Eye Contact by Fergus McNeill Page B

raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’
    Harland nodded slowly, turning a beer mat between his fingers.
    ‘How did we get on with the neighbours?’ he asked, suddenly.
    ‘As it happens, we had a very nice chat with the woman who lives next door to Vicky.’ Mendel sat back and smiled. ‘She’s great. Says she doesn’t like to pry, keeps herself to herself, but she knows every bloody thing that goes on in that close – spends a lot of time at the net curtains, I reckon.’
    ‘Neighbourhood Watch.’ Harland smiled.
    ‘Exactly. She seemed pretty sure that Vicky didn’t have a bloke – said it was a shame really, a nice girl like that needed to get out and enjoy herself after all she’d been through . . .’
    Mendel paused and looked at Harland, trying to read his expression.
    ‘You okay?’ he asked.
    ‘Sorry.’ Harland put the beer mat down. ‘The more dead ends we find, the more I’m worried about missing something. You know me . . . By the way, Charles says our killer wore gloves, which might hint at something . . .
planned
.’
    He sipped his drink, then stared at the glass for a moment.
    ‘It feels too . . .
tidy
. You know? In the spur of the moment, the heat of passion, people make mistakes, they’re seen, they leave things behind.’
    ‘But not this guy,’ Mendel said.
    ‘Not this guy,’ Harland agreed. A faint smile crossed his face. ‘Pope told me it was a sexual assault gone bad.’
    ‘Pope’s an idiot,’ Mendel scowled.
    Harland’s phone was ringing as he strode back into his office. Pulling off his jacket, he grabbed the receiver as he walked round the desk.
    ‘DI Harland?’
    ‘It’s Charles,’ said a voice. ‘I just thought I’d give you a call, let you know how we’re getting on with the analysis on that mud.’
    ‘Get to the point,’ Harland scolded, draping his jacket over the back of the chair. ‘What have you found?’
    ‘Fibres,’ Charles replied. ‘We’ve picked up several strands of dark blue nylon from the mud under the victim’s chest – anywhere else and it would have been washed away, but this is new, comparatively clean, with no sign of exposure to the elements.’
    ‘That’s good.’ Harland scribbled the details on his notepad. ‘Do you think the killer was wearing a dark blue top or jacket?’
    ‘Well, it doesn’t match anything the victim was wearing,’ Charles agreed. ‘No guarantees, of course, but it’s something.’
    ‘It is.’
    ‘Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for you at the moment, but we’ll see if we can work out what sort of clothing we’re dealing with. I’ll let you know.’
    ‘Thanks, Charles.’
    He put the phone down. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. And, he thought as he switched on his screen, it was something new to put in his report. Smiling grimly to himself, he started to type.
    As usual, the kettle was empty. Scowling, Harland moved across to the sink and turned on the tap. How hard was it to refill the damn thing when you used the last of the water? He clicked the switch down hard, then wandered out of the kitchen while he waited for the water to boil.
    Moving into the main office, he found PC Gregg leaning back on a chair, drinking a cup of tea. Harland frowned.
    ‘Nothing to do, Stuart?’
    ‘Sorry, sir.’ The young officer tipped his chair forward and looked up. ‘Is there something you need?’
    ‘Finished those statements?’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ Gregg nodded, reaching for a folder.
    ‘Then I’d like you to check the victim’s effects. Start with that key chain.’
    ‘Sir?’
    Harland sighed.
    ‘She had three keys on it,’ he explained. ‘Two will be her front-door keys, but I’d like to know what the third one was for. It’s probably for a door at her office. Find out for me, will you?’
    Gregg shrugged. ‘Okay.’
    ‘And Stuart?’
    ‘Yes, sir?’
    ‘Fill up the bloody kettle when you empty it.’
    He strode back to the kitchen to find the water had boiled. Rummaging in the cupboard, he found his