Scene of Crime by Jill McGown Read Free Book Online Page A

campaign about the rise in the burglary statistics, complaining about police performance. Last year it had been street crime, and the Chief Constable had decided that street crime must be targeted. If you took resources away from one thing to deal with another, this was what happened. Next year it would be burglary they were targeting. And thefts from vehicles would go up.
    “I can assure you we have been working on them, Mr. Jones, but if we could just get back to tonight …”
    “Tonight, a young woman has died because of these … these animals! And it’s all very well you and your colleagues coming here now—now that it’s finally happened. The place is crawling with policemen when it’s too late! Why didn’t you try harder to catch these people in the first place? And why aren’t you looking for that black lad instead of making me tell you all about him again?”
    Tom was used to getting the blame for all the ills that befell mankind; it didn’t bother him. In a way, it made him feel more comfortable with Mr. Jones; until now, he had seemed to regard the death of his next door neighbor as more of an irritation than anything else. But under all that bluster was someone shocked and frightened, and Tom knew if he didn’t calm Mr. Jones down, he’d get nothing useful out of him. This wasn’t his strong point; he would be much more at home with the burglar. He understood how to talk to lawbreakers and those suspected of having broken the law. Witnesses were different.
    “Believe me, Mr. Jones, my colleagues are looking for him. But it would make a big difference if we had a little more to go on. And we find that if we ask people to go over what they saw, they sometimes remember a little bit more than they did originally. So, perhaps you could start at the beginning? I believe you were coming home from work?”
    “From my place of business,” said Mr. Jones, bridling once more.
    Tom, with a slight movement of his hand, apologized for calling it something so lowly as work, and correctly guessed that Mr. Jones didn’t work for anyone else. “You’re in business for yourself?”
    “I have a shop in the High Street. Toys and games. I was open late tonight, so I didn’t get home until about ten past eight. I drove into the garage—”
    “That’s at the rear of the house?”
    “Yes. There’s a service road running along the back of these properties. The garages are at the rear, of course.”
    Tom nodded.
    “And as I came back out I could hear an argument.”
    “Did you recognize the voices?”
    “No. He was angry, and she was crying—it could have been anyone, really. He wasn’t shouting—if anything, he was keeping his voice down. But he was very angry.”
    “Did you hear what was being said?”
    “Just the odd word—mostly swearing. From him. And I heard noises. A scuffle or something, and what might have been blows. I heard her cry out.”
    “You should have gone next door, then,” said Mrs. Jones. “If you thought someone was assaulting her.”
    “I thought it was her husband.”
    “And that would have made it all right, would it?”
    “No, but—” Mr. Jones looked helplessly at Tom, appealing for some male support. “I would have done something,” he said, “said something, if it had gone on for any length of time. But it didn’t. It lasted a few seconds, that was all. Then it went quiet, and I thought it had calmed down. That’s when I came into the house.”
    “Did you hear any of this, Mrs. Jones?”
    “No,” she said. “But I had the television on. I thought maybe that’s what Geoffrey had heard, because they’d been having a row.” She smiled a little. “Well, they always are in soaps, aren’t they?”
    “And that couldn’t have been what you heard?”
    “No, of course it couldn’t! I know the difference between the television and real people. Besides, they don’t use that sort of language in soaps.”
    “What sort of language?”
    “Well, you know,” said