Angel of Death by Charlotte Lamb

no taste. If I was as rich as Finnigan I’d buy something old.’
    They parked on the gravelled terrace outside the front door. A girl in a dark blue dress with white cuffs and collar opened the door and invited them inside.
    ‘Do you have an appointment?’
    ‘We rang to tell Mr Finnigan that we would be coming.’
    ‘Please wait here, I’ll tell him you’ve arrived.’
    Jim Haddon walked around, inspecting the gilt-framed sporting prints hanging on the wall. ‘Bought down Hoxton Market,’ he muttered.
    ‘No, actually I got them from Sotheby’s, they’re the real thing,’ Terry Finnigan said behind him.
    Jim Haddon went red, mumbling, ‘Oh . . . sorry . . . I’m no art expert.’
    ‘They’re boxing prints over here. Very early ones. Worth quite a bit.’
    The three men solemnly inspected the four prints of naked-chested men squaring up to each other in pairs.
    ‘No gloves, notice,’ Terry said. ‘In the eighteenth century fighters didn’t wear them. They fought bare-knuckled, and there were often nasty injuries to the face, which was why boxing was banned at times.’
    Neil pointedly glanced at his watch. ‘Sorry to hurry you, Mr Finnigan, but we have to get back to town by six. Can we talk somewhere private? Is your son here?’
    Terry’s face stiffened. ‘Yes, come into my office. Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee, or something stronger?’
    ‘Tea would be nice, thank you.’
    Sean was standing by the window in the square room they went into. He turned to nod coolly.
    ‘Sit down, officers,’ Terry said, gave his son a look. ‘And you, Sean.’ He picked up the phone. ‘Ellen? Tea for four, in my office.’
    Sean sat down, but fidgeted restlessly. ‘I’ve a lot to do today. Can we get on? You keep asking stupid questions day after day.’ He gave Neil a sullen stare, his face mutinous. ‘I have better things to do with my time.’
    ‘Do you know a girl called Tracy Morgan?’
    The question knocked Sean backwards. He opened and shut his mouth like a fish out of water, making wordless noises.
    Terry froze in his chair, watching his son anxiously.
    Sean swallowed, finally said hoarsely, ‘Tracy? Yes, I know her. I’ve met her, that is. I don’t know her well.’
    ‘I’ve been told you have been dating her for weeks.’
    ‘Who told you that? Miranda Grey, I suppose! They ought to move her into a psychiatric ward. They shouldn’t ever let her out.’
    ‘They will, she’s quite sane.’
    ‘They’re letting her go home? When?’
    ‘Never mind Miranda. It was not her who told me about you dating Tracy Morgan. That’s true, isn’t it? You have been seeing her quite often for several months.’
    ‘No! It’s a lie, a dirty lie.’ Sean was almost desperate with fury, his face darkly flushed, his eyes glittering.
    He hesitated, muttered, ‘Well, maybe I took her out once or twice, that’s all. I don’t call that dating.’
    ‘You saw her more often than that, I think. And now she’s vanished. She went missing the day Mrs Grey says she witnessed a scene in the bathroom of your flat. A big coincidence, isn’t it?’
    Sean blundered to his feet, glaring like an angry bull. ‘You can’t prove I did anything! You can’t prove she’s dead. Stop badgering me or I’ll get my solicitor to deal with you.’
    ‘I think you are going to need your solicitor, sir, when we find the body.’
    ‘Find it before you come here again, harassing me!’
    Dorothy Knox stopped off en route to the flat to buy herself a few groceries. Heaven knew what sort of larder Miranda kept. Dorothy did not have a very high opinion of her daughter’s housekeeping. Oh, the flat would be tidy enough, no doubt, Miranda was fastidious about where she lived, but she would eat her lunch out every day when she was working, and probably ate a very small breakfast, some cereal, at most, and in the evenings would eat out of the fridge, snacking on microwave food the way young people did these days.
    She did not