FORTY-ONE

Everyone has days on which one’s paid occupation just doesn’t do it. No matter how hard one tries, one can’t engage; not even Mrs Potter, who had held me in thrall on regular occasions by regaling me of tales of her torrid battles with tinea pedis, could keep me interested that morning. I had tried to contact first Max, then Jean, first thing, with a completely equal lack of success in both ventures; consequently, I felt not a little frustrated.

It was during my morning digestive (so to speak) that Sheila came to tell me that Sergeant Abelson was on the phone.

‘You wanted to talk to me,’ she said without any of the usual preliminaries; her voice was worrying impersonal.

‘I wanted to thank you.’

‘For what?’

Which found me momentarily nonplussed. ‘For what you did last night. For helping protect Max. I still don’t quite know how you did it, but thanks anyway.’

‘I said that I’d do what I could,’ she pointed out.

‘Yes, I know that . . . but I appreciate how busy you are, what with the murders and everything.’

There was a hint of tired amusement as she said, ‘I wasn’t personally standing guard over Miss Christy. I called in a few favours at the local station. She didn’t have a twenty-four-hour bodyguard, but as soon as the 999 call came in, there was a car only two minutes away.’

‘But when I got to the house, you were there, too.’

‘They let me know at once. I was still at work – as you’ve just pointed out, we’re slightly busy at the moment, especially with what happened yesterday.’

Which brought me neatly to my next point. ‘About that, Jean . . .’

There was a long pause, and then she sighed deeply; it was a sound that I think was full of exasperation but tinged also at the edges with something else; I sort of hope it wasn’t just anger. Then, she said, ‘You were right, OK, Lance? Well done. Mike Clarke was the murderer.’

But that wasn’t what I was trying to say, as I now started to tell her. ‘I think there’s more to the story than any of us know.’

‘Look, Lance. We appreciate your help – even the Inspector, although he might not ever say that – but the case is over. Tricia’s told us everything.’

But I had those pieces of paper, and I knew that it wasn’t quite everything. It was my turn to take a deep breath. ‘I bet she hasn’t.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I need to speak to you and Masson, but I’ve got a house call to make first. Can we meet in, say, a couple of hours?’

She asked cautiously, ‘Is this going to be relevant?’

‘Definitely,’ I said confidently.

‘You’ll come to the station?’

At which I had to demur. ‘No.’

‘Where, then?’

‘At the Clarkes’ house.’