"Mrs. Ostercroft, might we have a word?" Scribbins asked the woman who was sleepily eyeing her and Ash from her front door.

Susan Ostercroft blinked at then slowly. "Sorry, I've just been having a lie down; I'm a bit fuzzy. What do you want?"

Smiling Ash said, "We would like to talk about your husband's bicycle. Perhaps we might have a look at the bike as well?"

"Okay." Susan pushed a lank strand of hair off her face. "Let me get a coat."

Scribbs stood next to the house rubbing her arms in the stiff breeze. "Cold out today."

Ash grinned at her. "If we get what we need I don't care how blooming cold it is."

"Aren't you cold?" Scribbs replied winding her scarf tighter around her neck.

"Freezing." Ash forced her hands deeper into her pockets, finally giving up and pulling on her gloves.

The ornate door re-opened and Susan came forth wearing a heavy coat. "Thomas keeps his bike in the shed, like I said." She bounced a heavy set of keys in her hand. "Come on."

Scribbs fell back and whispered to Ash, 'You think we ought to have gotten a warrant?"

"If she lets us look inside then we're good. Section 17." Section 17 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act of 1984 defined when or if an officer may seize personal property while investigating a crime, especially if the item might be destroyed unless it is examined. Ash had both Sections 8 and 17 drummed into her head while in uniform and she'd not foul up this investigation for lack of care. Section 8 covered when a warrant was necessary, but in this case the Boss suggested that they go without a warrant, so as not to alarm the suspect.

"If the wife says no, then we'll crank out a warrant," Sullivan told them before they left the station. "Just be careful. You think it will be in the shed?"

"When have we ever not been careful?" Scribbs had quipped. "And yes we do."

Sullivan nodded slowly. "He would have to be very confident to keep it close."

"Why would anyone suspect him? As far as he knows Moore's death is still a mystery."

"Thanks Boss," Ash told him. "We'll let you know how it goes."

"If his bike is there, and there seems to be credible indications, what will you do?" the Boss asked.

Ash smiled. "I've got the biggest evidence bag you've ever seen in the boot. A speck of mud, or just the tyres themselves, or better yet his shoes will do the trick."

The women then turned to leave Sullivan's office. "Good hunting," the Boss said to them.

Susan led them across the huge garden to a sturdy looking shed which mirrored the brick and stucco of the ornate main house. "Don't think I've ever seen a brick shed before," Scribbs chuckled.

"Thomas and his fancies," Susan muttered. She plucked a key from her pocket, plunged it into the lock and turned it. "Wanted it to match the house."

"Mrs. Ostercroft, you are willingly letting us look inside?" Scribbs asked.

"What are you looking for anyway? It's just the garden equipment and his old bike." Susan took hold of the door the handle and leaned backwards. "Fine. Yes. No problem."

Ash smiled when she saw what they needed. "Scribbs, look," she said then took out a pair of purple evidence gloves, snapped them on and then she put booties over her boots.

"Whatever are you doing?" Mrs. Ostercroft hissed.

"Please stand back. Stay out in the yard, if you please," Scribbs told her, then gloved her hands and booted her shoes. "Ash, you we right. In the shed all along."

"And a not so graceful disassembly," Ash answered.

Stuffed into a trash bin, were bits and pieces of what had once been a bicycle. It had been taken apart and the frame and handle bars sawed into short lengths. Sitting on the floor were two DVD players, three small lamps, and a small carton that looked like it contained bric-a-brac such as small vases and ashtrays.

Susan Ostercroft shook her head. "Why would Thomas cut up his bike?"

Tyres are here as well, Scribbs noticed. "When do your waste collectors come?" Scribbs asked.

Susan crossed her arms. "Tomorrow morning. And I'm sorry, I really don't understand."

Ash smiled at her, but took out her mobile and made a call. "Boss? Ashurst. Found it. In the shed; right behind his house. I think we ought to have Weatherall's folk come by for a very careful recovery. Can you send a unit to secure the premises? Good."

She dropped her phone back in her handbag. "The Boss will route a patrol car here and quickly."

Scribbs was examining the bike up close. "Ash, look at this." A small canvas satchel, the kind a rider might attach to the frame or handlebars lay on a workbench which also had a vise attached and a hacksaw next to it. The satchel bulged as if something was inside. "What you think?"

"Open it," Ash replied.

Scribbs pulled the zipper tang and found a flat pack, buckled closed. "Shall I?"

Ash nodded.

"What's that?" Susan said peering from the shed opening. "What is this about?"

Scribbs opened the pack and was looking at a syringe complete with capped needle, a small vial and a bottle, all of which looked to be empty.

Ash sighed. "Ah. Right."

"What's going on?" Susan Ostercroft asked. "Has Thomas done something?"

Scribbs rotated the vials so she could read the labels. "Ash, that GP you met is a bloody genius! Check these out."

Ash looked over Emma's shoulder and read the words 'KCl – Potassium chloride – concentrated' clearly printed on the vial. The label on the bottle was 'Normal saline.' She turned to the doctor's wife. "Mrs. Ashcroft, might you know where your husband would be just now?"

"He ought to be in his office." She checked her watch. "Half-four. He stays until seven or eight."

Scribbs took out her mobile and dialed the phone at Ostercroft's office. "Hello? I was referred to Dr. Ostercroft by my GP. Is he in this afternoon?" She nodded slowly. "Right." She snapped her phone closed. "He is there, but his receptionist says he's leaving early."

"Odd," grunted Susan. "That's not like him. Thomas is very regular in his office hours."

The tramp of heavy shoes interrupted them as two uniformed constables appeared. One was Gallimore. "Ladies, how can me and the lad here help you?" he asked in a teasing tone.

Ash smiled. "You can cordon off this shed and stay right here until Weatherall's techs get here. All this lot," she pointed to the workbench. "The bits of bike, the tyres, DVDs and these lamps, plus this carton. All of it."

Scribbs was prodding something stuck under the bench with her shoe so she bent down to see what was under there. "Bingo." She stood up holding a pair of large pedaling shoes, much worn and very muddy. "And the shoes. Officer Gallimore?" she asked the constable, for he was staring. "Is there a problem?"

Gallimore had to jerk his attention back to Scribbins the detective and not Emma the shapely woman who'd just made his blood pressure pop when she bent over. "No, got it."

Ash dusted her gloved hands. "Mrs. Ostercroft these two gentlemen will be here for a while and there will be more officers on the way. Might you stay with two of Middleford's finest until someone can go into your house with you?"

Susan Ostercroft's face now took on an anxious look. "Is this about… Jimmy?"

Scribbs answered. "Likely."

Susan pulled a wadded up tissue from a pocket and dabbed at her perfectly made up eyes. "I wondered… I did wonder… Thomas has been so… quiet lately; more so than he ever had been before."

Scribbs beat Ash to their car. "His office?"

"Where else?"

The doctor's office was not as crowded as on their earlier visit; just two patients were waiting.

Scribbs identified herself and Ash to the clerk at the desk. "We need to see Dr. Ostercroft immediately."

"Is this an emergency?" the young woman asked them.

"No," sighed Ash, "but we do need to see him anyway. Police business."

The clerk cleared her throat. "I'm only asking because the doctor is leaving this evening for Mexico. A trip to a conference. He is running late and …"

Ash opened the door of the doctor's inner sanctum and found Thomas Ostercroft digging into a file cabinet. "Lord. What do you want?" he asked belligerently.

Scribbs followed Ash in, closed the door, and then leaned back on it, arms crossed. "Just popped in to say hello."

"I'm busy. Go away," he answered.

Ash rolled her eyes at her partner. "Doctor Ostercroft, we're going to tell you a little story."

The man sighed and slumped into his leather chair. "Okay," he said, but glanced at his watch. "Make it quick. I'm in a hurry."

Scribbs smiled at him. "It goes like this… your wife was having an affair, with James Moore, who also supplied you with medicines for your practice."

"Not this," he groaned. "I've nothing to do with Moore."

"Oh? Ash said. "So why did you meet him for dinner at a restaurant called The Peasant Thursday last week?"

Ostercroft waved his hands. "I… might have forgotten… I'm a busy man. I meet with lots of people."

Scribbs chuckled at him. "The same restaurant your wife asked you to meet her at the other night and you were upset as you feared the staff might recognize you?"

"I don't have time for this," he told them and stood up. "I must leave."

Ash glared up at him piercing him with her stare. "But no, you need the rest of the story. You found out your wife Susan was having an affair with James Moore. You decided to stop it. You thought you'd gain entry to, oh, let's say two houses, and steal small items – just to make it look like someone in Collins Grove was making a run on the neighborhood."

"Ridiculous!"

"Then on a certain Thursday, when you knew that Susan expected you would be working very late, you broke into the house where Moore was staying. I'm not certain how you found that out, but it doesn't matter. Perhaps you followed him one evening. So with a crowbar or a small jimmy you got inside the house, intended to kill him in his bed. Perhaps bang him several times on the head; make it look like a robbery gone bad."

"Oh, now you're telling fairy stories!" he moaned.

"Am I?" Ash replied.

"But," Scribbs added "You found he wasn't sleeping alone. In fact it was your wife in bed with James Moore. You couldn't very well kill him and leave her as witness."

Ostercroft sat down slowly and folded his hands.

Ash went on. "I think you rode your bike to each of those houses. You likely had a backpack or some bag you could sling on your back for the things you stole."

"Like Father Christmas," quipped Scribbs. "There are a lot of bike paths around Collins Grove; quite a network of them. And who would see you? It was late at night, you didn't use your car and you could seem invisible. If anyone saw you, what of it? Just some tall man out for a ride at night. But you left evidence on the windows you jimmied open and footprints in various garden beds. But you do have very large feet and your biking shoe soles are distinctive."

Ostercroft rubbed his face. "You're making this up."

"Now," sighed Ash, "here is the really interesting part. You wanted to get rid of – kill – James Moore. The first attempt failed with your wife as a witness, at least to a murder, not that she could know it was you. It was very dark in the bedroom she told us. So what to do? What could an endocrinologist do in a case like this?" She turned towards Scribbs.

"I don't know," shrugged Scribbs, but then she snapped her fingers. "Drugs. A good idea, right?" Emma approached his desk. "How to kill someone in a way that would be very hard, almost undetectable, to determine?"

Ash smiled next. "You took him to dinner at The Peasant, got him very drunk on wine and then drove away with him. He was too drunk to drive so you were doing him a favor; and what a favor! I think you must have followed him around at night, perhaps how you found out where he was staying; not his actual house. So you found he liked to go to the old RAF field. Stargazing."

Ostercroft looked straight ahead now, staring at a blank spot in the corner of the room.

Scribbs tapped on his desk to get his attention and his eyes slowly turned to her. "So there you were, at night, late, miles from anywhere and a very handy pond to simulate a drowning in."

"Yes," Ash added. "Very smart. You wanted him dead; really, dead, no doubt about it. So you parked his car near to where you had hidden your bicycle earlier. You couldn't very well just push him into the pond. He might get out or maybe he could swim. No, you needed him to be already dead, or nearly so, before he went into the water." She sighed. "Injecting him between the toes was a master stroke. So very smart. Who would look there? And potassium chloride would be nearly traceless; it would rapidly change into potassium ions which would muck up his heart."

Dr. Ostercroft sighed.

Scribbs took up the telling. "So into the pond with the body of poor Mr. Moore, you lace up your biking shoes, pack up your syringe at cetera and ride on home. Your wife was out cold with a migraine that Thursday night, she told us, or did you drug her so she was out of your way?"

Ash smiled grimly at him. "There might be a few details we need to work out but forensic evidence will prove a charge of murder against you, Thomas Ostercroft."

"You can't prove anything!" he bellowed.

Scribbs yawned. "I figure that you planned to go home shortly, chuck your cut up bike, the shoes, and the stolen goods into the refuse bin. In the morning the waste collectors come and whisk it all away. Neat, clean and tidy. Meanwhile you'd be far away. Mexico was it?"

He stood again, scowling. "I'm leaving."

Ash blocked his way. "And one more thing - I'm very certain analysis will show traces of James Moore's blood and DNA on the hypodermic syringe we found in your garden shed. We also have the bottles which held the potassium chloride and saline you used to kill him."

He rocked back on his heels. "I… erh… I want to speak to my solicitor."

"Fine," said Scribbs as she produced her handcuffs. "But first, Dr. Thomas Ostercroft, we're arresting you on a charge of murder in the death of James Moore." She snapped the bracelets onto his wrists. "Comfy? Good."

Ostercroft didn't resist, just perched on the edge of his desk while Scribbs went on telling him of his legal rights. His eyes now had a faraway look, almost one of resignation.

Ash patted down his pockets and removed his keys, wallet, and phone from his person. "Oh, one teeny thing I can't quite figure. Why didn't you put his shoes back on his feet?"

Dr. Thomas Ostercroft looked despondently at her. "Ever try to put shoes on a dead man?"