Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (good beach reads .txt) 📕

carefully what to do next. She’s stolen the life that’s rightfully mine but I’ll get it back somehow. Whatever it takes.

Chapter 42

March | DI Paton

Paton watched from several metres away as the Tactical Aid Unit team heaved the last few items from the skip. Builders’ rubbish was stacked haphazardly to the left, but to the right was a promising haul of personal items. An old TV which may yield some fingerprints if the plasterboard dust hadn’t obscured them, a flowered fabric suitcase of considerable weight, a box of kitchen utensils and ornaments, and another box containing old packets of food.

An eager young officer approached Paton. ‘We’ll get these items over to the CSI team for fingerprints and photos. Let’s hope we can match some fibres from the clothes to those found at the cabin.’

Paton raised his eyebrows at being told the blinking obvious but he bit back a retort and thanked him, then checked the address of where the evidence was heading. He’d go to his hotel now. A good meal and an early night would set him up for tomorrow. He’d visit the CSI team in the afternoon. Hopefully by then they’d have catalogued and bagged all the evidence, and taken samples for testing.

Paton awoke early and headed to the adjoining restaurant for a full English breakfast. He might as well make the most of it as he didn’t often get to stay in hotels, even basic ones like this. He dipped a large piece of bacon into the yolk of an egg and thought about his plans for the day. He needed to return to the Spar to find out more about Trina. Perhaps he’d go there before he checked out the evidence from the skip. He also needed to visit the Manchester owner of the silver Fiesta.

Before he set out he phoned Mitchell. Paton could check HOLMES on his laptop for an update but he preferred the personal approach.

‘Any update from the ANPR data on where the two Fiestas went?’ he asked, hope fluttering in his chest. ‘I haven’t checked HOLMES yet. I’ll log on later.’

‘Got some news.’ Mitchell paused for effect and Paton let him have his moment of drama. ‘The Manchester owner, Britney Smith, was tracked going towards Salford, where she’s registered as living, and, as you know, the other car went further south.’

‘Do we have any more trace on that one?’

‘It got off at Junction 17 of the M6 before Sandbach and onto the A534 but then it must have taken the side roads because we don’t have a trace after that.’

‘If she doesn’t live around there, then she’s bloody clever,’ Paton muttered. ‘If she is our suspect, either she has inside knowledge of how police camera systems work or she watches a lot of detective dramas like Tommy.’ The other day his son had moaned that a detective on Silent Witness didn’t have shoe covers on at a crime scene. Paton had felt quite proud of him.

‘I’m going to visit the other suspect, Britney Smith, today but in the meantime, I’d like you to check her out further. Start with an open search of Facebook, Twitter and Instagram then find her financial details and phone records. If she’s not at home we might be able to track her down with those.’

‘Will do, boss.’

‘Good lad. I’ll call the action allocator in the incident room now and ask them to log your tasks.’

It was almost three weeks since the murder. Would Britney Smith still be around and was she the woman they were looking for? Was she leading a double life and renting the bedsit to carry on the affair with Robert Nash?

The property turned out to be a modest bungalow with a loft extension. Paton parked outside and noticed the neighbour’s curtain moving slightly. Brilliant! He loved a nosy neighbour. He knocked and waited, then knocked again. There was nothing to hear apart from a noisy blackbird rebuking a cat and a distant main road. He went back down the narrow concrete path and up the next. The curtain twitched again and he smiled to himself.

The door was opened almost immediately onto a security chain by a short, middle-aged woman in heavy glasses and a home-knitted cardigan. She peered up at him in consternation.

Paton showed her his police ID badge and her face relaxed slightly. ‘Do you know the woman who lives next door?’ he asked.

The door closed and he heard the rattle of the chain being released before it opened wide and he was invited in.

‘Come in and I’ll tell you a few things about her,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Miss Dawson but you can call me Betty.’

He followed Betty to the lounge where he perched on the edge of a faded brown Dralon sofa while she put the kettle on. He didn’t really want tea but found people often offered more information over a social drink. He took in his surroundings, thinking the lounge was in a time warp. He wasn’t exactly an expert on interior design but the plastic print of a girl crying and the figurines in period costume on the mantelpiece were relics from his childhood.

A large, fluffy tabby jumped up and climbed straight onto his lap, leaving white hairs on his black trousers. He stroked it and it purred, kneading his leg with long claws. Tommy would love a cat but sadly Wendy was allergic to them. Paton would have to make sure he got all the cat’s hairs off his clothes before he went home.

‘Winston, get down. Sorry, officer. He likes visitors.’ The woman placed a tray on the table. It was laden with a flowery china tea set and a plate of fig rolls. Yuk. Paton couldn’t stand fig rolls. He leaned forward for his tea and noticed to his dismay that there was a cat hair floating on the surface. He blew it to the back of the cup then took a tentative sip.

‘I’ve lived here all my life,’ Betty