Outside Looking In: A darkly compelling crime novel with a shocking twist. Michael Wood

didn’t realize I was on my own in here.’

      ‘You’re busy then I take it?’

      ‘You could say that. I’ve been here since six and I haven’t shifted from this desk yet. Anyway, what can I do for you?’

      ‘Well, I came to see Matilda.’ Adele noticed a tray of muffins next to the kettle. ‘Ooh, are they to share?’

      ‘They were. Nobody’s had time for a break yet. Help yourself.’

      ‘Thanks. What’s the occasion?’

      ‘It’s my wedding anniversary today.’

      ‘Oh congratulations. How many years?’

      ‘Thirteen. We’ve been together about twenty years though. It took him six years to propose, bless him.’

      ‘A bit slow on the uptake?’ Adele asked, still trying to choose a muffin.

      ‘You could say that. I gave up hinting in the end and just came out with it. I said, “Stuart Mills, are you ever going to propose or should I start making eyes at your brother?”’

      Adele laughed. ‘What did he say to that?’

      ‘After he finished choking on his beer he asked me to marry him. I told him I’d have to think about it.’

      ‘These are gorgeous, Sian,’ Adele said, her mouth full of chocolate sponge. ‘Did you make these?’

      ‘Yes. They’re Mary Berry’s.’

      ‘Well next time you speak to Mary tell her thank you. Are you doing anything special tonight?’

      ‘You’re joking! By the time Stuart remembers it’s our anniversary it’ll be time for the next one. Do you think you’ll get married one day?’

      Adele almost choked on her muffin. ‘God no. Men are only useful for one thing and half the time they’re no use at that. Anyway, I won’t keep you. I’m actually looking for Matilda. Is she in yet?’

      ‘I haven’t seen her. Mind you, a marching brass band could have walked through and I wouldn’t have noticed.’

      ‘Well, I’ve got some information about your double shooting. You couldn’t tell her for me could you?’

      ‘Sure.’

      ‘Now, let me show you something.’ In the folder she had been cradling in her arms she produced some close-up photographs taken by the scene of crime officers. ‘This is a photo of fibres taken from under Lois Craven’s right hand. They’re black and man-made.’ She took another photograph out of the file. ‘Now, on the night of the shooting I was called out to a suicide on London Road. This is a photograph of the jumper’s right hand. Under the forefinger and middle fingernails there are identical fibres.’

      ‘So, what are you saying? The bloke committed a double shooting then went to London Road to kill himself? Why not just shoot himself in the head?’

      ‘No. I’m not saying that. Look at these,’ Adele took out the remaining photographs from the suicide. ‘These are photos of Gerald Arthur Beecham aged 80. Apparently he jumped off the roof of a high-rise block of flats and landed face down on the paving slabs below.’

      ‘Why apparently?’

      ‘Look at this one; there’s blood on the back of his jacket.’

      ‘So?’

      ‘If he jumped, why would he have blood on the back of his jacket?’

      ‘Good question. Is it definitely his blood?’

      ‘Another good question. I’ll answer that in a bit. When we got him back to the mortuary and removed his clothes we found him covered in very fresh bruises. He didn’t jump. He was either pushed or thrown.’

      There was silence while Adele allowed Sian to take in what she had just said.

      ‘Why would anyone want to throw an 80-year-old man from the roof of a block of flats?’

      ‘I’ve no idea. Fortunately, I don’t have to find the answer to that question, that’s your job.’

      ‘So, tell me whose blood it is then.’

      ‘Are you ready for this?’

      ‘If you decide to cut to a commercial break I’ll slap the make-up off your face.’

      ‘The blood belongs to Lois Craven.’

      ‘What? How?’

      ‘My best guess is that whoever committed the shooting in Ringinglow went to London Road, for whatever reason, got into a bit of a tussle with poor old Mr Beecham, and pushed him over the edge,’ Adele said. She sat back in her seat and folded her arms. She had a slight smug look on her face, a look she always had when she delivered ground-breaking news.

      ‘This is very … I don’t understand this at all,’ Sian readily admitted. ‘You need to speak to Matilda.’

      ‘Well I’ve called her mobile but she’s not answering. I think I’ve filled up her voicemail.’

      ‘What about her landline?’

      ‘Straight to answer machine. I didn’t see her much yesterday after the post-mortem. How was she?’

      ‘I hardly spoke to her.’

      Aaron stormed in and kicked the door closed behind him. ‘Thirty minutes I’ve just spent on the phone, twenty of them on hold, only to be told that Kevin Hardaker’s manager is off sick and the relief was from a store in Derby and didn’t know him. Why couldn’t the bloke who picked up the phone tell me that? No wonder their sales are falling. Gormless pillocks.’

      ‘Good morning to you too, Aaron,’ Sian said over the top of her computer.

      ‘Yes, whatever.’

      ‘You haven’t seen Matilda on your travels have you?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘How was she last night before you left?’ Sian asked.

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Was she happy, sad, fed up, excited, what?’

      ‘Well she was a bit low. There was an article in The Star about the Carl Meagan anniversary the other day. I saw her reading the story a couple of times in her office. Then there was something in last night’s edition about a conversation she’d had with the new crime reporter. The ACC called her in towards the end of the day but I didn’t see her after that.’

      ‘How was she when she went to the ACC?’

      ‘A bit stressed.’

      ‘Right. OK. Cheers, Aaron.’

      When Aaron was out of earshot Adele turned back to Sian and said, ‘I think I’m going to pop round to her house, see if she’s OK.’

      ‘Do you want me to come with you?’