Three British Mystery Novels E-Book

David Stuart Davies

• Herausgeber: Sparkling Books
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 896

Beschreibung

Three British Mystery Novels: detective, thriller and (mild) horror set in Britain by British authors.

A Taste for Blood, set in and around London, by the acclaimed Sherlock Holmes expert David Stuart Davies;

Ellipsis, set in London, a psychological thriller by Nikki Dudley;

Lynnwood, by Thomas Brown, set in the New Forest, was listed for the 2014 People’s Book Prize;

Three great reads, for those who like to wrap their minds round unusual plots. Presented in one e-book bundle.

A Taste for Blood, by David Stuart Davies

Two plots running parallel... you won't see what's coming

Two laser-sharp detectives, two thought-provoking cases and two skilful plots.

Featuring private investigator Johnny (One Eye) Hawke, and his one-time colleague in the police force Detective David Llewellyn. Llewellyn is investigating the chilling crimes of a top psychiatrist and his scheming patient who the doctor believes has knuckled under his authority. In the meantime, Hawke is on the case of a mysterious suicide in Edgware Road... soon discovered as not your average suicide.

The guts and insight of the two investigators bring both cases to a head - though you won't even begin to see how until you have turned the last pages.

Ellipsis, by Nikki Dudley

"Right on time," Daniel Mansen mouths to Alice as she pushes him to his death. Haunted by these words, Alice becomes obsessed with discovering how a man she didn't know could predict her actions. On the day of the funeral, Daniel's cousin, Thom, finds a piece of paper in Daniel's room detailing the exact time and place of his death.

As Thom and Alice both search for answers, they become knotted together in a story of obsession, hidden truths and the gaps in everyday life that can destroy or save a person.

Ellipsis is a disturbing thriller stemming from what is left unsaid, what bounces around in the mind and evaporates when trying to remember. Can there be a conclusion when no-one seems to know the truth?

Lynnwood, by Thomas Brown, was a finalist in the People's Book Prize

The unthinkable is happening in Lynnwood – a village with centuries of guilt on its conscience.

Who wouldn’t want to live in an idyllic village in the English countryside like Lynnwood? With its charming pub, old dairy, friendly vicar, gurgling brooks, and  its old paths with memories of simpler times.
But behind the conventional appearance of Lynnwood’s villagers, only two sorts of people crawl out of the woodwork: those who hunt and those who are prey. Visitors are watched by an entity between the trees where the Dark Ages have endured to the twenty-first century. Families who have lived behind stone walls and twitching curtains know that the gusts of wind blowing through the nearby alluring Forest bring with them a stench of delightful hunger only Lynnwood can appease.

Leseprobe

Praise for A Taste for Blood

“Johnny Hawke breathes new life into the traditional British mystery. He’s a hero with a heart.” ‒Val McDermid

“A well-crafted thriller that had me gripped from the first chapter. A Taste for Blood far exceeded expectations with its carefully crafted plotting and characterization. So good were these that it encouraged me to read the novel a second time.” ‒Amazon review

“I wholeheartedly recommend David Stuart Davies to those who enjoy a good read.” ‒Amazon review

“This book by Davies is a good read for mystery followers. The characters are well sketched out and the plot will twist and turn and leave you wondering how it will all turn out ‒ that’s what you want isn’t it? This is a delightful read because you are not quite sure what will happen and you are hooked enough to keep on reading. Enjoyable.”  ‒J Robert Ewbank, author

“Interesting mystery that takes place in the 1930’s in England. Private Investigator Johnny Hawke is investigating a suicide that seems off and his police buddy, Detective David Llewellyn is investigating a bloody crime involving an escaped convict and a psychiatrist. The two stories merge for a twisted ending. The details are grisly and the main villain enjoys his victims just a bit too much. But other than that, it was a good story with an unpredictable ending – just how I like my mysteries. “Although this is the sixth Johnny Hawke novel, you can read it and understand it without reading the previous books. Enough background is given so that you know who Johnny is.” ‒ Donna Miller, Librarian, USA

“I wholeheartedly recommend David Stuart Davies to those who enjoy a good read.” - Alan Semmens, Educator, UK

Praise for Ellipsis

“From the opening sentence,Ellipsisis strangely engaging: what is it about a red scarf that could make someone choose someone else? And what if that choice turns out to have been thrust on the other as some premeditated plan?

“Lyrical prose intertwines with an elegiac and introspective narrative. Rather than being pretentious, there is an earthy, inviting undertone to Dudley’s text, despite the curious storyline that plays with initial impressions and twists them around and around again.

“This is a work of literacy rather than prosaic shelf fodder. Think artsy, melancholic and slightly bewildering and you’ll be near enough to understandingEllipsis.”‒Excerpt from review by The Truth About Books.

“Well, how could I resist a novel that shares its name with the punctuation mark I overuse the most?

“Ellipsisis an interesting debut from Nikki Dudley that (happily) never quite settles into the shape you might expect.

“What’s particularly striking about the central mystery is less the actual events of the plot than the way Dudley plays with the reader’s perception; one is led to conceptualise the story in a particular way, then finds that it’s not the right way – but it’s hard to shake off the original interpretation, so strongly has it been established. And the ending produces a further twist that leaves us on shifting sands once again.

“As its title suggests,Ellipsisrevolves around gaps in knowledge – in the reader’s knowledge of what happens, and in the characters’ knowledge of events, people, and even of themselves. And those gaps add up to an intriguing, satisfying read.”‒Excerpt from review by David Hebblethwaite.

“I wouldn't have stopped reading if my house was on fire!” ‒Cas Peace, author of For the Love of Daisy, North Hampshire

Praise for Lynnwood

“An exciting début from a new young writer with a dark imagination. Thomas Brown’s beautifully written novel proposes a modern Gothic forest far from the tourist trail, a place filled with strange events and eerie consequences.”‒Philip Hoare‘one of the world’s most famous and celebrated chroniclers of the New Forest and its history’

“It was a pretty creepy story. I kept thinking along the premise of the book ‘It’ by Stephen Kingwith an English twist.”‒Naomi Blackburn, A Book and a Review Blog

“This book was great! I thought I would give it a try, but when I picked it up I couldn’t put it down! It was a quick read, and the story was so creepily wonderful. I loved the author’s writing style‒the words flowed perfectly. Reading this was less like reading a book and more like watching the movie in my mind’s eye. Fantastic! I highly recommend it! I can’t wait to see what else Thomas Brown has in store for readers in the future.”‒Laura Smith, Goodreads Reviewer

“This is really rather good.

“Can we talk about the thing I loved most first? The writing. Oh, my word, the writing. It was the sort of writing that makes you marvel at how good it is, flowing and swirling and building until it’s created whole worlds of dread and fear around you.

“The story itself is fairly simple, though it is given a new dimension through being told out of order, with flashbacks and the recovery of lost memories being a major part of the storytelling. Lynnwood wouldn’t be nearly so creepy or scary if told straightforwardly, from beginning to end.

“Just trust me that this is good, and go buy it, will you?” ‒Caitlin Blanchard, Reviewer, UK

“The plot line is new and exciting, I won't say anymore about that because I don’t want to give it away! But I know I was surprised more than once at what was happening.If you are looking for a good book, definitely pick up this one.”‒Alison Mudge, Librarian, USA

“An exciting, on the edge of your seat gothic that will have readers begging for more.”‒Rosemary Smith, Librarian and Cayocosta Book Reviews

Three British Mystery Novels

David Stuart Davies

Nikki Dudley

Thomas Brown

Sparkling Books

All rights reserved

A Taste for Blood © Sparkling Books Limited 2013

Ellipsis © Sparkling Books Limited 2010

Lynnwood © Sparkling Books Limited 2013

Each author has asserted their right to be identified as the author of their respective work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

These books are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or places is entirely coincidental.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted by any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

1.1

ISBN of this omnibus print edition: 978-1-907230-73-8

Also available as an e-book bundle: 978-1-907230-74-5

Individual titles also available separately:

A Taste for Blood,David Stuart Davies, e-book 978-1-907230-48-6

print  978-1-907230-46-2

Ellipsis,Nikki Dudley, e-book 978-1-907230-21-9

print  978-1-907230-18-9

Lynnwood,Thomas Brown, e-book 978-1-907230-42-4

print  978-1-907230-38-7

A Taste For Blood

David Stuart Davies

David Stuart Daviesis the author of six novels featuring private detective hero, Johnny Hawke, and another nine novels featuring Sherlock Holmes as well as several non-fiction books about the Baker Street detective including the movie volume Starring Sherlock Holmes. He served as a committee member of the Crime Writers’ Association, editing their monthly magazine, Red Herrings, for twenty years. David is the general contributing editor for Wordsworth Editions Mystery & Supernatural series and a major contributor of introductions to the Collectors’ Library classic editions.

To Alanna Knight

A lovely lady who was both a good friend and an inspiration

Also by David Stuart Davies

Johnny (One Eye) Hawke Detective:

Forests of the Night

Comes the Dark

Without Conscience

Requiem for a Dummy

The Darkness of Death

A Taste for Blood

The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes:

Sherlock Holmes & The Hentzau Affair

The Scroll of the Dead

The Shadow of the Rat

The Tangled Skein

The Veiled Detective

Sherlock Holmes & The Devil’s Promise

Sherlock Holmes & The Ripper Legacy

Sherlock Holmes Short Stories:

Further Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (with Matthew Booth)

and many other titles

PROLOGUE

He would never forget the blood. It wasn’t just the quantity – although there was a great deal of it collected in dark, shining, sticky pools on the stone floor with errant rivulets escaping down the grooves between the flagstones. It wasn’t just that sweet sickly smell either, which assailed his nostrils with pungent ferocity and etched itself forever on his memory, or the crimson stains splattered on the walls and floor that had remained with him, to return at the midnight hour to haunt his dreams. Most of all it was that face, that crazed visage with mad bulbous eyes and chomping teeth. Revisiting the scene in his nightmares, these images seem to shift and spread like a living organism coagulating into one great patch of red and then from the crimson mist the giant mouth would appear ready to swallow him up.

At this juncture, he would jerk himself awake with a brief tortured sigh, his body drenched in sweat. ‘Just a silly nightmare,’ he would murmur to placate his concerned wife Sheila and pat her shoulder reassuringly. ‘Just a silly nightmare.’

Almost ten years later, the nightmares still came. Not as often but the images were still as vibrant, as threatening, as horrific as ever. He never talked about them to anyone, not even Sheila. They were his personal burdens and he was determined that they should remain so. He certainly didn’t want to reveal his secret to his colleagues and have some brain doctor try to analyse his disturbed psyche. Besides if it got out that Detective Inspector David Llewellyn was being scared witless by bad dreams it would hardly do much for his police career. So, with typical stoical reserve, his ‘silly nightmares’ remained private and self contained.

Until…

ONE

1935

The night was bitterly cold and the frosty lawn shimmered like a silver carpet in the bright moonlight. Concealed in the shrubbery, Detective Sergeant David Llewellyn gazed at the dark and silent house some fifty yards away. His body was stiff with apprehension and fear while his bowels churned with nervous tension. He knew he shouldn’t be here. He knew he was taking a risk. He knew he was following his heart rather than his head. But he also knew that sometimes one had to take risks to achieve the right result.

The house, Hawthorn Lodge, gothic and imposing, appeared as a black threatening silhouette against the lighter star-studded sky. It rose out of the earth like a giant claw, its gables and chimneys scratching the sky, while its windows glistened darkly in the moonlight. There was no observable sign of life or occupancy and yet Llewellyn knew that there was some one in there: Doctor Ralph Northcote.

No doubt he was in his basement, a section of the house that the doctor had successfully kept secret from the officers when they had searched the premises. What he was doing there? Llewellyn preferred not to think about it at that moment. His boss, Inspector Sharples, a whisker off retirement, was a tired and sloppy officer and had not been thorough or dogged enough in his investigations. Llewellyn had been sure that a house as large as Hawthorn Lodge would have quarters below ground – a wine and keeping cellar at least – but Sharples wasn’t interested. He was convinced that the arrogant and smarmy Dr Ralph Northcote was in no way associated with the terrible crimes he was investigating. How could a man of such intelligence, refinement and breeding perpetrate such horrible murders? The fiend who slaughtered those women was an animal, a beast, a creature of the gutter, not a respectable and respected medical man. Or so the blinkered, forelock tugging Inspector believed.

David Llewellyn had other ideas.

To satisfy his curiosity – at least – he had visited the local solicitor’s office where he had been able to examine the original plans for Hawthorn Lodge. To his delight and satisfaction he had discovered that, as he suspected, the house did have a series of cellars. The plans indicated that these chambers were accessed by an entrance in the kitchen. However, instead of passing this information on to his superior, Llewellyn had decided to carry out some undercover work of his own. Why should he allow the old duffer Sharples take the credit for his detective prowess? He’d been sneered at and ridiculed when he’d offered his opinion, his strong conviction, that Dr Northcote was the man they were after.

Now he intended to prove it.

Gripping the police revolver in his pocket with one hand and picking up his battered canvas bag with the other, David Llewellyn emerged from the shrubbery and with a measured tread made his way across the lawn towards the front of the house, his footsteps leaving dark imprints in the frosted grass like the trail of some ghostly creature. On reaching one of the tall sitting-room windows, he knelt down in the flowerbed and withdrew a jemmy from the bag. With several deft movements, accompanied by the gentle sound of splintering wood, he managed to prise the window from its fastenings and open it a few inches. That was all that was needed. Gripping the lower edge of the window with both hands and exerting all his strength he pushed it higher, creating an aperture large enough to allow him to pass through.

Within moments he was in the house, a gentle smile of satisfaction resting on his taut features. From the innards of the bag, he extracted a torch. He had visited the house on two previous occasions in a formal and more conventional capacity with Sharples. These visits, allied to his studies of the plans, gave him the confidence to move swiftly through the dark sitting room, into the hallway and towards the kitchen.

* * *

The murders had started six months earlier. The pattern was the same in all four cases. A young woman in her early twenties was reported missing by her distraught parents and then a few days later her mutilated body was discovered in woodland or waste ground. In all instances the victim’s arms, legs and breasts had been amputated and were missing. There was also evidence that the victim had been tortured. Most of the gruesome details had been held back from the press but despite that, because of the youth of the victims, the murderer had been labelled ‘The Ghoul’ by the more downmarket rags.

The limbs had been expertly severed and so it was suspected that a member of the medical profession was the perpetrator of these horrendous crimes. The girls had all lived within five miles of Hampstead Heath and doctors and surgeons residing within this radius had fallen under particular scrutiny. Two suspects emerged: Stanley Prince, a middle-aged GP who had been struck off the medical register some years before for conducting a series of abortions; and Ralph Northcote, a surgeon at St Luke’s Hospital who twelve months earlier had been accused of assault by one of the nurses who had mysteriously disappeared before she could testify against him at a medical tribunal. As a result, the case was dropped and Northcote continued to practise.

Inspector Brian Sharples was placed in charge of the case and given one of the promising new live wires at the Yard, Detective Sergeant David Llewellyn, as his assistant. The two men did not get on. Sharples was an old hand, steady on the tiller, a great believer in doing things by the book, a book it seemed to Llewellyn that Sharples had written himself at some time back in the Middle Ages. With Sharples it was a case of softly, softly, catchee monkey. This may work in the long run, thought Llewellyn, but there may be three or four more murders before this particular monkey was apprehended. Llewellyn was a great believer in stirring up the waters and in the power of intuition. He was convinced that he had a nose for sniffing out a murderer.

Both Prince and Northcote were investigated and interviewed, but apart from their past misdemeanours nothing could be pinned on them. However, Llewellyn did not like Northcote. There was something about his oh-so-charming and rather slimy manner that set alarm bells ringing for the young Detective Sergeant. So much so that, unknown to Sharples, and any other of his colleagues, he had started to do a little digging on his own. Northcote was now in his mid-thirties and living alone, but in his youth he had been a bit of a ladies’ man with, Llewellyn discovered, a string of broken engagements. Engagements which had all been ended by the girls. Llewellyn had managed to track one of these girls down and interview her. Doreen French was touching forty now, plump and comfortable looking. She had married a greengrocer and was the mother of twins. She seemed content with her lot and more than happy to talk about Northcote. She revealed nothing that was legally incriminating, but confirmed Llewellyn’s impression that the man was odd and put up a false front to the world. ‘In the end,’ said Doreen French, her eyes twinkling brightly, ‘he gave me the willies. He was… how can I say…? He liked to touch me. Not in a sexual way, you understand, but… just to touch my skin. He loved to run his fingers down my bare arm. He once gave my arm such a squeeze, it caused a great big bruise. He wasn’t much of a kisser, but …’ she giggled innocently… ‘he did like to lick me. On my cheek and round the back of the neck. I thought it was sweet at first. Affectionate like – but in the end… as I say, it gave me the willies’.

Llewellyn nodded sympathetically. It would give him the willies too. ‘Was he ever violent to you?’

Doreen did not have to ponder this one. ‘Oh, no. Not deliberately, anyway. There was that bruise I mentioned, but he never slapped me or anything like that. But I have to say, that towards the end, I just didn’t like being alone with him. He just seemed odd. What had started out as endearing quirks became rather spooky. And his eating habits… ugh!’

‘What about them?’

‘Well, he hardly ate anything that was cooked. He liked raw steak and his lamb chops hardly sat in the pan a minute before they were on his plate, all bloody and raw.’ Doreen pulled a face that effectively mirrored her revulsion.

Well, thought David, there was nothing in the interview that would provide evidence that Northcote was this Ghoul, but he certainly seemed a strange chap and it was certainly a strange chap with medical knowledge who was murdering these young girls. Now a fifth one had disappeared. Her body had not been found yet so there was a slim chance that she was still alive. Very slim, he had to admit. Sharples had refused to interview Northcote again – ‘We’ve nothing to go on, lad. We’re here to investigate crimes not cause a nuisance to respectable law abiding folk.’ And so David decided to take things into his own hands.

* * *

Once in the kitchen, he examined the walls carefully for some kind of hidden door that would provide access to the cellars. His search was fruitless, however. As he stood in the centre of the lofty chamber, the beam of his torch slowly scanning his surroundings, a sound came to his ears, one which froze his blood.

It was a high-pitched scream of pain. It was sharp and piercing like nails down a blackboard. He shuddered involuntarily at the sound. Where had it come from? It was clear yet distant, like a train whistle down a long tunnel. He listened, straining his ears in the hissing silence but the sound did not come again. As he waited in the dark, he relaxed the hold on his torch and the shaft of light sank towards the floor and rested on the base of a large kitchen cabinet by the far wall. What it illuminated made Llewellyn’s heart skip a beat. There were faint skid marks marking the dark wooden flooring: tiny groves that had imprinted themselves on the boards. It was quite clear to Llewellyn that these had been made by the stout legs of the cabinet as it had been pulled away from the wall.

With a tight grin, he rested the torch on the large kitchen table in the centre of the room so that the beam fell on to the cabinet and then he attempted to drag it away from the wall. Kneeling in order to obtain a more secure purchase, he tugged hard at the lower section. Slowly the cabinet moved, the feet following exactly the track of the grooves in the floor. When he had managed to create a gap between the wall and the cabinet big enough for him to squeeze himself into, he saw it.

Llewellyn’s grin broadened. ‘The secret door,’ he whispered to himself.

He now pushed the cabinet fully clear of the wall and attempted to open the door. The handle rattled encouragingly but the door did not budge. It was locked. This did not daunt Llewellyn for although the lock was new and stout, the door was old. Retrieving the jemmy from his canvas bag, he got to work levering the door open. It was the work of a matter of moments. The wood splintered easily and surrendered to the force of the jemmy.

Gingerly he pulled the door open and with the aid of his torch he peered into the darkness beyond. There was a set of stone steps leading down into ebony void. ‘Now the adventure really starts,’ he muttered to himself as he moved slowly forward into the cold blackness. On reaching the bottom of the stairs he thought he heard faint, indistinguishable noises in the distance. How far away they were he could not tell. Maybe it was just the movement of rats and mice – maybe it was something else. Using his torch like a searchlight, he tried to get a sense of his surroundings. He was in a passageway with a low vaulted ceiling. He saw that there were two light bulbs dangling down but no sign of a switch by which to turn them on. He knew, however, that it would be foolish to do so even if he could. He had no intention of announcing his presence in such an ostentatious fashion.

On reaching the end of the passage, he came to another door. A thin line of light seeped out at its base. This is it, thought Llewellyn, heart thumping. Swiftly he clicked off the torch and stowed it away in his coat pocket and then pulled out his revolver before turning the handle of the door. This one was not locked. Gently he opened it and stepped inside. The first impression was of the brightness of the chamber. The walls and floor were covered in white ceramic tiles while fierce strip lights hung down from the ceiling flooding the room with harsh illumination which created dense shadows. It had the antiseptic ambience of an operating theatre.

An operating theatre.

In the centre of the room was a stone slab on which was laid the twitching naked body of a young girl. At first glance, she seemed to be coated from head to foot in some dark shiny substance. Then, to Llewellyn’s horror, he realised that it was blood. Leaning over her was a man in a white coat which was also splattered with crimson stains. As Llewellyn entered the chamber the man glanced up in surprise, his eyes wide and manic. It was a moment that was forever etched on David’s mind. Like a scar, that image was to stay with him for life; it was seared into his consciousness ready to feed his nightmares and catch him unawares during unsuspecting waking moments. It was as though a fierce flashbulb had exploded, the harsh, vibrant light freezing the scene as vile photograph.

The creature seemed unconcerned that he had been disturbed in his activity. The lower half of his face was dripping with blood and something seemed to be trailing from his mouth, glistening and moist. As Llewellyn took a step nearer, he realised to his disgust that it was a piece of pink meat. Instinctively, his gaze moved to the mutilated body of the naked girl and then the truth hit him like a mighty blow to the solar plexus. This fiend was eating her flesh.

TWO

1944

After the death of my girlfriend Max… after her brutal murder… I spiralled down into an undignified state of self-pity. I tried to escape reality through booze and sleep, failing to function either as a detective or even a human being. I rejected the ministerings and comfort offered by those close to me: Peter, my sort-of adopted son, Benny, the little Jewish café owner who treated me like family, and my old mate Detective Inspector David Llewellyn. In their various ways they all tried to shake me out of my depressive malaise, but failed. It was not their fault. Perversely, I didn’t want to be shaken. I wanted to wallow. Ironically, as I think back to that period now, I can see that being deeply miserable was in a strange way the only thing that was keeping me sane.

As an orphan, I had never seen much affection in my life and then to meet the beautiful Max and receive it from her in spades was miraculous and wonderful. My innate cynicism forged out of a life of disappointments should have warned me that it wouldn’t last, but nothing or no one could have prepared me for the savage and dramatic way in which she would be taken from me. What increased my pain was the sense of guilt I felt for her death. She was killed by a crazed maniac as a means of wreaking revenge on me.* She was an innocent who had wandered into my dirty little world and because of me she had lost her life. It was my fault that she ended up with a bullet in her head.

My fault.

The image of my dead love with her wide staring eyes and the spidery tendrils of blood spilling down her face haunted me in those months and days that followed. And, indeed, haunt me still.

What dragged me back to reality and, in truth, saved my sanity was one of the strangest and most challenging episodes of my life. It was late March and winter’s grip on the country was still in evidence. It might have been spring on the calendar, but the elements were not acknowledging the fact. The daffodils and crocus may have reluctantly raised their heads about the stiff frost-bound earth, but the fierce gales continued to blow and sleet showers doused the city. It was on such a foul morning when the wind rattled the window panes and the rain sloshed against the glass that I was sitting huddled by the electric fire, clasping a cup of hot coffee while trying to raise some enthusiasm for facing the day. I realised that I had to go back to work and soon. I had been scrounging on my savings such as they were for the last few months and as a result they had dwindled drastically and

* See The Darkness of Death, the fifth Johnny One Eye novel, for full details

were now in danger of disappearing altogether. I had turned down a couple of mundane cases simply because I couldn’t face the prospect of returning to my old routine, pretending that everything was normal again. ‘Pull yourself together man’, would be the sentiment. ‘What the hell, life goes on y’know!’ Sorry, but I just couldn’t accept that resilient and unfeeling philosophy.

However, as I sat in my cramped sitting room, staring at the small twisted orange wires of the electric fire gently vibrating with feeble warmth I came to accept that even mundane cases pay and I needed money. Even if I was just going to spend it on booze. I knew that it really was time to try and get back in the saddle as that stupid phrase has it. I could hear Benny’s voice in my head: ‘Work is the best antidote to sorrow, my boy.’ Well, perhaps the old boy was right.

With some effort, I dragged myself down the hall to the bathroom. I gazed at myself in the mirror over the sink. It was probably the first time I really had looked at myself properly since before Max died. I was shocked by what I saw. Here was a stranger. A grey, hollow-cheeked ghost of a man, wearing a haggard parody of my face, was staring back at me. My vivid impersonation of a consumptive tramp was enhanced by the several days’ growth of beard.

Suddenly I heard another voice inside my head. This time it was my own and surprisingly, shockingly, it came up with a new thought – something that had not crossed my mind until the image of the dissipated wreck in the mirror had prompted it. What would Max think? I asked myself. Would she be happy at the way you are behaving? Of course not. She wouldn’t want you this way, would she? Not her Johnny. By turning into a self-pitying drunk I was letting her down. This realisation struck me hard. What a stupid bastard I was!

With some effort, I held back a sob and rooted in my toilet bag for my razor. ‘Let’s get rid of the fuzz for a start’ I muttered to myself through gritted teeth.

Thirty minutes later, I was back in my sitting room fully dressed with a clean white shirt on and a smooth chin and combed hair. I still looked like death warmed up, but a much tidier version than before. As I checked myself out in the mirror I even afforded myself a smile. It was a stranger to my face and it had difficulty settling there but I persevered and made it stay for a few seconds before it slipped away into the ether. Perhaps I was only pretending to myself that I could do this but, I reckoned, if I stuck to the pretence maybe that would become its own reality. I’d just got to try.

As a reward for all my efforts, I sank in my armchair and lit a cigarette. Watching the bluish smoke spiral gently away from the amber tip, I made plans for my day.

My first port of call was St Saviour’s Church, the little Catholic church situated in one of the thoroughfares off the Edgware Road. It was here where Max was buried. I managed to buy a limp bunch of daffodils to place on her grave. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds loured over me and the wind stabbed me and pinched my nose as I stood in the graveyard and had a brief conversation with my dead love. ‘I’m back,’ I said. ‘Back as me. Back as you knew me. Well, almost. I still don’t have that spring in my step but I’m going to try, my love. I’m going to try for you. Be the old Johnny Hawke I used to be. I’ll never quite manage that, but… I’ll try to make you proud of me.’ I grinned and dabbed my moist eye.

As I turned to go I was conscious of someone standing close to me. It was Father Sanderson, the priest who had conducted Max’s funeral and had been so kind and understanding towards me.

‘Hello, Johnny,’ he said, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘How are you?’

I gave a gentle shrug. ‘I think I’m on the mend.’

‘That’s good to hear. The pain of loss never quite goes away, nor should it, but it does become easier to bear. It’s early days yet.’

I nodded.

‘I wonder if I could have a word with you. I have a little problem you may be able to help me with.’

‘Well, yes, of course, if you think I can be of any use.’

‘How about a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit in my office? That should help warm you up. I must admit you look like a frozen ghost.’

I grinned. ‘I’m anybody’s for a cuppa and a biscuit.’

* * *

Father Sanderson’s office was a cramped little chamber just beyond the vestry. It smelled of damp, dust and altar candles. Various tomes were piled up along the walls and there were a couple of bentwood chairs and a bench which also held books as well as a gas ring, kettle and other tea-making equipment. Alongside these were several goblets and a bottle of what I assumed was communion wine standing on an old newspaper. Around the base of the bottle, the paper was spotted with dried splashes of the wine, creating a delicate pattern in varying hues of red.

‘Sit yourself down, Johnny, and I’ll brew up.’

I did as he asked, wrapping my overcoat around me. For my money it was colder in here that it was outside in the graveyard. A few minutes later I was sipping a cup of scalding hot tea and nibbling on a damp digestive.

‘Sorry to bother you, but I’m in a bit of a quandary, really,’ said the old cleric as he seated himself opposite me. He had a kind, heavily wrinkled face framed by a thatch of thick white hair. I guessed that he was in his seventies, but he could have been younger: it was just that his desiccated skin and stooped shoulders suggested otherwise.

‘I know you are a kind of detective, Johnny, and I thought you might be able to offer me some advice,’ he began hesitantly. It was obvious that he felt awkward about having to approach me in this way.

‘If I can,’ I said. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘It’s one of my parishioners, Annie Salter. She’s a widow. A lady in her fifties. Lost a son at Dunkirk. Been a regular at St Saviour’s for many a year. A few weeks ago I found her in the church. She was praying in one of the pews near the altar and seemed upset. She was muttering something. I could not hear the words but it was quite clear that she was asking for help – for divine assistance. I stood in the shadows not wanting to interrupt her private moment. From time to time she would pause in order to stifle a sob and then she would begin again. My heart went out to the poor soul. Whatever afflicted her, it was tearing her apart.

‘I waited at the back of the church while she had finished and then as she made to leave I approached her. I could see clearly that she’d been crying – and I thought I might be able to help her. Offer comfort, at least.’

‘What is troubling you, my dear?’ I asked, taking her hands in mine.

She tried to shrug off her distress with a faint smile. ‘I’m all right, really. Just feeling a little low. Came in to ask Jesus for some help. It’s the war, isn’t it? Sometimes it gets you down a bit.’

I knew that she was not telling me the truth. Not the full story, at least. I told her that I was there to listen, to help. I was one of Jesus’s helpers. Perhaps I could come to her aid. My offer of help seemed to upset her more than ever.

‘At the moment, I don’t think anyone can help me,’ she told me as her eyes moistened again. Then she pulled her hands from mine and hurried away without further words or a backward glance.

‘That was the last time I saw her.’

I said nothing. I knew that there was more to come. There had to be.

‘The following Sunday, Annie did not turn up for the Sunday service. I had not known her to miss in three years, apart from one occasion when she was struck down with influenza. The following morning, I went round to her house to see if she was ill and needed some help. There was no reply when I knocked on the door. I knocked hard, I can tell you, Johnny.’ He smiled. ‘A priest always does. Sometimes the householder will hide behind the door hoping I’ll go away. If you bang loud enough, eventually guilt makes them open up.’ His smile broadened and then faded quickly. ‘But on this occasion there was no reply. I was just about to leave when the lady next door popped her head over her threshold. ‘I’ve not seen her since Friday. I reckon she might have gone away,’ she said. ‘Where to?’ I asked and received a puzzled shrug in response.

‘Annie’s behaviour in church and her absence prayed on my mind. I was worried about her – so much so that I visited the house again the following Thursday. Still there was no reply. My concern grew. I thought it was time to take further action so I went down to the local bobby shop on Frampton Street. They know me down there and took my concerns seriously. Sergeant Harmsworth came back to the house with me and after the rigmarole of knocking and waiting, waiting but no response, he applied his weight to the door and forced it open. ‘It’ll be up to you, Father, to pay for any repairs,’ he said trying to lighten the mood of the operation. We stood on the threshold and he called out Annie’s name. His voice echoed through the innards of the house but no one answered. I feared the worst. And so did Sergeant Harmsworth if his grim features were anything to go by. We moved into the tiny hallway and then into the kitchen. All was neat and tidy. All perfectly normal, I suppose. And then we came into the living room. It was terrible, Johnny. Simply terrible. There she was dangling from one of the beams, her mouth agape, tongue sticking out, her eyes… her eyes… well, it was terrible.’

‘She’d hung herself.’

Father Sanderson shot me a glance. ‘Well, that’s what it looked like. There was a dressing gown cord tied around her neck and a stool on its side under her. And there was a note on the mantelpiece.’

‘What did it say?’

‘I can tell you exactly what it said. Just five words only. ‘I just couldn’t go on.’

‘A fairly traditional sentiment for a suicide.’

‘Mmm. Exactly. Traditional. Cliché even. Oh, the police are quite convinced that poor Annie committed suicide.’ He paused and flashed me a piercing glance.

‘But you’re not,’ I said.

‘No, I’m not. It’s not her way. She was far more stoical than that. She’s not a quitter. And another thing… that note. It’s not her writing.’

‘You told the police this.’

‘Of course I did. They just said that when a person is in a disturbed phase of mind their handwriting goes haywire. They can’t control their movements or some such notion. But I know, Johnny, I know that Annie did not write that note. Apart from the writing, it was too brief and trite for Annie.’

‘What are you saying?’ I asked, fairly certain I knew the answer anyway.

Father Sanderson looked me in the eye and said sternly, ‘I am saying that she was murdered.’

THREE

Dr Francis Sexton sat in his car and stared through the windscreen at the forbidding building before him. Even on a bright day in March when the sky was making every effort to shrug off the greyness of winter and allow little patches of blue to appear, Newfield House looked bleak and gloomy. To Sexton the building, stark against the bright sky with drab stonework marked with the strands of long-dead ivy, and the strange acute angles of the gables, along with the blank shuttered windows, made the place look like an illustration from a work by Edgar Allan Poe – The Fall of the House of Usher – maybe. The house, an early Victorian monstrosity, stood in isolation in its own grounds, now uncared for and neglected, like the inmates within.

Sexton shifted his gaze to the paint-peeling notice erected near the main door:

Newfield House

Psychiatric Hospital

No Unauthorised Admittance

Home Office Property

Newfield House, once the house of some rich industrialist, had been converted to a lunatic asylum for the criminally insane as an overflow of Broadmoor and had only been renamed within the last ten years. The name may have changed but the purpose and régime remained more or less as it always had. There was little psychiatry practised there. It was just a matter of keeping the inmates contained and sedated. The state had seen fit not to hang them, so instead they must rot in a drug-induced state in this God forsaken place near the Essex marshes. Sexton could understand and to some extent sympathise with these sentiments. The twenty inmates had all committed horrendous crimes while ‘the balance of their mind was affected.’ Madmen, then. But as Sexton knew, madmen could also be rational and reasonable for most of the time. It should be possible to rehabilitate these creatures so they could return to society. They did not ask to be mad – just as a man who is deaf or blind or a fellow with a lisp did not ask for these disabilities. Madness was a disability. It was Fate or God who allowed it. It was up to man to help, not to condemn. That, at least, was the litany that Dr Francis Sexton preached and that is why the authorities with great reluctance allowed him to attend one of the inmates at Newfield for ‘research purposes’. Sexton was writing a book on the human psyche with particular attention to the diseased criminal brain. That is what the authorities believed and that is why they permitted Dr Francis Sexton to visit Newfield the third Thursday in every month to spend time with one of its notorious inmates: Ralph Northcote.

* * *

The said inmate Dr Ralph Northcote waited for his visitor in a small, featureless room that had become his home for the last eight years. His cell, in fact. It consisted of a bed – clamped to the floor so that it could not be moved – a chair, a washbasin, and a small bookshelf crammed with medical volumes he had managed to retain from his old life and a barred window which was too high for him to peer out of, even if he stood on the chair, which he had no inclination to do. Northcote was no longer the lithe, clean-shaven charmer of his younger days. Not being able to shave unless under strict supervision, he had grown a straggly beard while boredom had led him to consume as much of the foul institutionalised food as he could. He was now a rotund, heavily bearded, blotchy-faced parody of his former self, looking much older than his forty-eight years. He certainly no longer resembled the man who had stood in the dock accused of a series of horrendous crimes. The man the press named as ‘The Ghoul’.

Northcote was particularly excited about today’s visit from his new friend, Francis. His monthly visits had become the highlight of his life in this dreary place. They thought him mad and that’s why they had dumped him in this hellhole, to be forgotten, to rot until death. He wished they had hanged him. That, at least, would have been the end of it. He was not mad. He had known what he was doing. He would do it again – given half the chance. His passion for raw flesh may seem strange to the outside world, but to him it was no different from stuffing your face with bits of dead cow, pig or chicken. He was convinced that it was because of this fact that the judge hadn’t dared to pass the death sentence. The old fool knew he was not mad but couldn’t condemn him for his unusual appetite.

At first he had resented Francis Sexton’s visits. He only agreed to them because they would bring some kind of novelty to his drab routine. But he didn’t want to be scrutinised, analysed, compartmentalised and patronised. However, he soon realised that Francis would do none of these things. He had come in a spirit of friendship. Of course, he asked questions – wanted to know things about him, his history, his thoughts, what made him tick. But friends did that. And they had become friends. He knew that Francis grew to value these visits as much as he did. Northcote believed that a bond had grown between them and that was because Francis really understood him and his predilection.

Francis was the only one who had really listened to him, listened and understood his passion. He felt at ease with this man and was able to tell him things he had never confided to anyone else. Things about his childhood and his first encounter with uncooked flesh and the revelations that this had brought about. Francis never condemned or criticised him. Indeed, he began to smuggle in little treats: a piece of liver, a small cut of beef, and some pork. All uncooked and red with blood. It was their little secret. A secret that bonded them even closer.

And then the plan had developed. An idle remark. A casual aside. But it had created a spark with gradually ignited and the plan flickered into life.

And today was the day to put it into operation.

Through an innate ability to master his emotions, and a learned facility developed from being shut away in this Godforsaken dump, Northcote was able to maintain a cool and collected outlook even when exciting and dangerous things were about to happen. As he sat in his cell patiently waiting for the arrival of his visitor, the observer would have noticed nothing about his appearance to suggest a mood of suppressed anticipation and excitement. Except perhaps for the gentle – ever so gentle – movement of Northcote’s thumbs. While all other parts of his body remain statue-like still, his thumbs circled each outer in a lazy moribund fashion. It was the one chink in his armour, his one expression of inner excitement. Meanwhile the eyes were dead, glacial and dead, and the body remained rigid with the feet splayed flat on the floor. You could hardly tell the man was breathing.

But the thumbs continued to move like comatose butterflies.

* * *

As was his usual practice, Dr Francis Sexton kept on his hat, scarf and coat once he was inside the building. He was such a regular visitor to Newfield that he only had to flash his authorisation in a casual fashion to the guard on reception before he was allowed to pass through the locked section into the hospital.

‘You here again?’ asked the guard in a cheery fashion, hardly looking up from his library book, a western with the title ‘Me, Outlaw’.

Sexton nodded.

‘Hardly seems five minutes since the last visit.’ The man chuckled. ‘Time flies when you’re having fun.’ He chuckled again at his own sarcasm and returned to the dust of Arizona.

Sexton made his way to E block where Northcote’s cell was situated. It was a cold, gloomy building with the smell of damp and decay always in the air. The décor was a mixture of the faded and neglected original Victorian furnishings and the utilitarian touches institutionalised grimness. He passed a few staff on his way but no one took much notice of him or gave him a greeting.

Eventually he reached E block and passed through swing doors which led him down a short tiled corridor at the end of which was Northcote’s cell: E 2. A young man in a white coat sat outside the room. It looked to Sexton as though he had dropped off to sleep – and who could blame him, sitting on guard outside a madman’s room just in case he became unruly, agitated, violent. To Sexton’s knowledge, Northcote had exhibited none of these symptoms since he had been admitted eight years ago. The sound of Sexton’s shoes clipping sharply on the tiled floor seemed to rouse the young man from his doze. He glanced up and observed the approaching visitor. Before the doctor was upon him, he recognised that grey overcoat and the black fedora. He rose to his feet and taking a key from the pocket of his white coat he slipped it into the door.

‘A glutton for punishment, I reckon that’s what you are,’ grinned the young man sleepily.

Sexton emitted a non-committal grunt.

The door swung open and he entered the cell. No sooner had he done so than the door clanged to behind him.

Northcote rose from his chair and the two men stood facing each other, neither of them opening their mouths, but their eyes spoke volumes. Gradually Northcote raised his right arm, and extended it towards his visitor. Sexton took it and the two men shook hands.

‘Dr Sexton, it is so good to see you,’ said Northcote in his strange gravelly voice, which had developed since his incarceration. He spoke little, hardly a few sentences a day, and it was as though his vocal chords had become rusty and were in danger of seizing up.

‘And you too, Ralph,’ he said with a ghost of a smile, as he placed his briefcase on the floor.

Northcote’s eyes darted in its direction, wide with anticipation. ‘You have perhaps brought me some treats.’

‘Later. For now, it is time to get rid of that beard.’

Opening the briefcase he extracted a small cardboard box and handed it to Northcote. It contained a pair of scissors, a shaving brush and a piece of shaving soap. ‘Put the débris in the box,’ said Sexton.

Moving to the little sink with a piece of aluminium which acted as a mirror, he began chopping away at his unruly growth. Sexton, took off his hat, coat and scarf and sat on the bed to watch. Ten minutes later, Northcote had completed his task. Scratching his chin, he turned to his visitor. ‘Well, what do you think?’

‘Well, you look like the ghost of Christmas Past, but at least you don’t look like you did.’

‘Feels strange,’ Northcote said, rubbing his chin. ‘But that’s good. Anything which has a touch of novelty is good in this place. Now, can I have my little treats?’

Sexton nodded and retrieved a small damp brown bag from his briefcase. ‘A little liver,’ he said. ‘Fresh meat is very hard to come by at this time,’

‘The war, you mean?’

‘Yes, the war.’

Northcote shook his head. ‘I know nothing of the war in this shabby cocoon.’ He tore open the bag and his eyes flickered with glee at the sight of the slimy red offal. There were two pieces each about the size of a child’s hand. He snatched one up and slapped it to his mouth and chewing on it noisily for a few seconds, sucking the blood from it, before he bit into it. He gave a gurgle of delight as he chomped on a ragged fragment. Sexton watched with fascination as with the serious deliberation of an animal Northcote devoured the liver, slowly but with enthusiastic relish. When he had finished his lips and cheeks were smeared red. He looked like a crazy clown.

’You’d better clean your face,’ said Sexton with a half smile.

‘A little water clears us of this deed,’ replied Northcote moving to the sink where he ran the tap and swilled the blood away. He stared as blood, now pink diluted by the water, spiralled away down the plughole.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That was most tasty. I get nothing like that in here. Everything is incinerated before it reaches a plate.’

Sexton ignored the remark. He had heard many similar ones before. It was Northcote’s usual and predictable mantra after consuming his meaty titbit.

‘Are you ready? Are you prepared?’

Northcote nodded. ‘I am.’

* * *

The young man was interrupted from his day dream – a languorous affair that featured one of his favourite film stars in a state of undress – by a tapping on the door of cell E 2.

 ‘My session is over. I’m ready to leave now. Thank you,’ said a voice.

 It was exactly the same set of words Dr Sexton used on every occasion he visited.

The young man roused himself and unlocked the cell.

’Thank you,’ said Sexton gruffly, pulling down his hat and then hurrying off along the corridor.

Some minutes later, he passed the guard on reception with a brief wave and was soon out into the growing dusk, breathing the free fresh air for the first time in eight years.

* * *

The evening meal, if such a grand term could be used for the lukewarm slop that was usually served up for the inmates of Newfield, was dished up at around six in the evening. And so it was on this occasion. The young man, still on duty, was presented with a tray by one of the kitchen staff. It contained a plate of mashed potatoes and some greyish meat substitute and piece of bread and a glass of water.

‘For his lordship,’ said the skivvy with a sneer.

The young man grinned and unlocked the cell door.

‘Grub up,’ he called as he entered. What met his eyes caused him to drop the tray. It clattered noisily on the tiled floor, the food spilling widely, some of it onto the trousers of the prone figure which was slumped face downwards by the bed.

The young man bent down and turned him over. The sight that met his eyes caused him to emit a strange strangled cry.

 The unconscious face belonged to Dr Francis Sexton. He had a deep cut to his forehead which was seeping blood down his face.

‘My God!’ cried the young man. ‘Christ!’ he added for good measure.

For a moment these exclamations were all he felt capable of. He was shocked and stunned into inaction by this weird turn of events. Gradually, his brain began to function and the situation before him came into focus. He rose to his feet and rushed into the corridor to press the alarm bell.

 Out in the darkened car park, the man in Dr Francis Sexton’s coat and hat unlocked the boot of his car and clambered inside.

FOUR

I sat staring at the pint of beer before me, watching the minute bubbles that were clinging to the rim of the glass disappear one by one. Fascinating though this vision was, my thoughts were elsewhere. I was running my interview with Father Sanderson over again in my mind. It was now lunchtime and I had sought shelter and sustenance – a pint and a cheese sandwich – in a small pub near the church.

The conversation – the one about the hanged woman whom Sanderson thought had been murdered – intrigued me as a detective. He was so convinced that the police had got it wrong, read the signs incorrectly and/or were happy to tidy up yet another death into the solved drawer. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time this had happened. I was a copper before the war and I knew how desperate some officers were to wrap up an investigation as soon as possible and in a self imposed, blinkered fashion, accepting the probable as the truth rather than consider other options.

‘I’d rather like you to investigate the matter, Johnny. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m not sure I’m the man to do the job,’ I said, my feet already getting cold. I wasn’t confident that I was up to this investigation and besides…

‘Oh, I expect this to be a professional arrangement. I will pay you, of course.’

I shook my head vigorously. ‘I couldn’t accept money from you…’

‘Because I’m a priest? A man of the cloth?’

My expression must have told him that he was correct in his assumption. How could I charge this impoverished old cleric for my services? And yet how could I afford the time and expenses to carry out an investigation for him? I was impoverished too.

‘But I’m your client,’ he responded with some warmth, his cheeks flushing. ‘I have a little money put away for a rainy day and I reckon this is it. I was very fond of Annie. I wish to engage your services. This is not a favour I’m asking: I want to see justice done.’

Reluctantly I agreed, but I had little needles of guilt pricking me at the idea of taking money from the old fellow.

So that was it. My first case in the new year. My first case since the death of Max. I raised my glass of the now rather flat beer in a toast to the beginning of the rehabilitation of John Hawke.

While I was in the vicinity, I visited the police station on Frampton Street and as luck would have it, Sergeant Harmsworth was on desk duty. I explained who I was and Father Sanderson’s concerns. Harmsworth grinned. He seemed an affable, comfortable chap, easy going if a little bovine. Unlike some coppers, he did not seem at all concerned that I was a private detective meddling in their affairs.

‘Oh, I know all about the Father’s theory that the old bird was murdered. I suppose being a man of God, he likes a little mystery. But I can tell you, there was nothing mysterious about Annie Salter’s death. She hung herself. Plain and simple. There was not a scrap of evidence that a second party was involved. She even left a note.’

I nodded sympathetically to create the impression that I agreed with him fully and that Father Sanderson’s notions were groundless.

‘Could I see the note?’ I asked.

‘If we’ve still got it. Hang on. I’ll have a look in the back office.’

He shifted his ample frame off his stool and disappeared into the far reaches of the station, returning a few minutes later holding a piece of paper.

‘Here you are, Mr Hawke,’ he grinned again, passing me the note. It was written in pencil on a scrap of paper torn from a cheap note book. There were the words as I had been told: ‘I just can’t go on any longer.’ The handwriting was shaky and clumsy – whether this was as a result of emotion was a matter of contention.

‘Father Sanderson says that this is not Annie Salter’s handwriting,’ I said casually.

Harmsworth shrugged. ‘We’d nothing to judge it against, but as far as we could tell old Sanderson didn’t have much familiarity with her writing in any case. And besides, if you are going to top yourself, the last thing you’re gonna do is write in your best handwriting, are you? The hand’ll be shaking too much for your actual copperplate.’ He chuckled at his own conceit.

I turned the note over. The paper was blank but there was a little stain in the bottom corner.

‘You can keep it if you like,’ said Harmsworth, hoisting himself back on his stool. ‘We’ve no use for it now.’

‘Thank you,’ I said graciously, slipping the note in my pocket. I reckoned I had seen more in that scrap of paper than the ample sergeant and his colleagues had.

My first real task was to find out more about Annie Salter: her history and her circumstances. Father Sanderson had been able to jot down the address of her cousin, a Mrs Frances Coulson, the only blood relative to attend the funeral. She lived in Chelmsford and her rather bijou semi-detached house was to be my first port of call.

If anything the day had grown more miserable by the time I had travelled to Chelmsford and found my way to Worthington Avenue. The sky had coagulated into a uniform dark grey and the wind had sharpened, piercing the folds of my overcoat causing me to shiver involuntarily.

Father Sanderson had told me that Frances Coulson was a woman in her mid-forties. She was a widow. Her husband had been something important in one of the city banks and had left her reasonably well provided for. That was all. I got the impression that he would have liked to tell me more about the woman, but he held back. No doubt he did not want to colour my impression of the lady. He thought I should make up my own mind about her. I was the detective after all. However, his reticence in this matter suggested to me that there was something he didn’t quite like about Mrs Frances Coulson.

The Coulson dwelling was a very neat affair indeed: neat privet hedge, neat rectangular lawn, and neat shiny knocker on a neat green front door. I knocked, straightened my tie and waited.

I heard a voice somewhere in the house calling out, ‘Coming.’

And indeed in less than a minute she came. Frances Coulson opened the door bringing with her a strong whiff of pungent perfume. When she saw me, the broad crimson grin disappeared almost immediately from her lips and her eyebrows lowered with disdain. I was either a great disappointment to her or she had been expecting someone else. I decided it was both.

‘You’re not selling anything, are you?’ she said, managing to inject a sneer into the query.

I raised my hat and proffered my card. ‘I’d like to have a little chat with you about Annie Salter,’ I said gently with a polite smile.

She studied my card for a moment. ‘Some detective you are,’ she observed sourly, the sneer still in place. ‘Haven’t you heard? Annie Salter’s dead.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, I know. That’s why I wanted a little chat with you.’

‘What’s this all about?’

‘Well, if we can have that chat, I can explain.’

Indecision clouded her features for a moment and then she sighed. ‘Very well, you’d better come in – but only for five minutes mind. I am expecting a visitor.’

That explained the crimson smile then.