Blood Will Have Blood by Oliver Davies

Author:Oliver Davies [Davies, Oliver]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-07-16T23:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

MILLS

When we eventually got round to our late lunch, we stopped at a little restaurant on our way back into the city. We ate quickly and without much conversation, as both of us were still deep in thought over the case. Over how little we knew about it. I had hoped that by learning more about Malcolm Littlefield, we’d be pointed in the right direction, but nothing seemed to go anywhere. Not his finances, not his business, none of the other usual obvious lines of enquiry.

Malcolm Littlefield’s life appeared normal, a little dull, and uneventful. Why was his death anything but? What had happened? Who had he wronged or insulted? Why had someone done such a thing to him? We didn’t seem to be anything close to an answer, and the horrible, hopeless feeling hanging over me was enough to make me want to whack my head against the wall.

We got back to the station and headed upstairs, where we went straight to Sharp’s office. I always preferred going to her than having her track us down, and right now, I was keen to see if she could offer her own perspective on it all.

Her door was open, and we found her pacing as she listened to someone on the phone. I hovered in the doorway, knocking lightly, and she turned and waved us in. We sat down quietly, waiting for her to finish her phone call.

“I’m going to have cut you off now, Morton,” she said. “Something important has come up. Will do. Alright, bye-bye.” She hung up and dropped her phone on her desk with a sigh, then she dropped into her chair. “He might just be the most boring man in England.”

“What was that all about?” Fry asked.

“Budgets,” Sharp said with a grimace. She sat forward, rested her chin on her hands, and looked at us. “How’s your homicide going?”

“Not great,” I answered truthfully.

“Close the door, Fry,” Sharp instructed. Fry hopped to her feet, pushed the door shut, and then sat back down. “Run it through with me,” Sharp said.

“The victim is Malcolm Littlefield,” I told her. “A baker who was found was killed a few miles out from his village. He was beaten to death with something wooden, but we don’t know what yet. He was terminal, with only six months left to live, and lived with his daughter, Penelope.”

I finished speaking, and Sharp looked at me for a moment, then she blinked.

“That’s all?”

“Yep. Every possible lead we find fizzles out into nothing.”

Sharp exhaled slowly and leant back in her chair. “He was dying?”

“He was.”

“How were his finances?”

“Not the best, but there’s no sign of anything suspicious going on there,” I answered. “No strange deposits or anything, and his accountant seems like a good man.”

Sharp drummed her fingers on her desk. “What about his family? All good there?”

“His wife died years ago,” Fry told her. “He only had his daughter, and they were close. When he got sick, she returned to the village after graduating to help him run the bakery and look after him.

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