West of the River. David Dalby

      Thomas Mitchell lived in the house directly opposite. To Hazel it looked like all the houses in the street. The conformity was stifling. At least he didn’t have a German car or a caravan in his front yard.

      Hazel rang his doorbell.

      While she waited she looked up her information on him. There wasn’t a lot. Retired school teacher. Wife dead. Children lived abroad. A perfectly ordinary man with a very ordinary life. She rang the bell again. She had a copy of his statement. That seemed straightforward.

      Clearly his testimony hadn’t been enough in court, but given the way the local CID had run the investigation he shouldn’t feel too bad about that.

      Hazel glanced at her watch and rang the bell again. From inside she could hear muffled shuffling noises. The door rattled and opened a few centimetres on a stout looking chain. An elderly man eyed her up.

      “Mr Mitchell?” Hazel raised her voice slightly. She held up her identification. “Detective Sergeant Vernon. Could I speak with you?”

      “Police?” The old man frowned. “Can I have a closer look at that, please?”

      Hazel passed her warrant card over. The old man held it up. Then fumbled with spectacles and took a closer look. He looked at Hazel. Then back to the card. “Yes, that look all right.” He handed the card back, closed the door briefly to remove the chain, and then opened it.

      “Can’t be too careful these days.” He said.

      “No, you can’t.” Hazel said. He was dressed in old, but smart clothes. He might have been about her height, but looked smaller and more fragile. The house was spotless. Hazel supposed he had someone come in to clean for him.

      “This about that girl getting off?” He said.

      “Yes it is, Mr Mitchell.” Hazel noticed he walked very slowly. His left leg dragged. Also his mouth drooped slightly on that side. Hazel didn’t have the medical training her mother had, but it looked, to her, like the legacy of a stroke.

      He shook his head, “I don’t know what things are coming to. Girl like that kills someone and walks away free. I wasn’t the only one who saw her you know.”

      He led the way to the lounge. Hazel shuffled along after him. All his movements were slow and looked painful. “Have a seat.” He said, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

      “No thank you.” Hazel said. She didn’t want to be here all day. The sofa was very soft and comfortable. Mitchell lowered himself into a chair that seemed specially mad for people with mobility problems.

      “Arthritis.” He said. “On top of everything else. I don’t get much sleep. That’s how I came to see that girl…whatshername?”

      “Hannah McShane.” Hazel said. “Not one of your former pupils?”

      “Lord no. Thank goodness. We had decent kids when I was teaching. We taught them respect and they knew what they could and couldn’t do.”

      “When did you retire?” Hazel said.

      “Seventeen years ago. When I was sixty five. “ Which made him eighty two now. He hadn’t aged well. “I’m glad to be out of it. It was all politics towards the end. Do this, don’t do that. Government likes to micromanage everything.”

      “I know what you mean.” Hazel said.

      “We had respect. Authority. We didn’t have some child of a barrister saying what was true and what wasn’t. People listened to us back then.”

      “That’s why I’m here.” Hazel said. “I’d like you to tell me what happened when you saw Hannah McShane run out of Ms Kelsey’s home.” Hazel opened up the statement. “You were woken by the noise, I understand.”

      “No, I was awake. I told you I don’t get much sleep these days. It’s the arthritis. It keeps me up all the time.”

      If he had told that at the trial he would have contradicted the very first line in his official statement. No wonder the jury didn’t believe him. Unreliable witnesses never do any case any good.

      “Were you upstairs or downstairs?” The statement informed her he was downstairs in the kitchen. The curtains were open and the window faced the street.

      “Upstairs.” He said, again, contradicting his statement. “I heard this noise and came down to see what it was.”

      “You went into the kitchen?” Hazel said.

      “Yes, I hurried into the kitchen.”

      Hurried? Hazel had seen this man move. He couldn’t hurry if his house was on fire. Arthritis and a possible stroke had seen to that. She did a mental calculation based on the amount of time it had taken him to get from the door to the lounge and tried to apply that to him coming down the stairs. She had seen a stair lift, but those things didn’t move fast. They carried delicate cargo. There would be time added to get into it and out. A fit and active teenage girl running from the house opposite would be down the street and out of sight before he even reached the bottom of the stairs never mind the kitchen.

      “About what time was this?” Hazel said. The street outside would have been well lit at night. That was in his favour. The kitchen window did face Gloria Kelsey’s home. But Hazel had worries about the man’s eyesight as well as his mobility.

      “Half past two, more or less.” He said. That was something else that tallied with the known facts. She didn’t think he was deliberately spinning a story. He didn’t seem the sort to do that. But he was a man who had commanded some respect and authority back in the day. He wanted to do that again. To be listened to. To have his story heard. It was probably a long time since he’d had that happen.

      “I hurried downstairs and to the kitchen.” He told her. I looked out of the window. To see what was going on. This is usually a very quiet neighbourhood. We don’t have trouble here, Sergeant…er…”

      “Vernon.” Hazel said. She made a mental note that his memory was not too reliable. He’d studied her warrant card closely enough and for long enough to know what her name was.

      “I saw her run out of the house.” He said. “She ran right out, bold as brass, with the knife in her hand, blood dripping from it.”

      Hazel couldn’t remember any mention of blood stains outside in the forensic report. Or any official report. Nor did she recall any photographs of blood stains.

      “What kind of knife was it?” She said.

      “Eh? The knife? Big one. It looked like a kitchen knife. A carving knife, you know.”

      Hazel nodded. The knife used, though not recovered, was a double edged weapon. Probably a flick knife. Nothing at all like a kitchen knife.

      “She was off like a shot. The security guard after her. He deserves a medal that man does. The way he chased her. We’re lucky to have someone like that here.”

      Gloria Kelsey hadn’t been all that lucky. Hazel still didn’t know what Hannah McShane was doing here. If she was here at all.

      That was a point. Was she here at all? How did she get here? Why was she here? If it wasn’t her, then who was it?

      “Did you know her?” Hazel said.

      “Know who?”

      “The teenage girl? Did you know her? Had you seen her here before?”

      “No, I picked her out afterwards. The police line up, you know.”

      Hazel nodded. Line ups were notoriously