No Name Lane (Howard Linskey) by Howard Linskey Page B

the fact that she’d wasted half a morning interviewing a teenage cross-country runner who been picked for the county and immediately throwing her bag back onto her shoulder.
    ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Mel told her, ‘he’s just asked Martin to cover it for you.’
    ‘It’s my patch,’ Helen told her firmly.
    Helen stepped out in front of Martin’s car and waved him down. He made a point of braking theatrically and lurching forwards. Then he slowly wound down his window.
    ‘Bloody hell, Helen, it’s a good job I was watching where I was going.’
    ‘They told me Malcolm asked you to cover for me at Great Middleton,’ she said breathlessly.
    ‘Yeah,’ he said.
    ‘Well I’m back now, so there’s no need.’
    She could tell from the look on his face that he wasn’t happy with that but if he wanted an argument he’d picked the wrong woman in the wrong week.
    ‘I’mon my way now,’ he said stubbornly, as if this was a massive inconvenience.
    ‘You haven’t even left the car park,’ she told him.
    ‘Look, love,’ he began, ‘you’re still the new girl and I’ve been doing this since God was a boy. Why not leave this one to me, eh? If you mess up a murder, Malcolm will not be impressed. We don’t get many of them.’
    ‘Thanks for the offer, Martin,’ she managed, ‘but I won’t mess it up.’
    ‘I don’t know, love,’ he said it thoughtfully, like he was Helen’s dad contemplating the wisdom of allowing her to go to her first teenage party.
    Helen decided she’d had enough of this conversation, ‘Look, Martin, this story is on my patch. If you want to race me down there to cover it, that’s up to you, but I am going. We can arrive together if you want, then we’ll both look like idiots.’ And before he could answer, she headed for her car.
    He leaned out of his window and called after her, ‘There’s no need to talk to people like that!’
    She whirled round then, ‘Isn’t there?’ she said. ‘Oh sorry, love, can’t you take a joke?’ she was mimicking the loud hectoring tone the older men on the Messenger used towards young women in the office.
    ‘Bit sensitive, aren’t you? What’s the matter? Time of the month?’ And Martin’s head ducked quickly back into his car.
    He was busily parking it once more when she sped past him.
    Tom Carney had only been back in the North East for one night but he woke that morning with a hangover thatwould have felled a lesser man. How had he managed that?
    He had virtually decided to give himself a day off when Colin the landlord informed him that the police had found a body and it was all everyone in the village was talking about. He managed to force himself to leave the Greyhound and arrived at the scene moments later, flashing his press card at a young, uniformed bobby who was manning the school gates. ‘Is it her?’ he asked with no preamble.
    The constable shook his head and this surprised Tom. ‘What exactly have they found then?’
    ‘You’ll have to ask them,’ and the constable jerked his head towards the school building, ‘they’re in the field out back.’
    ‘Can’t you just tell me?’ asked Tom, knowing that cooperation from stressed detectives at such an early stage in proceedings was unlikely.
    ‘You’ll get me shot if I do,’ said the bobby. ‘Get your arse down the hill and ask them. Maybe they’ll tell you something.’
    Whatever they’d found it must have been important, judging by the number of police officers moving backwards and forwards between the field and the school building, many of them dressed in protective clothing to ensure they did not pollute the crime scene. A large white canopy had been erected to keep out prying eyes, while a JCB stood idle by the spot.
    Tom approached a detective. ‘I can’t tell you anything at this stage,’ he was told firmly. ‘This is a crime scene, give us room to do our job,’ and when Tom tried to ask a question he was told, ‘and I do mean now.’ The response