Professor Stephen Baker took almost another two hours to complete the autopsy after breaking for lunch.  He ate a vegetarian curry consisting of organic mushrooms and potato’s, washed down with a slimline tonic at The Grinning Rat, before rejoining us at the Oxmarket Police Station to tell us what he’d had for lunch and of course his findings.           “Not all the relevant tests have been completed yet.”  He began, as we gathered in DI Silver’s small cramped office.            “Time scale?” DI Silver asked abruptly.           “A few more days, I’m afraid.” the pathologist replied.           “I think you’ll find not only did he drink two bottles of red wine but he also snorted a line of cocaine as well.”       &n

Charlie barked and Kimberley took her time opening the door.  I heard her struggling to make him get back into his basket, but eventually the door opened and she was standing there.  She was wearing a bath robe, fresh out of the shower and the light behind her haloed her hair.  The corridor of her apartment looked warm and inviting.           “You’re early,” she said.           “Sorry,” I said as I stepped inside.           “What time is the film on?”           “Not until a quarter-to-eight.”           “Gives me enough time to get ready then,” she said.           “Certainly does,” I said, cupping her face in my hands.  I pushed my fingertips into her

Standing at the window, I stretched and gazed at the view outside my apartment.  Clear winter skies and snow covered Suffolk fields.  I could see the grey buildings of Oxmarket expanding out before me, but the bright sunlight turned the tired old fishing community into a quaint picture postcard seaside village. The winter made living in Oxmarket worthwhile and tourists didn’t visit at this time of the year, so it felt like I had the place to myself, a private view of a bygone age.  Yet, it had character.  My mind flashed back to the London rush, the wrestle onto the underground and I smiled at the memory of the north-easterly sea breeze ruffling through my hair the night before when I had walked hand in hand with Kimberley and her dog Charlie, along the beach in the darkness. I heard a noise behind me, the shuffle of small feet in my slippers.  I didn’t need to look round.  I felt sleepy lips brush my neck as Kimberley wrapped her arms a

Anna Mitchell surprised me.  She was smart and attractive in her dark blue trouser suit, with blonde hair and a pale complexion; she stood out from the rest of the customers in The Old Cannon Brewery. A group of young men at the bar tracked her when she appeared, but they turned away as she sat down opposite me at the table near the window that overlooked Oxmarket Tye’s  snow-covered cobbled market square.           “Pleased to meet you, Mr Handful,” she said, although there was a frost to her tone.           “Thank you,” I said, “may I get you a drink?”           “A Prosecco would be lovely.”           I walked to the bar and ordered a glass of Prosecco and a pint of Calvors 3.8. On my return, Anna Mitchell thanked me with a con

“What were you arguing with Mr Gannaway about last night?” I asked Craig Osborne brusquely.           “Look, Mr whatever your name is, please don’t waste my time, I have very urgent business to attend to in London.”           “And you’ll have some very important questions to attend to down the police station,” DI Silver bellowed, “if you don’t answer Mr Handful.”           I suddenly saw fear in Osborne’s eyes.           “We were arguing about something he had stolen from Miss Bellagamba,” he said quietly.           “Which was?”           “An Anthonie Van Borsom oil painting.”           “Pricey,” I exclaimed. &