A Brush with Death: A Penny Brannigan Mystery - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,59

moved on, and although the crime-scene tape was still in place, the police cars were gone, taking with them the sense of drama and urgency.

She introduced herself to a tired and bored-looking uniformed officer, who waved her through into the building where Gareth was waiting for her at the entrance.

“Victoria’s gone home,” he said. “Said something about being desperate for a bath. Crime scenes often take people that way.” He smiled at her. “I expect you’d like to see where we found the remains.” In response to her quizzical look, he added, “It’s all right. The crime-scene people have finished. There wasn’t much to work with after twenty years or so.”

The cement floor was littered with jagged lengths of broken boards, dusty cider bottles, piles of crumpled newspapers, an old shoe, a couple of filthy T-shirts, empty paint cans, and bits and pieces of metal work.

“The workers pulled out the ductwork and discovered the bones,” Davies explained. “It looked as if the body had been placed inside and then the grille replaced. We’ll know more when we’ve dated and typed the bones and determined what the building was being used for at that time.”

Penny bent over and peered into the dark, empty space.

“Not much to see, is there?”

She straightened up and looked around. “What a huge mess. And the smell!”

Davies pointed at the flaking ceiling. The plastering had come away, exposing bare wood.

“Not sure if I should ask this, but are you sure you and Victoria can manage this renovation? Do you have any experience with this kind of project?”

“I don’t, but Victoria does. She and her ex-husband did up properties in London and sold them. Made a lot of money. That’s why her divorce settlement was tied up for so long.” She sighed. “But I know what you mean. Still, the building inspectors tell us the place has good bones,” she glanced at him, “so to speak. We’re practically building it all new, so when we’re done, it’ll be something else. You wait and see.”

“I believe you, though thousands wouldn’t. Right, how about that dinner? What do you feel like tonight?”

“Hmm. The Barley Bin, I think. I fancy something hearty with mashed potatoes.”

“Sounds good. Shall we go?”

“Just one more thing.”

Penny walked over to the hole where the body had been found and gently laid the red roses on the floor in front of it.

“Of course, if the body is that of Cynthia Browning, we may have some problems finding any relatives,” Davies said as the waiter brought them each a glass of wine. “Her parents are probably long dead. If people thought she emigrated, she would never have been reported as missing. And after all this time, there may be a problem obtaining dental records, but if she is who you think she is, Merseyside police will be glad to help, I’m sure.”

“What will you do if it turns out not to be Cynthia Browning?” Penny asked. She helped herself to a bread roll, broke it in half, buttered it, and popped it in her mouth.

“We’ll learn what we can from the remains and then search missing persons records for the right time frame. But that’s business. Let’s talk about something else.”

“There is one thing I’d like to know,” Penny said. “Why didn’t you want to go with me to Liverpool? I thought we could have made a nice day of it.”

Davies looked away and grimaced.

“I didn’t think about it like that until later, and of course you’re right, we could have.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what to say, really. It’s just that when you asked, I didn’t feel like going to Liverpool. Later, of course, I wished I had, but by then it was too late. I don’t know if it was the drive or what, but I . . . I’m sorry, I know this is sounding hopelessly lame. It wasn’t that I had anything better to do. And it certainly wasn’t that I didn’t want to be with you.”

He gave her a soft smile.

“What did you do that afternoon, if I may ask?”

“You know, I can’t remember. I expect I worked in the garden and took a nap.”

Penny laughed.

“And how far off is your retirement, did you say?”

They settled back in their chairs and, when their salads arrived, tucked in.

A few minutes later, Penny picked up the conversation where they’d left off.

“I am going back to Liverpool, though, you might be interested to know. There’s a multimedia exhibit opening soon of mid-twentieth-century Liverpool artists, and