A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,18

I really welcome the time spent outdoors just being quiet and having the opportunity to relax and do something I enjoy. I always try to make one good decision while I’m out there, even if it’s just what I’m going to wear the next day. Or have for dinner.”

Penny smiled. A few years ago she had started a friendly group of amateur artists who went out together once a month to ramble and paint. Earlier in the year, Alwynne had taken some photos that had proved helpful in identifying a killer.

“And sometimes,” Penny reminded her, “you do some real good on your expeditions!”

Alwynne laughed. A pleasant, down-to-earth, middle-aged woman with a strong streak of practicality and resourcefulness, she took life as she found it. “Anyway,” Penny reassured her, “I’ll look out for your photos.”

“Good. Now, what colour should I have? You choose, Penny.”

Six

“Morning, Sergeant.”

Sgt. Bethan Morgan looked up from her desk and smiled at her superior officer.

“Morning, sir.”

“Good to have you back,” Davies replied, as he hung his coat on the hook behind the door. Then, turning to face her, he pointed at the papers covering her desk. “Leave those for now,” he said, “and come into my office. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you. But before we get into it, why don’t we go and grab a coffee?”

After a trip to the canteen, they settled in Davies’ office, and he pulled out his notebook as Bethan did the same.

“Now, Sergeant,” he began, “as you know, Penny’s moved into Emma Teasdale’s old cottage, and something has happened. She’s discovered that a close friend of the woman she inherited the cottage from was killed in 1970. Hit-and-run accident. Took place just behind the cottage. The person who did it was never caught.”

Bethan felt a stirring of professional excitement. In her early thirties, she was intuitive and ambitious. Her willingness to put in long hours, combined with her solid, reliable work, was attracting attention in all the right places.

“What would you like me do?”

“Well,” Davies replied, “as you might have expected, Penny’s decided she’s going to look into this accident. At first, I wasn’t too keen, but now that I’ve had a chance to think it over, I’m starting to warm to the idea. Sometimes, stirring things up helps uncover new evidence that can breathe new life into a cold case.” He took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. “People remember things that didn’t seem important at the time and come forward. The phone call. The unlocked door. Something that went missing just a few days before. The car that drove past. Or maybe something’s been niggling away at them for years, and realizing they’re not getting any younger, they decide to do the right thing and get things off their chest. We had that case a few years back, before your time, when a man in his forties dropped into the station out of the blue one day to tell us he’d seen his uncle murder his aunt. He was about eight at the time, and after all these years, he didn’t want to keep his uncle’s dirty little secret any longer.”

“I did hear something about that,” Bethan said. “Do you really think Penny will be able to dig up anything?”

“She’s got a knack for seeing the significance in the small details most of us overlook, and I expect she’ll bring her friends in on it, so who knows? They might even have resources we don’t. Besides, how much trouble can a little group of well-meaning, middle-aged ladies get into?”

As a knowing smile filled with the promise of irony began to form at the corners of Bethan’s lips, he groaned.

“Oh, God, don’t tell me. Famous last words.

“Anyway, what I’d like you to do is go through the files and pull everything you can on this case. The victim’s name was Alys Jones.” He spelled the first name.

“Then, put together a proper briefing for them at Penny’s cottage. Call Penny and see what time would suit her. Bring a large map, a whiteboard, and some photos and go over everything, so they know as much as we can tell them. Make it look official, but keep it informal, if you know what I mean.” He thought for a moment and then added, “and make sure the photos aren’t too graphic. We don’t want to be upsetting anybody.”

He tapped his desk with his finger.

“Let me know who’s there and how you get on.”

“That’ll be fine, Mrs. Lloyd,” said Victoria. “Right, we’ll