“Come on in, doc,” he said, and waved to the bed. “She’s all yours, and you’re welcome.”
Doc Summerfeld moved across to the bed. He was a big, fat, red-faced man, bald and placid looking.
“Hmm, a nice clean job, anyway.”
Adams wasn’t interested in Summerfeld’s remarks. He went into the sitting-room where the police photographer was setting up his camera.
“Take your orders from Sergeant Donovan,” Adams said to him and Fletcher. “He’s handling the investigation.”
Donovan saw the two exchange startled glances.
They know, he thought bitterly. The first killing in two years, but I get it. They’re not fools. If this had been an easy one I wouldn’t have got it. Well, okay. Maybe for the first time in my life I’ll get a break. I’d like to see the little punk’s face if I did crack it.
“What’s your first move, sergeant?” Adams asked.
“I want to know who she was with last night,” Donovan said slowly, carefully picking his words. “She didn’t work the streets, so the guys either knew her or were recommended to her; that puts them in a different class to the ordinary masher. From what the cleaner woman tells me, this girl went for the middle-aged, upper income lecher. Maybe she tried blackmail and got knocked off to keep her mouth shut.”
He saw both Fletcher and Holtby the photographer, were gaping at him.