{"product_id":"the-last-detective-isbn-9781616955304","title":"The Last Detective","description":"\u003cb\u003e\"I am so excited for you to be at the very beginning of this trend-setting, beautifully written, vivid series.\"—from the introduction by LOUISE PENNY\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the first entry to the series and winner of the 1992 Anthony Boucher Award for Best Mystery Novel, Diamond must locate two missing letters attributed to Jane Austen to solve the murder of the \"Lady in the Lake.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA woman’s body has been found floating in the weeds in a lake near Bath. There are no marks on her and no murder weapon. No one will identify her. It looks like Detective Superintendent Peter Diamond has his work cut out for him. Diamond is one of the last detectives of his kind, a gumshoe whose heroes solved crimes by question and answer, door stepping and deduction. To unravel this one, Diamond must locate two missing letters attributed to Jane Austen and defy his superiors in order to save a woman unjustly accused of murder.\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eCrime Writers' Association Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement Recipient \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eMystery Writers of America 2018 Grandmaster\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Last Detective\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The first volume in Lovesey’s beloved Peter Diamond series has a handsome new 20th-anniversary edition.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A bravura performance . . . slyly paced, marbled with surprise and in the end, strangely affecting.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Thickly textured, amusing, unpredictably mixing puzzle and procedural . . . One of the best.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A treasure.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eChicago Sun-Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not only a good story but a compelling one.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Top-form Lovesey.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Witty . . . One surprise after another.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for The Peter Diamond series\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m jealous of everyone discovering Lovesey and Diamond for the first time—you have a wonderful backlist to catch up on. Me, all I can do is wait for the next book.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Sara Paretsky\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What'll it be today? A knotty puzzle mystery? A fast-paced police procedural? Something more high-toned, with a bit of wit? With the British author Peter Lovesey, there's no need to make those agonizing decisions, because his books have it all.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mr. Lovesey's narrative is swift, but he takes time out for local color and abundant humor, the latter springing from the book's quirky characters . . . Lovesey is a wizard at mixing character-driven comedy with realistic-to-grim suspense. And in a writing career spanning four decades, he has created a stylish and varied body of work.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Next to Jane Austen, Peter Lovesey is the writer the tourist board of Bath, England, extols most proudly . . . The enduring draw of the Peter Diamond books derives both from the beguiling Bath cityscape and the brusque character of Diamond himself.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—NPR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003ePeter Lovesey is the author of more than thirty highly praised mystery novels. He has been awarded the CWA Gold and Silver Daggers, the Cartier Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement, the \u003ci\u003eStrand Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e Award for Lifetime Achievement, the Macavity, Barry, and Anthony Awards, and many other honors. He lives in West Sussex, England.ONE \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA MAN STOOD THIGH-DEEP IN WATER, motionless,\u003cbr\u003eabsorbed, unaware of what was drifting towards him. He was\u003cbr\u003efishing on the north shore of Chew Valley Lake, a 1200-acre\u003cbr\u003ereservoir at the foot of the Mendip Hills south of Bristol. He\u003cbr\u003ehad already taken three brown trout of respectable weight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe watched keenly for a telltale swirl in the calm lake\u003cbr\u003ewhere he had cast. The conditions were promising. It was an\u003cbr\u003eevening late in September, the sky was overcast and the flies\u003cbr\u003ein their millions had just whirled above him in their spectacular\u003cbr\u003esunset flight, soaring and swooping over the lake in a\u003cbr\u003emass darker and more dense than the clouds, their droning\u003cbr\u003eas resonant as a train in the underground. The day’s hatch,\u003cbr\u003eirresistible to hungry fish.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA light south-westerly fretted the surface around him, yet\u003cbr\u003eahead there was this bar of water, known to fishermen as the\u003cbr\u003escum, that showed a different pattern in the fading light.\u003cbr\u003eThere, he knew by experience, the fish preferred to rise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo preoccupied was the man that he failed altogether to\u003cbr\u003enotice a pale object at closer proximity. It drifted languidly\u003cbr\u003ein the current created by the wind, more than half submerged,\u003cbr\u003ewith a slight rocking motion that fitfully produced\u003cbr\u003ea semblance of life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinally it touched him. A white hand slid against his\u003cbr\u003ethigh. A complete arm angled outwards as the body lodged\u003cbr\u003eagainst him, trapped at the armpit. It was a dead woman,\u003cbr\u003eface-up and naked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe fisherman glanced down. From high in his throat\u003cbr\u003ecame a childishly shrill, indrawn cry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor a moment he stood as if petrified. Then he made an\u003cbr\u003eeffort to gather himself mentally so as to disentangle himself\u003cbr\u003efrom the undesired embrace. Unwilling to touch the\u003cbr\u003ecorpse with his hands, he used the handle of the rod as a\u003cbr\u003elever, lodging the end in the armpit and pushing the body\u003cbr\u003eaway from him, turning it at the same time, then stepping\u003cbr\u003easide to let it move on its way with the current. That accomplished,\u003cbr\u003ehe grabbed his net from its anchorage in the mud\u003cbr\u003eand, without even stopping to reel in his line, splashed his\u003cbr\u003eway to the bank. There, he looked about him. No one was\u003cbr\u003ein sight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis angler was not public-spirited. His response to the\u003cbr\u003ediscovery was to bundle his tackle together and move off to\u003cbr\u003ehis car as fast as possible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe did have one judicious thought. Before leaving, he\u003cbr\u003eopened the bag containing his catch and threw the three\u003cbr\u003etrout back into the water.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTWO \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA LITTLE AFTER 10.30 THE same Saturday evening,\u003cbr\u003ePolice Constable Harry Sedgemoor and his wife Shirley\u003cbr\u003ewere watching a horror video in their terraced cottage in\u003cbr\u003eBishop Sutton, on the eastern side of the lake. PC Sedgemoor\u003cbr\u003ehad come off duty at six. His long body was stretched\u003cbr\u003ealong the length of the sofa, his bare feet projecting over\u003cbr\u003eone end. On this hot night he had changed into a black\u003cbr\u003esinglet and shorts. A can of Malthouse Bitter was in his left\u003cbr\u003ehand, while his right was stroking Shirley’s head, idly teasing\u003cbr\u003eout the black curls and feeling them spring back into\u003cbr\u003eshape. Shirley, after her shower dressed only in her white\u003cbr\u003ecotton nightie, reclined on the floor, propped against the\u003cbr\u003esofa. She had her eyes closed. She had lost interest in the\u003cbr\u003efilm, but she didn’t object to Harry watching if it resulted\u003cbr\u003eafterwards in his snuggling up close to her in bed, as he\u003cbr\u003eusually did after watching a horror film. Secretly, she suspected\u003cbr\u003ehe was more scared by them than she, but you didn’t\u003cbr\u003esuggest that sort of thing to your husband, particularly if he\u003cbr\u003ehappened to be a policeman. So she waited patiently for\u003cbr\u003eit to end. The tape hadn’t much longer to run. Harry had\u003cbr\u003eseveral times pressed the fast-forward button to get through\u003cbr\u003eboring bits of conversation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe violins on the video soundtrack were working up to\u003cbr\u003ea piercing crescendo when the Sedgemoors both heard the\u003cbr\u003eclick of their own front gate. Shirley said bitterly, ‘I don’t\u003cbr\u003ebelieve it! What time is it?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer husband sighed, swung his legs off the sofa, got up\u003cbr\u003eand looked out of the window. ‘Some woman.’ He couldn’t\u003cbr\u003esee much in the porch light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe recognized the caller when he opened the door:\u003cbr\u003eMiss Trenchard-Smith, who lived alone in one of the older\u003cbr\u003ehouses at the far end of the village. An upright seventy-yearold\u003cbr\u003enever seen without her Tyrolean hat, which over the\u003cbr\u003eyears had faded in colour from a severe brown to a shade\u003cbr\u003ethat was starting to fit in with the deep pink of the local\u003cbr\u003estone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I hesitate to disturb you so late, Officer,’ she said as her\u003cbr\u003eeyes travelled over his shorts and singlet in a series of rapid\u003cbr\u003ejerks. ‘However, I think you will agree that what I have found\u003cbr\u003eis sufficiently serious to justify this intrusion.’ Her gratingly\u003cbr\u003egenteel accent articulated the words with self-importance.\u003cbr\u003eShe may have lived in the village since the war, but she\u003cbr\u003ewould never pass as local and probably didn’t care to.\u003cbr\u003ePC Sedgemoor said with indulgence, ‘What might that\u003cbr\u003ebe, Miss Trenchard-Smith?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘A dead body.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘A body?’ He fingered the tip of his chin and tried to\u003cbr\u003eappear unperturbed, but his pulses throbbed. After six\u003cbr\u003emonths in the force he had yet to be called to a corpse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMiss Trenchard-Smith continued with her explanation.\u003cbr\u003e‘I was walking my cats by the lake. People don’t believe that\u003cbr\u003ecats like to be taken for walks, but mine do. Every evening\u003cbr\u003eabout this time. They insist on it. They won’t let me sleep if\u003cbr\u003eI haven’t taken them out.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘A human body, you mean?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Well, of course. A woman. Not a stitch of clothing on\u003cbr\u003eher, poor creature.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘You’d better show me. Is it . . . is she nearby?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘In the lake, if she hasn’t floated away already.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSedgemoor refrained from pointing out that the body\u003cbr\u003ewould remain in the lake even if it had floated away. He\u003cbr\u003eneeded Miss Trenchard-Smith’s co-operation. He invited\u003cbr\u003eher into the cottage for a moment while he ran upstairs to\u003cbr\u003ecollect a sweater and his personal radio.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShirley, meanwhile, had stood up and wished a good evening\u003cbr\u003eto Miss Trenchard-Smith, whose tone in replying made\u003cbr\u003eit plain that in her view no respectable woman ought to be\u003cbr\u003eseen in her nightwear outside the bedroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘What a horrid experience for you!’ Shirley remarked,\u003cbr\u003emeaning what had happened beside the lake. ‘Would you\u003cbr\u003ecare for a nip of something to calm you down?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMiss Trenchard-Smith curtly thanked her and declined.\u003cbr\u003e‘But you can look after my cats while I’m gone,’ she said as\u003cbr\u003eif bestowing a favour on Shirley. ‘You don’t mind cats, do\u003cbr\u003eyou?’ Without pausing to get an answer she went to the door\u003cbr\u003eand called, ‘Come on, come on, come on,’ and two Siamese\u003cbr\u003eraced from the shadows straight into the cottage and leapt\u003cbr\u003eon to the warm spot Harry had vacated on the sofa as if it\u003cbr\u003ewere prearranged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Harry came down again, Shirley glanced at what\u003cbr\u003ehe was wearing and said, ‘I thought you were going upstairs\u003cbr\u003eto put some trousers on.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe said, ‘I might have to wade in and fetch something\u003cbr\u003eout, mightn’t I?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe shuddered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe picked his torch off the shelf by the door. Managing\u003cbr\u003eto sound quite well in control, he said, “Bye, love.’ He\u003cbr\u003ekissed Shirley lightly and tried to provide more reassurance\u003cbr\u003eby whispering, ‘I expect she imagined it.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot that tough old bird, Shirley thought. If she says she\u003cbr\u003efound a corpse, it’s there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarry Sedgemoor was less certain. While driving Miss\u003cbr\u003eTrenchard-Smith the half-mile or so down to the lakeside\u003cbr\u003ehe seriously speculated that she might be doing this out\u003cbr\u003eof a desire to enliven her placid routine with gratuitous\u003cbr\u003eexcitement. Old women living alone had been known to\u003cbr\u003ewaste police time with tall stories. If this were the case he\u003cbr\u003ewould be incensed. He was damned sure Shirley wouldn’t\u003cbr\u003ewant to make love after this. Whatever there might or\u003cbr\u003emight not be in the lake, the mention of a corpse would\u003cbr\u003ecolour her imagination so vividly that nothing he did or\u003cbr\u003esaid would relax her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith an effort to be the policeman, he asked Miss\u003cbr\u003eTrenchard-Smith to tell him where to stop the car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Anywhere you like,’ she said with an ominously nonchalant\u003cbr\u003eair. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea where we are.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe halted where the road came to an end. They got out\u003cbr\u003eand started across a patch of turf, his torch probing the\u003cbr\u003espace ahead. The reservoir was enclosed by a low boundary\u003cbr\u003efence, beyond which clumps of reeds stirred in the breeze,\u003cbr\u003eappearing to flicker in the torchlight. At intervals were flat\u003cbr\u003estretches of shoreline.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘How exactly did you get down to the water?’ he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Through one of the gates.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Those are for fishermen only.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I don’t disturb them.’ She gave a laugh. ‘I won’t tell anyone\u003cbr\u003eyou broke the law.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe pushed open a gate and they picked their way down\u003cbr\u003eto the water’s edge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Was this the place?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe said, ‘It all looks amazingly different now.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eContaining his annoyance, he drew the torch-beam\u003cbr\u003eslowly across a wide angle. ‘You must have some idea. How\u003cbr\u003edid you notice the body?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘There was still some daylight then.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFifty yards along the bank was a place where the reeds\u003cbr\u003egrew extra tall. ‘Anywhere like that?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I suppose there’s no harm in looking,’ she said.\u003cbr\u003e‘That’s why we’re here, miss.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stepped in and felt his foot sink into soft mud. ‘You’d\u003cbr\u003ebetter stay where you are,’ he told Miss Trenchard-Smith.\u003cbr\u003eHe worked his way through to the far side. Nothing was\u003cbr\u003ethere except a family of ducks that put up a noisy protest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe returned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe said, ‘Just look at the state of your gym shoes!’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘We’re looking for a body, miss,’ PC Sedgemoor reminded\u003cbr\u003eher. ‘We’ve got to do the job properly.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘If you’re going to wade through every clump of reeds,\u003cbr\u003ewe’ll be out all night,’ she said blithely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwenty minutes’ searching resulted only in Miss\u003cbr\u003eTrenchard-Smith becoming more flippant and PC Sedgemoor\u003cbr\u003eless patient. They moved steadily along the shoreline.\u003cbr\u003eHe shone the torch on his watch, thinking bitterly of Shirley\u003cbr\u003ealone in the cottage with those unlikeable cats while he\u003cbr\u003edanced attendance on this scatty old maid. Almost 11.30.\u003cbr\u003eWhat a Saturday night! In an impatient gesture he swung\u003cbr\u003ethe beam rapidly across the whole width of the water as if\u003cbr\u003eto demonstrate the futility of the task. And perversely that\u003cbr\u003ewas the moment when Miss Trenchard-Smith said, ‘There!’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Where?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Give me the torch,’ she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe handed it to her and watched as she held it at arm’s\u003cbr\u003elength. The beam picked out something white in the water.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePC Sedgemoor took a short, quick breath. ‘What do you\u003cbr\u003eknow?’ he said in a whisper. ‘You were right.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe body had lodged among the reeds not more than\u003cbr\u003eten feet from where they stood, in a place where waterweed,\u003cbr\u003ebright viridian in the torchlight, grew densely. Unquestionably\u003cbr\u003ea woman, face upwards, her long hair splayed in the\u003cbr\u003ewater, a strand of it across her throat. The pale flesh was\u003cbr\u003eflecked with seedpods. No wounds were apparent. Sedgemoor\u003cbr\u003ewas reminded of a painting he had once seen on a\u003cbr\u003eschool trip to London: a woman lying dead among reeds, evidently\u003cbr\u003edrowned. It had impressed him because the teacher\u003cbr\u003ehad said that the model had been forced to lie for hours\u003cbr\u003ein a bath in the artist’s studio and one day the artist had\u003cbr\u003eforgotten to fill the lamps that were provided to keep the\u003cbr\u003ewater warm. As a result the girl had contracted an illness that\u003cbr\u003edidn’t immediately kill her, but certainly shortened her life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe story had been given to the class as an example of\u003cbr\u003eobsessive fidelity to the subject. Sedgemoor had stood in\u003cbr\u003efront of the painting until the teacher had called his name\u003cbr\u003esharply from the next room, for it had been the only painting\u003cbr\u003eof a dead person he had seen, and death is fascinating to\u003cbr\u003echildren. Now, faced with an actual drowned corpse, he was\u003cbr\u003emade acutely aware how idealized the Pre-Raphaelite image\u003cbr\u003ehad been. It wasn’t merely that the girl in the painting had\u003cbr\u003ebeen clothed. Her hands and face had lain elegantly on the\u003cbr\u003esurface of the water. The face of the real drowned woman\u003cbr\u003ewas submerged, drawn under by the weight of the head.\u003cbr\u003eThe belly was uppermost, and it was swollen. The skin on\u003cbr\u003ethe breasts had a puckered appearance. The hands hung\u003cbr\u003etoo low to be visible at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘There’s a wind blowing up,’ said Miss Trenchard-Smith.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Yes,’ he responded in a preoccupied way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘If you don’t do something about it, she’ll drift away again.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe duty inspector at ‘F’ Division in Yeovil picked out the\u003cbr\u003esignificant word from PC Sedgemoor’s call. ‘Naked’ meant\u003cbr\u003ea full alert. You can generally rule out accident or suicide\u003cbr\u003eif you discover a naked corpse in a lake. ‘And you say you\u003cbr\u003ehandled it? Was that necessary? All right, lad. Stay where\u003cbr\u003eyou are. I mean that literally. Stand on the spot. Don’t trample\u003cbr\u003ethe ground. Don’t touch the corpse again. Don’t smoke,\u003cbr\u003ecomb your hair, scratch your balls, anything.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSedgemoor was compelled to ignore the instruction. He\u003cbr\u003ehadn’t cared to admit that he was calling in from the car,\u003cbr\u003ewhere he had stupidly left his personal radio. He set off at a\u003cbr\u003etrot, back to the lakeside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMiss Trenchard-Smith stood by the body in the darkness,\u003cbr\u003esublimely unconcerned. ‘I switched off the torch to save\u003cbr\u003eyour battery.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe told her that assistance was on the way and he would\u003cbr\u003esee that she was taken home shortly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I hope not,’ she said. ‘I’d like to help.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Decent of you to offer, miss,’ said Sedgemoor. ‘With\u003cbr\u003erespect, the CID won’t need any help.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘\u003ci\u003eYou\u003c\/i\u003e were glad of it, young man.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Yes.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was unstoppable. Women of her mettle had climbed\u003cbr\u003ethe Matterhorn in long skirts and chained themselves to\u003cbr\u003erailings. ‘They’ll want to identify her,’ she said with relish.\u003cbr\u003e‘I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I can tell them several\u003cbr\u003ethings already. She was married, proud of her looks and her\u003cbr\u003eshoes pinched. And it appears to me as if she had red hair.\u003cbr\u003eIt looked dark brown when you first brought her out, but I\u003cbr\u003ewould say on closer examination that it was a rather fetching\u003cbr\u003eshade of chestnut red, wouldn’t you?’ She switched on\u003cbr\u003ethe torch and bent over the face admiringly as if it had none\u003cbr\u003eof the disfigurement caused by prolonged submersion. ‘No\u003cbr\u003ewonder she let it grow.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Don’t touch!’ Sedgemoor cautioned her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut she already had a lock of hair between finger and\u003cbr\u003ethumb. ‘Just feel how fine it is. Don’t be squeamish.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘It isn’t that—it’s procedure. You don’t handle anything.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looked up, smiling. ‘Come now, you just dragged her\u003cbr\u003eout of the water. Touching her hair won’t make a jot of difference.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I’ve had orders,’ he said stiffly. ‘And I must request you\u003cbr\u003eto co-operate.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘As you wish.’ She straightened up and used the torch\u003cbr\u003eto justify her deductions. ‘The mark of a wedding ring on\u003cbr\u003ethe left hand. Traces of nail polish on the toes as well as the\u003cbr\u003efingernails. Cramped toes and redness on the backs of the\u003cbr\u003eheels. Neither a farmgirl nor a feminist, my dear Watson.\u003cbr\u003eWhere are they? They ought to be here by now.’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was with distinct relief that Sedgemoor spotted across\u003cbr\u003ethe landscape the flashing light of a police vehicle. He\u003cbr\u003eswung the torch in a wide arc above his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a few bewildering minutes their sense of isolation was\u003cbr\u003esupplanted by activity on a scale the young constable had\u003cbr\u003eonly ever seen in a training film. A panda car, two large vans\u003cbr\u003eand a minibus drove over the turf and halted and at least a\u003cbr\u003edozen men got out. The area was cordoned off with white\u003cbr\u003etapes and illuminated with arc-lamps. Two senior detectives\u003cbr\u003eapproached the body and spent some time beside it.\u003cbr\u003eThen the scenes-of-crime officers moved in. The forensic\u003cbr\u003eteam arrived. A photographer took pictures and a screen\u003cbr\u003ewas erected. Miss Trenchard-Smith was led to the minibus\u003cbr\u003eand questioned about the finding of the body. The detectives\u003cbr\u003etook more interest in her green Wellingtons than her\u003cbr\u003edeductions about the victim. The boots were borrowed,\u003cbr\u003ephotographed and used to make casts. Then she was driven\u003cbr\u003eback to PC Sedgemoor’s house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSedgemoor was not detained much longer. He made his\u003cbr\u003estatement, surrendered his muddy trainers to the forensic\u003cbr\u003eexaminers, waited for them to be returned and then left the\u003cbr\u003escene and drove home. Miss Trenchard-Smith and her cats\u003cbr\u003ewere still there when he arrived a few minutes after midnight.\u003cbr\u003eShe was still there at 1.30 a.m., drinking cocoa and\u003cbr\u003ereminiscing about her days in the ambulance service during\u003cbr\u003ethe war. As she graphically expressed it, sudden death\u003cbr\u003ewas meat and drink to her. This was not the case with Harry\u003cbr\u003eSedgemoor. He refused Shirley’s offer of cocoa and went\u003cbr\u003eupstairs to look for indigestion tablets. He had to be on duty\u003cbr\u003eat eight next morning.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302410506469,"sku":"NP9781616955304","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616955304.jpg?v=1742927394","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-last-detective-isbn-9781616955304","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}