Death Line by Maureen Carter

Sunday school teacher, he sat all prim and pious, next to a pin-striped brief who could’ve been a night club bouncer in fancy dress. Knight looked to be the one having doubts.
    “He’s asking you, Haines.” Powell snarled, leaned menacingly across the metal desk. The DI was doing his bad cop act. He had it down to a fine art. Maybe that’s why the
gaffer had asked him to sit in on the session. Tactics had been worked out before Haines walked in: Knight would play it cool. The tapes had been running fifteen minutes. Looking at the gaffer,
Powell reckoned Knight needed an ice pack.
    “Back off, detective.” Haines stared. Powell stayed where he was. The creep didn’t faze him, but Morriss had been right about the eyes. Knight played a pen through his fingers,
sign he was happy for Powell to take over.
    “What you scared of, Haines?” Dying of boredom if his expression was anything to go by. “Just answer the question. How did the sock get there? Quit stalling.” He’d
been happy enough to relate his movements Wednesday afternoon, almost thrown in his bowel movements. But nothing on the sock. Genuine? Ingenuous? Powell couldn’t call it. For a few seconds
more, he maintained eye contact before moving casually to reach a jug of water.
    Haines gave a theatrical sigh. “What part of ‘I don’t know’ do you not get?”
    Smug tosser. Powell took his time drinking, then: “See, I wouldn’t have a problem if it was a few bulbs... pack of seeds, maybe.”
    The laugh was more of a bark. “Pardon me while I piss my pants.” He didn’t crack a smile. “The sock was planted. You know that well as I do...”
    “Alan Titchmarsh a mate, is he?”
    “Tut, tut, tut. Really, Mr Powell...” The brief, bald as Knight but butch with it, wasn’t struggling for words. The condescending tone implied he’d not stoop so low.
    Haines had no such qualms. “Do me a favour, Mr Detective, do I really look dense enough to leave incriminating evidence lying round?”
    “Now you come to mention it...” Powell squinted, scrutinised the guy’s face. “Yeah.”
    “Well you’re wrong, dickhead.” Deliberately, Haines stroked what looked still-tender bruising round his eyes. He’d already dropped dark threats about suing, police
brutality, unfair arrest, prejudicial reporting. All that cobblers. “And soon as the facts are straight, you’ll be paying for that, too.”
    Powell balled his fists; Knight’s lips were already tight. No one reacted to a tap on the door. Co-ordinator guru Jack Hainsworth came in with a slip of paper. “Guv. Just come in.
Something you should know.”
    “Why in God’s name didn’t he say so before?”
    Good work, sergeant. Well done. “Best ask him, gaffer.” Hell should I know? Silence on the line suggested DCI Knight was running through what she’d just relayed. When Josh
Banks walked out of Hyde Lea junior school at three-fifteen on Wednesday afternoon, Haines had been losing several shirts on the three o’clock at Doncaster, the three-thirty from Aintree and
the three forty-five from Goodwood. No wonder he’d junked the betting slips. Not all bad luck though. Ladbrokes still had the tape from its surveillance cameras: Haines watching all three
races with a couple of cronies.
    Winner was clear. How long did Lancelot need to work it out? “Means he couldn’t have done it, boss.” Mac tapped her on the elbow with a dark chocolate Magnum. She mouthed a Ta,
mate, watched him amble off sucking an ice lolly. They were outside the bookies on George Road along with a passing parade of shopping trolleys, baby buggies, buses and bikes. High noon; blazing
saddles. Bev could feel the cotton dress sticking to her bum.
    “It’s my fault,” Knight said. Not what she’d expected.
    “Come again, gaffer.” She was struggling to pull off the wrapper.
    “Blinkered vision. I got fixated on the intelligence about Haines being seen dumping the body.”
    She shrugged. “We all did.” But