A tiny spark of panic was glowing inside him. To have to return to tile
top apartment and tell Adams, with Fletcher and Holtby listening, that he had discovered nothing, was not to be thought of. Savagely he rammed his thumb into the bell-push of the yellow-painted front door.
May Christie opened the front door. She, too, had seen the police cars arrive, and had known she was going to receive a visit from the police. She had fortified herself with a slug of gin, and Donovan could smell it on her breath.
“I’m a police officer,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”
He moved forward riding her back into the sitting-room.
“You can’t come in here,” she protested. “What will people think?”
“Shut up and sit down!” Donovan snarled.
Because she was itching with curiosity to know why the police had come to the house, and not because she was intimidated by Donovan, she obeyed him, reaching for a cigarette and lifting her plucked eyebrows at him.
“What’s biting you?” she demanded.
“You know Fay Carson?”