Detective inspector Luke Stott put the file back on the table next to a bag containing a broken pair of spectacles and rubbed his tired eyes. Nothing. Nothing to prove that Richard Eastman had intended his wife to die. But the DI was still sure he’d missed something, and decided to call police optometrist Oscar O’Neill.
‘This is one of yours,’ Stott said by way of greeting when the two met up the next morning. ‘One of mine?’ replied O’Neill, trying to work out what the DI – whose sporty, tanned visage struck him as being more tennis club than provincial cop shop – was talking about. ‘Yes, an opti-thingy’, said Stott, waving his hand towards his eyes. ‘Optometrist?’ prompted Oscar. ‘That’s it. And he’s as guilty as hell. I just can’t prove it. See what you can find.’
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