Problems with Girls (DI Sloane Book 2) by Kelly Creighton

Author:Kelly Creighton [Creighton, Kelly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Friday Press
Published: 2020-11-19T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

In the car, in a panic, Hewitt called Jackie and explained that we had our person for the hate mail.

‘A woman,’ she said, ‘an older woman, harmless, just not quite right, has some funny ideas.’

He had already heard and wasn’t happy. I could hear him reply. But to be honest, I’d heard him angrier.

Around five we stopped at the garage to buy our own copy.

‘It says that we have been getting taunting letters too,’ I told Hewitt.

‘We?’ she asked.

‘We at the service.’

‘Have we? I don’t think so, or I’d know about it.’

‘Ha,’ I said, ‘and the paper has been getting mail of their own.’

‘What?’ She pulled the newspaper toward her.

We, here at the paper, have been getting taunting letters saying that our coverage is ‘rubbish’ and that the PSNI is doing a ‘pathetic job’.

‘True enough.’ Hewitt laughed. ‘Their coverage has been rubbish … compared to the ink they spilled over Erica McClelland.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked. I just wanted to hear Fleur say it.

‘They loved Erica and her nightclub photos, showing plenty of tit. And leg.’

‘That’s awful,’ I said.

‘Awful but true. Admit it.’

I couldn’t, even though Fleur Hewitt was one hundred percent correct. Even the paper’s Nights Out section was as bad.

There was never a bunch of lads snapped or an average-looking girl. It was just tit, fake tan and more tit.

Page 3 may have been done, lonely old lads of Belfast had the Nights Out section.

‘Who is doing this?’ I mused. ‘Probably Lucinda Press.’

‘Maybe not,’ said Hewitt. ‘Everyone has an opinion on everything these days.’

*

At Strandtown there was mail addressed to Chief Dunne. He read it out to us.

This is a confession: I drowned Erica McClelland.

‘Was that sent here?’ I asked.

‘No, Bangor,’ he said. ‘Is it Lucinda Press’ style?’

‘I’d know it if I saw it,’ I said. I looked at the photocopy, cut and stuck letters. ‘No, not at all.’

‘This is getting crazy, does no one just say what they think anymore?’ the chief asked.

‘Cowards, an age of cowards these days,’ said Sarge Simon.

‘And a world full of banana peels,’ said Hewitt.

‘Poetic,’ Chief Dunne said.

‘I do try.’ She winked at him and he smiled back.

My stomach plunged.

*

At six p.m. we arrived at the psychiatrist’s office on the Upper Newtownards Road. ‘We were just closing up,’ his secretary said.

‘We just need a word with Martin Walsh.’

‘I’ll get Dr. Walsh now,’ she said.

She tried to phone him but he was coming out of the room with his briefcase in hand, sorting out car keys. ‘Hello,’ he said, alarmed.

‘I’m DI Harriet Sloane,’ I said, ‘and this is …’

‘Superintendent Fleur Hewitt.’

‘What has happened?’ Martin asked.

‘We’re here to speak with you about a patient who as murdered.’

‘Chloe Taylor?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘You go on home and I’ll lock up,’ he told the secretary.

‘You sure?’ she said.

‘Yes, thank you.’

She gathered her belongings and left.

‘Come through,’ he said and went into his room and sat.

‘This is making me uncomfortable,’ said Hewitt, ‘I’ll just move my chair.’ I watched her bring her chair close to his. Martin was smiling with amusement and confusion.

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