Read Imperfect Killing for Free Online Page B

enough to rifle the barrel.’
    Sean tried to imagine Thurlby operating a boring drill to within a .38th of an inch, but he just couldn’t picture it.
    ‘Also, it’s made of lead,’ Featherstone interrupted his vision, ‘and is unusually badly distorted, meaning it was almost certainly a homemade bullet and whoever put it together overdid the charge.’
    Sean squinted with concentration – the evidence seemingly neither amounting to one thing or the other: to reactive the replica and make the bullet required a degree of skill and patience, but neither had been done well enough to guarantee they would work.
Surely someone like Thurlby would have simply used a knife. But if it was a professional hit why didn’t they use a real or expertly prepared reactivated weapon? Something else then.
‘Something in between,’ he accidentally said out loud.
    ‘Come again,’ Featherstone asked.
    ‘What?’ he replied, before realizing what he must have done. ‘Sorry. Nothing.’ He quickly changed the subject. ‘What about the CCTV around the studio and the Southbank? One of the cameras must have caught him.’
    ‘We’re still checking, but nothing so far,’ Featherstone told him. ‘Nothing?’ Sean queried. ‘That seems unusual, especially if Thurlby is our man. He hardly strikes me as being smart enough to avoid a dozen or so CCTV cameras.’
    ‘Maybe you’re underestimating him,’ Featherstone warned him, ‘or maybe he just got lucky. He was
stalking
her
,
remember? While he was hanging around outside the studio day after day waiting for her he would have had ample opportunity to clock where the CCTV cameras were and figure out the blind spots. You and I both know what lengths these stalker types can go to when they put their minds to something. Nothing’s beyond them.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ Sean answered and stood to leave just as Benton arrived with the drinks. ‘Make them to go,’ he told him.
    ‘Going somewhere?’ Featherstone asked.
    ‘To get some evidence,’ Sean told him. ‘Some
real
evidence.’
    ***
    Sean and Benton sat in comfortable chairs in the office of Richard Parry, head of light entertainment, at the studio where Sue Evans had worked. Parry sat opposite them on a cream leather sofa, his smart clothes appearing too large for his slim body. In his mid-forties now, he kept his head shaved to hide his baldness – his thin-rimmed mirrored glasses making his face appear skeletal.
    ‘We’re all in a state of shock,’ he shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it’s happened, and outside in the car park – unbelievable. A complete nightmare. But at least you’ve already caught someone. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to everyone to know that her killer is locked up.’
    ‘I appreciate it must be difficult for everyone here,’ Sean said, ignoring Parry’s reference to Thurlby, ‘but I still need to ask some questions about Miss Evans.’
    ‘Of course,’ Parry agreed. ‘Anything to help. Anything at all.’
    ‘How well did you know Miss Evans?’ he began.
    ‘Oh wow,’ Parry looked all around the room trying to remember. ‘Must be six, seven years now.’
    ‘Did you consider her a friend?’
    ‘I suppose so,’ he answered unconvincingly. ‘As much as anyone here was her friend.’
    ‘So you were her friend?’ Sean tried to clarify.
    ‘Yes, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say a
close
work colleague on friendly terms.’
    ‘And as someone who knew her well, can you think of any reason why anyone would want to kill her?’
    ‘God no,’ he answered without doubt. ‘Who would want to hurt Sue?’
    ‘Maybe someone got angry about the programmes she made?’ Benton suggested.
    ‘Not that I know of,’ Parry shook his head. ‘They’re only consumer affairs programmes – nothing too heavy. People being overcharged by large corporations mostly, stuff the public can relate to.’
    ‘Anyone threaten her as a result of any of the programmes?’ Sean