Desperate Measures: A Mystery by Jo Bannister Read Free Book Online Page B

twenty quid apiece; that was a professional job.
    The British police have an odd relationship with private investigators. Officially they’re dismissive, on the grounds that anything that needs investigating is the preserve of the police and paying a private investigator to investigate anything else is like pushing money down a manhole. Unofficially, though, there is often a kind of guarded respect between them, not least because many private investigators are retired police officers.
    A retired police officer would know how a search should be conducted, and would have the time to do it properly.
    Hazel presented herself at the front desk just as Sergeant Murchison was coming on duty. She thought she saw him wince, but she might have been mistaken. For one thing, he owed her. Until she worked out how the recent death in custody had come about, much of the responsibility had hovered over Donald Murchison’s shoulders. One day he would be grateful to her.
    Perhaps it was a little soon for gratitude. But as long as she stayed this side of the counter, she was a member of the public and he was there to serve her. Worse, she was a member of the public who knew he was there to serve her.
    “Hazel,” he acknowledged cautiously. “How can I help you?”
    “I need the name of a reliable private investigator. Ex-job. Discretion and professionalism more important than cost. Anyone come to mind?”
    If a genuine member of the public had asked him that, Murchison would have referred her to the Yellow Pages rather than make a recommendation. But Hazel Best was still, more or less, a colleague. He’d need a reason not to help her out, and he couldn’t think of one quickly enough. “What’s it to do with?”
    She was ready for that one. “Lost property.”
    Sergeant Murchison relaxed, just a little. “I suppose.…”
    “Yes?”
    “I suppose you could try Martha.…”
    *   *   *
    Martha Harris wasn’t everyone’s idea of a private investigator. But then, she hadn’t been everyone’s idea of a detective sergeant either, certainly not twenty years before, when she first came to Norbold on promotion from Newcastle. She was a woman at a time when most detectives were male; even in her twenties she was somewhat stocky, at a time when women were still judged first by their looks and only then by their abilities; and finally, though a quick temper had got her into trouble on a number of occasions, she was plainly a kind woman. No one raised on cop shows expected that of an ambitious female detective.
    Now she was twenty years older, significantly fatter, and curious to discover what Hazel wanted. While she waited, she pushed the second half of a box of chocolates across the desk in her visitor’s direction. “Help yourself, pet. Them ones in gold foil are good.”
    Hazel put on her friendliest smile and took a strawberry cream instead. “Ms. Harris, do you know who I am?”
    The other woman considered for a moment before nodding. “Aye, pet, I do.”
    “Then you know I’m a police officer.”
    Another thoughtful pause. “Who you are, what you do, what you did.”
    Hazel’s smile never wavered. “Did you know that when you broke into my flat?”
    This time the pause was much longer. Martha Harris reached out and took another chocolate. It was the last one in gold foil. “I didn’t break anything,” she said eventually.
    “That’s how I know it was you.”
    It’s a sad fact of policing that almost the only compliments you get are from other police officers. Those who go solo forfeit even that meager source of appreciation. Ms. Harris offered half a smile in acknowledgment. “Off the record?”
    “For now,” conceded Hazel carefully.
    “I didn’t know you were job when I took the man’s shilling. When I realized, I gave it back.”
    “I don’t suppose it would do me any good to ask what man?”
    The smile broadened. “No, pet.”
    “What were you looking for? When you didn’t break into my