But Was It Murder

Chapter 1

Missing The Queen’s Head.

Detective Inspector Rod Eliot was watching the rain running down his office window. He looked at his watch. 6.30. Time to leave the mountain of papers on his desk and go to The Queen's Head pub across the road. 'But only one beer,' he told himself. 'I don't want to be stopped by some junior policeman for drunk driving. Then I'll have to go home to an empty house.' Just as he was leaving the office, the phone rang. He turned back automatically and picked it up. He half hoped it might be his wife. 'Sorry to disturb you, sir,' said Detective Constable Jamie Bowen. 'But we've got a bit of a problem.' 'So have I,' said Eliot. 'I shouldn't be here. Ask Inspector Merryon. ' 'Sorry, sir,' said Bowen, 'but Inspector Merryon hasn't arrived yet. He phoned to say his car is stuck in a traffic jam inspeak to him openly there because they would be listening. 'I knew this would be a bad day from the moment I woke up,' he told Bowen. 'All right. We'll have to go. Where is it?' 'Blackheath, I'm afraid, sir.'

Eliot sighed. Blackheath was only six kilometres from New Cross police station. But at this time on a Friday night there was so much traffic that the journey could take over an hour. Eliot could not think of a worse way of spending Friday evening, especially as he had to be in his office early next morning. Why did everyone try to leave London at the same time? One day the whole city would be stuck in one big traffic jam. Already the traffic moved more slowly than it had a hundred years ago. It was madness. 'Meet me downstairs in ten minutes, Bowen,' he said. 'Oh, and there'll have to be medical reports. Check that someone's told a doctor and the pathologist.' Eliot turned away from the window. Well, at least Sally and Micky weren't waiting for him at home. He had better phone them now. It might be his last chance this evening. Sally's father picked up the phone. 'Hello Rod. Pity you can't be here. The weather's beautiful. How's the job?' Eliot made himself chat politely for a few minutes and then asked to speak to Sally. 'I'm afraid she's not here,' her father said. 'She's taken Micky for a walk. He couldn't wait to see the sea. Any message for her?' Eliot couldn't believe his bad luck. 'Just say I'm pleased they've arrived safely,' he said. 'And give her my love. I'll ring again tomorrow.' He put down the phone and took one last look at The Queen's Head. The traffic seemed hardly to have moved. Well, at least he could get Bowen to drive.

Chapter 2

The colour of death.

The car went forward a few metres, and then stopped again. At first Bowen had switched on the blue light and siren so that other drivers would let them pass. But there was no space for them to get through, and they had almost caused two accidents. They were nearly in Blackheath now. The rain had stopped but the traffic seemed to be getting worse. Blackheath Village is one of the prettiest and greenest parts of south east London. Its narrow streets are on a hill with pleasant views, unusual houses and many restaurants. Large areas of grass separate the village from the main road. Here children play and lovers wander, and families walk with their dogs. Tomorrow night there would be crowds, as it was November 5, Guy Fawkes Day. Thousands of people would come to the Blackheath firework show if they weren't having parties in their own gardens. Some of these parties seemed to have started already. The sky was full of the sounds and colours of fireworks exploding above their heads.

Eliot thought about his son with a sudden pain. Micky would be so excited tomorrow. Eliot would have loved to bring him here. He made himself think about his work instead. 'What do you know about this death?' he asked Bowen. 'Not much, sir. It's a white man in his thirties.' 'I suppose we'll find out more when we arrive. If we ever do arrive, Bowen,' added Eliot impatiently. 'Sorry, sir. I'm doing my best,' said Bowen. Eliot wondered how Bowen would feel about seeing the dead body. It was never easy, even for himself after all these years, though he had become much harder. Bowen was twenty-eight, ten years younger than Eliot, and had worked with him since first joining the police. His parents were rich and he had been to Cambridge University. This had

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