“So you’re sure that’s the place where it happened?” Gladys asked.
Despite her limp being noticeably less apparent she had still insisted on putting up her leg on one of Cynthia’s spare kitchen chairs. She’s milking it for all it’s worth, was Cynthia’s initial peevish thought before galloping along behind came the real sense of pride in her friend’s achievement in having her article published. It was an achievement which had been recognised that very morning by a speech from the operational head of the Village in the main hall to coincide with Monday morning coffee time. She also had her own sense of satisfaction at the mention she’d received for her photograph of Shamira Iqbal and had been content to play second fiddle in the knowledge that her piece of fame wouldn’t have come along without Gladys’s expertise. The taskforce meeting had had to be delayed until after the speech had taken place and the smattering of applause which concluded it had died away.
“As sure as we can be,” George answered. He had been more than a little nettled by the eulogising address in the main hall, which was in his view completely unnecessary, had dragged on for far too long and had upset his plan for the day. “After we finish here I’m meeting Andy Croft and I’ll hand over the envelope with the samples from the door frame in it so that they can be tested.”
“To see if they’re blood and, if so, whose blood?”
“That’s right.” George went on to explain as patiently as he could all the advances that had been made in DNA testing over recent years and how even small samples could yield up important secrets.
“So the theory is what exactly?” Gladys was back in full schoolmistress mode. “The murder took place somewhere in that house…”
George moved in quickly to cut her off. “It took place in the house, the body was dragged into the garage, catching on the door frame where some blood scraped off, it was bagged up in the garage and Metz and his partner were detailed to pick it up. When you’ve seen the location it’s easy to realise why it stuck in Metz’s mind. The space was really too tight to fit in a garage. It was done in the only way it could be, with the result that it would be fiendishly awkward to back a car of any size in there without bashing it either on the garden wall or the wall of the house. Having accomplished that task and picked up the body bag they then set off to meet Charlie Willis, and the rest we know.”
Gladys opened her mouth and Cynthia sensed another question brewing. She could also sense that George was becoming increasingly peppery and a full-scale blast at Gladys couldn’t be ruled out. She coughed and stepped in rapidly. “The next stage in the jigsaw is to try to find out who was living in the house at the time. I decided that rather than contacting the letting agents I’d have a go at Companies House to get some info about them. That was useful because I found out they only took over the running of 125 Brayfield Road three years ago so they’re of no use to us going back any further. The Companies House entry said they took over from a company called SR Letting. After that I had a piece of luck. I looked for an entry in that name and fortunately it hadn’t been taken down, even though the company is no longer trading. The main shareholder was a person called Sarah Richardson, hence the name of the company. And we have her address.”
She placed printouts she’d taken in front of her two taskforce colleagues. “Hinkfield Hall,” George read out, “somewhere in the middle of Oxfordshire.” He looked up from the paperwork directly at Cynthia. “You’ve done very well here,” he commented.
Cynthia felt her face glow pink for the second time that morning, the first time having been in the main hall.
“What do we do now?” Gladys wasn’t quite finished with the chalk and the blackboard duster. Cynthia could just imagine the serried rows of pupils watching her.
“Well,” George took up the baton again, “we have to find out how far back SR Letting controlled the property. If that period extends to the dates we’re interested in, do they still have records? If we contact this lady direct out of the blue, so to speak, even if the records exist, would she tell us or fall back on data protection?”
“An ex-chief superintendent should add extra weight,” Cynthia suggested.
“Maybe—or we hand it over to the police and let them do it for us. I’ll take this to Andy as well, if you both agree.” There was no hint of disagreement. George checked his watch. “Good—now we’ve got that settled, I’m late. I’ll see you both anon.”