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The sculptures of literature and justice, carved into the stone above the arched doorway, stared down at Paul as he entered the Courier building by the staff entrance on Meadowside. With its russet-coloured stonework and arched windows, the impressive, five-storey structure looked more like a museum or fancy hotel than a newspaper office. He reckoned no other newspaper in Britain could boast an office equal to this. The building had only been completed two years before and contained all the modern facilities it was possible to have. According to the other reporters, it was far superior to the old offices in North Lindsay Street.
The glass-panelled door swung closed behind him and he strode across the vestibule to the lift. Seconds later, he stepped out of it at the fourth-floor newsroom and hurried over to his desk. The desks were laid out in rows of two, so the reporters faced each other. It could be distracting but, if you were in luck, the reporter opposite might be out on a story. Paul was out of luck today. Old Angus – Paul had never heard him called anything else – looked up with a brief nod before returning his scrutiny to the copy in front of him, over which he made tutting noises as he scribbled corrections.
Paul slumped into his chair, grabbed a pencil and started to compose his copy for tomorrow’s paper. He paid no attention when old Angus got up and padded off in the direction of the editor’s office.
Several minutes later, the man returned waving his article.
‘Duncan’s in a good mood today. He gave the go-ahead, so it’ll be in tomorrow.’
‘Congratulations.’ Paul suppressed his annoyance at the interruption. ‘Maybe he’ll like mine for a change.’
Angus rolled the paper and stuffed it into a container for the pneumatic tube to whisk up to the case room on the fifth floor.
‘I’m off now. Good luck.’
Five minutes later, Paul sat back, a satisfied smile on his face. This was one of the best news stories he’d worked on this year and he was sure he could expand on it. Tomorrow, he’d follow it up by interviewing the suffragettes.
He whistled under his breath as he sought out the editor. There was no way Duncan could refuse to print this.
* * *
MARTHA’S FOOTSTEPS slowed as she drew near Elizabeth’s house on Perth Road. There was no easy way to inform her of Victoria’s death. She hesitated on the doorstep for a moment before summoning the courage to knock. The door swung open so fast Martha suspected Elizabeth must have been hovering nearby, waiting for the delivery of bad news or for Victoria to return home.
‘Have you found Victoria?’ Elizabeth’s eyes moved to look over Martha’s shoulder as if she expected her sister to be behind her.
‘I’m sorry,’ Martha said. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’ Elizabeth opened the door wider. ‘Where are my manners?’ She led the way up the corridor to the small living-room.
‘Who is it, Lizzie?’ The man sitting in the armchair looked up with an expectant look in his eyes. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s one of them. I suppose you’ve come to tell us that Victoria’s off gallivanting in London. Damned suffragettes can’t stay home for two minutes.’ He spat in the empty fireplace.
‘My husband, Davie. I don’t think you’ve met him before. Pay no heed to him, he’s got a bee in his bonnet about suffragettes. Him and Victoria used to have loads of arguments, but it made no difference to her beliefs.’
‘Load of codswallop,’ the man said, snorting.
‘There’s no need for that kind of talk, Davie.’ Elizabeth scowled at him. ‘Martha is as concerned as we are about Victoria.’ She turned back to their guest. ‘Have you found her?’
Martha’s hand tightened on her reticule. This was more difficult than she had imagined. They were looking for good news and all she had to impart was bad.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘She’s dead.’ The light faded from Elizabeth’s eyes and her voice held no emotion.
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘We found her body in the Howff. I don’t know how she died, but someone killed her.’
Tears slipped down Elizabeth’s cheeks and Martha grasped her hands.
‘I expect the police will be along to visit you at some point, but I wanted you to hear it from me first.’
‘Thank you,’ Elizabeth mumbled.
‘I always said no good would come from her mixing with suffragettes.’
‘Oh, shut up, Davie! What do you know about it?’
A feeling of impotence crept through Martha. It was time to leave Elizabeth to her grief, though she wasn’t sure Davie shared it.
‘I’ll leave now,’ she said. ‘If you need me, you know where to find me.’
* * *
INSPECTOR HAMMOND PACED back and forth on the cobbled path, waiting for the police doctor to finish his examination. His nose twitched, and he held a handkerchief to it in an effort to block out the stench. The smell of death was something he tolerated, but never got used to, and this one was fouler than usual.
Dr Jenkins emerged from the bushes at the side of the path.
‘You don’t need me to tell you she’s dead,’ he said. ‘Been there several days, I’d say. They go off quick in this hot weather. She’s not a pretty sight.’
‘Can you identify how she died?’ Hammond removed the handkerchief from his nose and tried not to breathe too deeply.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
‘Not at this stage. I’ll know more when I examine her.’
‘I don’t suppose it could be accidental?’
Jenkins laughed.
‘Not a hope,’ he said. ‘By the way, she’s wearing a suffragette sash, bit like the other one you put my way this week.’
‘Damned suffragettes,’ Hammond responded. ‘If they would just stay at home where they should be, it would save us a lot of work.’
‘Not much chance of that.’ Jenkins laughed again and walked away from the inspector. ‘I’ll let Davvy know he can collect the body now – I see him waiting at the gate.’
Hammond grunted. He couldn’t bring himself to thank the man.
Davvy trundled towards him, pushing the coffin-shaped barrow. The man never minded what condition a body was in when he removed it. Hammond reckoned he’d be lucky to get this one in the barrow in one piece.
The buzzing of the bluebottles increased and the stench intensified as Davvy got to work. Hammond clasped the handkerchief over his nose again. He’d be thankful when this was over.
After what seemed an age, Davvy closed the lid of the barrow and fastened the lock. With a grunt, he hoisted the shafts up and, grasping them, he set off for the mortuary. The wheels clattered over the cobbles and Hammond waited until the noise faded into the distance before calling to the constables standing guard at the gate.
‘Buchan, McDonald – I want you to search the ground where the body was lying and the area surrounding it.’
‘What are we looking for, Inspector?’
‘Clues, man. Anything the killer may have left behind, anything that might point to who he is.’
As Hammond left the graveyard, he chuckled to himself. The expression on the bobbies’ faces had been priceless.