An Unsuitable Death by J. M. Gregson

became what he had called “an item”, two thought and reacted as one. Even in this moment of Tom Clarke’s agony, Lambert found himself for a moment envying him his youth and its innocence. He said firmly, “Well, as I say, we shall need to find out how Tamsin was paying for the flat and the heroin habit. Whatever the source of her money, it may well have something to do with her death.”
    Clarke nodded wearily. “Well, you’ll find she wasn’t pushing drugs. Is there anything else?”
    Lambert nodded at Hook, who said, “A few more things, for the record. When did you last see Tamsin Rennie?”
    “Monday night. I stayed the night with her and left early on Tuesday morning. I was doing some painting and decorating for a friend of my mother’s, in Shrewsbury, until this happened. I do it while I’m ‘resting’. I’m actually quite proficient at it now.” He grinned weakly, realising the implication that he wasn’t finding much work as an actor.
    “Did anyone call at the flat while you were there?”
    “No.”
    “Any phone calls?”
    “No.”
    “How often did you see Tamsin Rennie?”
    “Three times a week. Mondays, Thursdays and either Saturday or Sunday.”
    “A very regular arrangement. Was that at Tamsin’s insistence?”
    Twenty minutes earlier he would have argued; now he was too spent for that. “Yes. She said we should test our relationship properly.”
    And thus left herself room for all kinds of other manoeuvres, they thought. “Had you considered living together?”
    He seized eagerly on that. “Yes. I told you, we were going to. But Tamsin didn’t want to do it here. It was going to be well, a—”
    “A fresh start. I see.” Hook wrote for a moment, then looked up into Clarke’s anxious face. “Where were you on Wednesday night?”
    “When she was killed, you mean? You’re asking me to tell you where I was at the time when Tamsin was killed?”
    Hook was not to be shaken from his massive calm by the shriller tone in the young man’s voice. “On Wednesday night, yes.”
    Tom Clarke looked from him to Lambert, as if seeking some relief or reassurance. There was none. Four experienced eyes studied him to check his reactions. He said in a low voice, “I was at home. I’d spent the day decorating and I was knackered. I tried to ring Tamsin at about eight o’clock, but there was no reply.”
    “And is there anyone who can confirm this for us?”
    “No, I don’t suppose there is. My mum was out for the whole of the evening. She goes to a yoga class, and then two or three of them go on for a drink afterwards.”
    Hook studied him, as if he expected some further elaboration, then made a final careful note.
    It was Lambert who said, “You have a key to the basement flat, I imagine?”
    “Yes. Tamsin had one cut for me. I should return it to the landlady, really, but I thought she might not take kindly to the thought of an extra key for the place. Tamsin said it was against her regulations.”
    “You had better leave the key with us. We’ll see it gets back to her in due course. Tell me, have you been back to the flat since you heard of Tamsin’s death?”
    “No. Of course I haven’t! Here, you’re thinking I might have killed her, aren’t you? That there’s things I might have wanted to pick up from there!” The coltish figure was on its feet in outrage, the uncoordinated limbs moving wildly.
    “Sit down, Mr Clarke!” Lambert spoke crisply, like a man giving a sharp blow to a hysteria victim, and the young man subsided like a broken doll on to his chair. “You had access to a murder victim, and the opportunity to kill her. So far as we are aware at this moment, you were the only person apart from Tamsin’s landlady who had a key to her flat. We have to eliminate you as a suspect. The sooner we can do so the better, from our point of view as well as yours. Now concentrate, please. Tell me, would you say that Tamsin was a tidy person? Was her flat always clean and