having retracted the alibi she had given Guy, Amy had made herself a suspect as well.

     
    Back at her desk she was flicking through her expenses when her phone rang. She felt the breath catch at the back of her throat when she heard Miles Fellows’ voice announce that he was calling from the forensic lab. This could be it,