might need to talk to? Someone close to her? Apart from this Ali?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘A friend, maybe? A relative? Someone she might have mentioned?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have a next of kin on your records?’
‘Yes. I checked this morning. It was her father.’
‘And?’
‘He died last year. Prostate cancer. Harriet insisted on being with him at the end. I remember giving her compassionate leave.’ She offered him a chilly smile and then struggled to her feet. ‘Will that suffice, Mr Suttle? Because I have a practice to run.’
Outside in the sunshine Suttle and Golding strolled across the car park. Golding was already on the phone to the MIR, talking to the D/S in charge of Outside Enquiries. DI Houghton wanted them to drive back to Lympstone. Reilly’s closest neighbours had been briefly questioned by uniforms and were happy to submit to a longer interview. Mr and Mrs Weatherall. Retired. Both ex-teachers. Beside the car, Golding ended the conversation and pocketed the phone. Then he glanced across at Suttle.
‘Over there, skip. Brand-new Audi. Classy.’
Suttle followed his pointing finger. ‘What about it?’
‘The lady behind the wheel. Ring any bells?’
Suttle looked harder. It was Lizzie. She was easing the car into a tightish space beside the surgery entrance. He walked across, waited for her to kill the engine, then bent to the lowered window.
‘Hi.’ He did his best to muster a smile. ‘Nice motor.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How are things?’
‘Fine. You?’
‘Fine. You’re registered here?’
‘No.’
‘Social visit?’
‘Hardly.’ She got out of the car and locked the door. ‘Are we up for the full interview or is that it?’
Suttle toyed with apologising but thought better of it. Since her move down from Portsmouth, he’d steered well clear of his estranged wife. For one thing, he had precious little to say to her. For another, he didn’t want to upset Oona. If a marriage has crashed and burned, she’d once told him, leave the embers well alone. Good advice.
Lizzie wanted to know whether Suttle was on the Lympstone job.
‘I am.’
‘I understand the victim was a GP.’
‘That’s right.’
‘She worked here?’
‘That would be an assumption on your part.’
‘Sure.’ She shot him a sudden grin. ‘And that would be cop-speak on yours. Have a nice day, Mr Policeman.’
She reached forward and gave his arm a squeeze. Moments later, she’d disappeared into the surgery.
Golding was waiting in the car.
‘What was she after, skip?’
Suttle was reaching for his seat belt, his eyes still on the Audi beside the practice entrance.
‘Very good question,’ he said.
Five
T UESDAY, 10 J UNE 2014, 10.27
Lizzie took advantage of the queue waiting patiently at the reception desk and slipped past into the waiting area. She’d caught the Lympstone murder first thing on the BBC local news and put a check call through to a journalist she’d befriended on the Exeter Express and Echo. The police at Middlemoor had yet to release the name of the victim, but word from one of the civvy inputters in the MIR suggested it had been a female GP from the Pinhoe practice.
Now, sitting quietly behind her copy of Devon Life ,Lizzie was eyeing the list of practice doctors. There were nine in all. Five of them were men; that left four candidates for last night’s murder. Two of them were listed as present in the building, calling their patients one by one. The remaining two were Dr Alison Bell and Dr Harriet Reilly. Lizzie waited for the queue at the reception desk to clear and then approached the woman behind the counter.
She said she was new to the area. She said friends had spoken well of the practice. If possible she’d prefer a woman GP, either Dr Bell or Dr Reilly. Both had come highly recommended. Might there be room for her on either’s list?
‘I’m very healthy,’ she added. ‘Definitely low maintenance.’
The receptionist said it would have to be
Back in the Saddle (v5.0)