Tell Him He's Dead (Max Wolfe, #4.5)

by Tony Parsons

things that I had loved about her. The young uniformed policeman who had opened the front door murmured apologetically. ‘It’s just a domestic, sir,’ he said. ‘Apparently the lady’s former partner has been cutting up rough. They haven’t actually seen him, but the tyres are flat on her sister’s car. That yellow Beetle outside? Freshly slashed, looks like. But we don’t even know if he did it. I told her you’re Homicide and not domestic. She wouldn’t listen.’

headlights. ‘Because it’s a girl car, stupid!’ Echo always used to tell me, with one of her lopsided smiles. But she wasn’t smiling now. I could not tear my eyes from her. I took a long moment to understand what had changed about her and what would never change. Her father was originally from Stockholm and there was a fresh-faced Scandinavian beauty about her, which was misleading as Echo had always loved her nightlife. She was more of a dancing shoes kind of girl than a hiking boots kind of girl. There was a pained sweetness about her face, like a young Ingrid Bergman, but an Ingrid who was always about to say goodbye