The young woman who met her at reception was slightly familiar, she’d seen her somewhere before. Frankie was good with faces, but it was her clothes that made her stand out – more European casual chic than anything readily available in the high street. She proffered a hand, her elegant, long fingers clasping Frankie’s in a light grip as she welcomed her. “Hello, I’m Josephine Sables. I have an office where we can talk privately. This way.”
She turned and walked back down the corridor, although Frankie wasn’t sure that the verb ‘walk’ did justice to the balletic glide of the figure she followed, contrasting, she felt, unfavourably with the stolid gait she herself exhibited. Josephine’s name had been pronounced in a French style and matched the light trail of perfume she left in her wake. She stopped at a door, holding it open for Frankie to enter. Inside was a table dominated by a large Apple iMac screen, a filing cabinet adorned with a vase of plastic flowers and two swivel chairs, one of which Josephine immediately occupied. She motioned towards the remaining chair and smiled encouragingly at Frankie as one would to put a child at ease. “How can I help you, Ms?”
The word hung in the air, a row of z’s fading into silence as if a solitary bee had just left the room in search of nectar. “McKenzie. Detective Constable Frankie McKenzie.”
“Ah. Detective.” The word was elongated, rolled around in her mouth as if she was tasting it before repeating it in fluent Franglais. “Is this to do with the murder in the glen?” Her eyes came alive with interest, hazel-brown eyes that held Frankie’s in a penetrating gaze.
“You could say that.” Frankie felt uncomfortable under such direct observation and decided to cut to the chase. “What I’d like to know, Josephine, is where you got any idea that this may have been a murder and not just a suicide. I see you’ve printed the story in today’s Courier. What makes you so sure? You’ll look pretty stupid if our investigations show it’s a suicide.”
Josephine’s expression didn’t change. “We have our sources. It’s important to us at the Courier that we tell the truth to our readers. Are you denying this was a murder? I’d be more than happy to quote you on the record if we have been given incorrect information.”
Frankie cursed inwardly, this wasn’t going at all well. “We are not in a position to confirm or deny whether this was a murder. All I’m asking is that you refrain from printing allegations which are unsubstantiated and which could adversely affect our enquiry.”
“What if our stories are substantiated?”
“What do you mean? Only officers concerned with the investigation would be able to confirm any findings, the rest is hearsay.” Frankie paused, aware she’d been given a steer. “Are you being given information by one of our officers?”
“My sources must remain confidential, you know that, Frankie.”
Frankie was thinking her name sounded so much more attractive spoken in a French accent. She shook her head in exasperation. “Look, all I’m asking is that you let us do our job without making it even more difficult than it already is.” She thought rapidly, identifying the probable source for any leaks shouldn’t be that difficult. “We can help each other here. I’m willing to let you have first knowledge of any real developments we make on this case, but I want something from you in return.”