Cut You Dead (Dr. Samantha Willerby Mystery #4) - A J Waines Page 0,34

into sooty smears as she wiped her eyes. I led her to the sofa and she sat hunching forward, her elbows on her knees.

‘I have to go back to work,’ she said, looking lost. ‘I need to clean myself up.’

I couldn’t let her disappear just yet. ‘Can I ask if you have the selfies she took from here?’

‘Sure, I’ve got them all. On my phone.’

‘If I give you my email address, could you send me them?’

She shrugged, like a disgruntled teenager. ‘Okay. I suppose.’ Her lips tightened. ‘I thought the police were moving on. I mean… everyone knows it was an accident.’

‘I know this is unpleasant, but do you know if anyone had a grudge against Hazel? Was there anyone she’d fallen out with or had upset at all?’

Tamsin’s face crumpled into a deep frown. ‘No way. Everyone loved her. I mean, she was amazing; generous, warm, bright – lived life to the full.’

I’d had a feeling she’d say something like that. Tamsin was probably Hazel’s number one fan.

She rounded on me. ‘Are you saying someone pushed her? Is that what you mean? Who told you that?’

‘No,’ I said, flapping my hand. ‘No one has suggested anything like that. Honestly. I’m just checking things out, that’s all.’

Tamsin turned her back on me and moved briskly towards the front door.

I changed tack as I felt my remaining moments running out. ‘Hazel had hairdressing scissors on her when she fell. It’s a strange thing to keep in your pocket. Do you know why?’

Tamsin stopped and turned around with a groan. ‘Oh, God. She loved her hair, didn’t she? I mean, if you’ve got golden locks like that why wouldn’t you be vain about it.’ Tamsin stepped ahead of me into the corridor. ‘She had them on her after it happened. Kept checking in the mirror to see if it needed tidying up.’

She waited for me to join her, then locked the flat door.

‘After what happened?’

She stood facing me outside her own flat door, her back to it like a sentry. ‘She was devastated, kind of ashamed, as well. She cursed herself for letting it happen. Didn’t tell anyone about it except me.’ She hesitated, looking uncomfortable.

‘Letting what happen?’ I whispered as gently as I could.

I sensed her sizing me up, considering how much to tell me. ‘Letting someone hack at her lovely hair.’ Tamsin’s eyes flicked briefly to mine. ‘Some bastard snipped off a big piece at the back. Two days after New Year. She had a scarf around her neck so she didn’t feel the scissors. That’s why she had to get it all cut off.’

26

Instead of charging straight back to the office, I returned home to take stock. I’d learnt my lesson. Nothing would happen with Hazel’s police investigation unless there was concrete new evidence. In their eyes I had nothing.

I was putting together a late lunch of Marmite on low-calorie crispbread – a modest alternative to the buttered muffins I would have preferred – when my phone pinged. True to her word, Tamsin had sent over the photos I’d asked for – Hazel’s selfies taken from her balcony. A message came with them:

There are over a hundred shots, so I’m only sending twenty. I laid awake last night thinking about our discussion and for what it’s worth, I think you’re wrong. No one would want to harm Hazel. She just lost her balance.

The selfies had been taken in all seasons, at different times of the day: during thunderstorms, with snow drifting down in the background, with planes flying past. The latest one, taken at New Year, had a backdrop of fireworks bursting open in the night sky. It showed Hazel perched on the top of the balcony barrier looking victorious, her hair floating out behind her like a magical aura. Certainly striking.

I’d made a note of the time of death recorded on Hazel’s post-mortem. It had been 2.03pm when pedestrians on the pavement below had seen her fall. Only an hour later than the corresponding time of my visit to Tamsin this lunchtime, when the sun had broken through in short bursts. Did the police believe that had been a contributing factor? Maybe it shone straight into Hazel’s eyes and blinded her momentarily.

In every shot, Hazel was holding more or less the same position. Perched in a sophisticated pose in the manner of Jackie Onassis or Lady Gaga, lounging on yachts for magazine shots.

I found the highest sturdy surface I could find in my flat; the chest of drawers