Close Disharmony by PJ Quinn

Author:PJ Quinn [Quinn, PJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Stairwell Books

Chapter Seventeen

Pausing at the door, WPC Meadows held her breath. She hadn’t felt this scared since taking her police entry exam. Snatches of The Messiah kept going through her head. Usually music calmed her but this time it wasn’t working.

It seemed ages since she’d sat at the front of the Town Hall, with Barbara and Evelyn, Anton turning round to joke. Now she’d be their jailor or, at least, their minder. She would have given anything to be somewhere else.

Hesitating was only going to make her feel worse. “Do your duty,” she told herself firmly. Adopting a manner she hoped was calm and professional, Meadows tapped on the dining room door.

Sutton answered. “I’ve been sent to relieve you,” Meadows explained. “DS Winters wants you.” She could hear a flutter of surprise as those near the door recognised her voice.

“Certainly,” Sutton replied, opening the door wider. “Do they know?” he mouthed, inclining his head towards the choir.

“No,” Meadows mouthed back.

“Good luck!” Sutton whispered. For a second he hesitated. “Shall I introduce you?” he asked.

“Please,” Meadows had always liked Greg Sutton. She could see why Kathy had married him. Few of her colleagues would have appreciated how difficult Meadows’ position had become, much less tried to ease it for her.

“I think you’ve met WPC Meadows,” Sutton said, turning back into the room. “You may not have known that, as well as being a fine singer, she’s a policewoman. She’s going to take over from me for a while.” As he walked out, he could feel the tension building behind him. He was glad to be making a speedy getaway.

Sutton borrowed Meadows’ bike to get to the driver’s digs. The drive was slippy. He had to put his foot down to steady himself at the hotel gates. Car headlights appeared in the gloom coming down the road towards him, then passed by. Sleet stung his face as he waited. “What a day!” he thought with a sigh. He wondered whether Kathy had heard the news yet.

Pushing hard against the gravel, he set off again, around the wide curve of the lane. He knew the path to St George’s estate, having used it as a short cut a few times, but only in summer. In the gathering gloom it was hard to spot, set between overgrown hedges. On either side he saw allotments, with greenhouses and sheds looming. Further ahead, a metal bollard marked the beginning of the estate.

Though everyone still referred to it as ‘the new estate’, most of the houses had been built in the 1930s. The streets spread right up to the edge of the allotments. It was an uninviting route from the hotel, narrow and twisty, but it was so much quicker than going through town. Sutton remembered reports of a‘flasher’ along the passageway. However, one of the local girls had whacked the culprit hard with her satchel, in a sensitive part of his anatomy, and he hadn’t been seen since.

On such a damp afternoon, the few people he met were hurrying to get home.

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