happened very soon after Winters had arrived on the scene. He’d sent Detective Constable Dave Blackman out to arrest Hannah McShane right away. The original officer who responded was Police Constable Jonathan Stanger. He seemed to have remained at the house.
“Yes. Though there was no forensic evidence to connect the knife to the murder victim.” Anne said. “We thought this was something in our favour but apparently the knife had a complicated design on the handle which singled it out.”
“Was Hope close enough to see that?” Hazel said. This didn’t make any sense.
“Mr Hawkins mentioned that too, but Hope said Hannah was a regular visitor to Gloria Kelsey and he’d often seen her with the knife.”
“Doing what?” Why would he see her with a knife?
“Just having it, showing it off, I suppose.”
Hazel shook her head. None of the details were in the police report. She could see why Hannah was acquitted. It was shoddy, incompetent police work. The crime squad ought to have been given this case. By now Hannah McShane would be inside and Hazel could be doing something far more productive than trying to sort this mess out.
“What about the other witnesses? A man and a woman, weren’t they?”
“They were very good, reliable witnesses.” Anne said. “A retired bank manager and an IT consultant.”
“Thomas Mitchell and Helen Trent.” Hazel said.
“That’s right. They both heard and saw the crime. At least Mr Mitchell heard the shouting from the guard and came to his front door. He saw Hannah being chased. She passed very close to him. Not more than four metres. He positively identified her. Which isn’t difficult.”
“Meaning what?”
“She’s pretty distinctive. Hair, make-up, clothes. You know what girls are like. We both do.”
Hazel had been pretty serious and studious at seventeen. But then she had been in the European Police Cadet Corps and took her responsibilities very seriously. No way out make-up and micro-miniskirts for Hazel Louise Vernon. At least not until she was stupid enough to transfer into the vice squad.
“Helen Trent had the most damning testimony I thought.” Anne said. “She’d been upstairs getting ready for bed and looked out of her window. She lives opposite and could see right into Gloria’s house when the curtains were open. She said she saw the killing take place. She screamed and ran for a phone. Then she heard all the shouting and looked out of the window to see the chase.”
Helen Trent had been the one who made the original call that started all this. Hazel understood a police constable was watching her home because of the acquittal.
“She knew about Hannah.” Anne said. “It turns out a lot of the residents knew Hannah went there on a regular basis. She was very distinctive for that area.”
“Why?” Hazel said. “Do we know why Hannah went there so many times?”
“No. Mr Hawkins thought it best if we didn’t put her on the witness stand. She’s pretty bad court fodder.”
“Don’t you just hate not knowing things?” Hazel said. She tried to keep most of the sarcasm out of her voice. “Why Hannah visited Gloria Kelsey. Why Helen Trent was looking out of her bedroom window. How the guard could identify the knife. All of that and God knows how much more.”
“Do you think she’s innocent?” Anne said, genuinely surprised.
“I think I’m going to have to do a better job than Winters and his useless staff.” Hazel said. “Anyway, thanks. You’ve given me enough to make a start.”
“How are you, Hazel?” Anne said seriously, “In yourself, I mean.”
“Fine. Once I get this sorted out….”
“They might give you a real investigation?” Anne said. “You’ve been out of the CID for four years. Maybe they just think you need to be eased back into the routine.”
Hazel had been in the crime squad for six months after spending four years shuffling paper in Southfields, a sub-station so small it had only fifteen officers to a shift and no CID. Most of those officers had been probationary constables with less than two years’ experience. She had resigned herself to ending her career there.
“I feel bad about what happened.” Anne said.
“It wasn’t your fault.” Hazel said. She didn’t believe the misconduct charges were entirely her own fault either. If she wanted someone to blame, that person would be Jimmy Marsh, editor of the scandal rag, The Caneston Star. More generally, the gutter press itself.
“Patricia cast a spell.” Anne said. “Following our affair.”
Hazel sighed, she had heard all this before. Anne McLeod’s long term partner was Patricia Conroy. Hazel did regret my affair with Anne. But I didn’t think Patricia’s spell casting was to blame for my problems.
Anne had been educated at a Catholic school by nuns. She was a devout Catholic who managed to follow her faith while being a practicing lesbian in a long term partnership with a pagan witch.
Patricia worked as an accountant. Hazel had never met anyone who looked less like the popular idea of either a pagan or a witch. The smart business suits, glossy hair and technophile abilities couldn’t mask the fact that she was, in Hazel’s mind, as mad as a spoon.
“She took a long time.” Anne said, “But she forgives you.”
“That’s nice.” Hazel said. She was very much a disbeliever. There was no God in Heaven. No Devil in Hell. No afterlife, no redemption, no reincarnation, no ghosts, demons, alien visitations or dinosaurs wandering around Africa. There was just us. Humans. A bunch of apes with a bad attitude.
“She carried out a remote reading.” Anne said.
“Good for her.” I said. She’d seen Patricia’s spell book. She bought it for €16.99 from a high street book store. Which was one more reason why Hazel doubted her magical powers. She also spelled magic M-A-J-I-C-K.
“She said you were a woman named Lucy Ferrier who lived in the nineteen thirties. She was a prostitute who was murdered on a boat in 1934 and dumped in the river. Patricia says this is why you have such a bad reaction to boats and why you became a detective. No one ever found her killer. Patricia said no one tried because she was just a tralk.”
Hazel always thought her aversion to boats was sea sickness stemming back to a rough ferry crossing to France when she was five years old and had been sick on an epic scale.
“Thank Patricia for me.” Hazel said. She had, long ago, decided not to argue with Anne about the rationality of these beliefs.
“I know you don’t believe this, Hazel, but Patricia’s really powerful. She’s been spell casting all her life.”
Hazel nodded. As she would nod to someone who insisted Jesus was the Son of God or Allah was the one true God or whatever. All religions were equally meaningless to her. If Patricia Conroy believed she was a witch and worked her spells for the good of people, what did Hazel care?
