Wednesday night?”
“I told them I was here, for the whole of the evening.”
“And do you think they believed you?”
She looked at him, fond but slightly puzzled. She hadn’t really studied the policemen’s reactions to her answers very closely. It was a habit of hers, now, which Arthur knew, but she was scarcely conscious of herself. She was so used to proclaiming the self-evident truths of the Way of the Lord that she scarcely looked for reactions in her hearers. “Oh, yes, I think they believed me. They asked if anyone could confirm it, and I said you were here with me, for the whole of the evening.”
Arthur’s heart sang within him. Sarah didn’t seem to be troubled by untruths nowadays, once she was sure that the end warranted them. He hadn’t even needed to persuade her, to point out the wisdom of standing together against the forces of evil and suspicion in an ungodly world. The lie was hers now, not his.
All he would need to do would be to repeat it, in due course.
***
John Lambert had told the dead girl’s landlady, Jane King, how useful old ladies who spent their days observing the world from behind lace curtains could be to the police. At the time, he had not expected to find such a useful source of information in this case, but the diligent door-to-door enquiries by the uniformed police unearthed a watcher who was pure gold to the investigation.
This one, however, was male. As WDC Curtis, who was sent to interview him, became swiftly aware. Di Curtis was twenty-three, blonde, healthy, with a Junoesque figure, and well versed in the martial arts. Many a Saturday-night thug had underestimated Di’s strength and skills, and paid the penalty. She was delighted with her transfer to CID three months ago and determined to make a success of it. Dispatched to the Georgian house in Rosamund Street almost opposite the one where the ill-fated Tamsin Rennie had lived, with instructions to glean all possible information from a source who was anxious to help them, Di scented a chance to make a name for herself. She would be patient and thorough, taking all the time necessary to add significantly to the so far distressingly sparse information accruing on the computer about the dead girl and her associates.
She had expected the man to be older. Somehow you automatically assumed that people in wheelchairs would be either seriously handicapped or seriously decrepit. This man didn’t seem to be either, as he would shortly confirm. He ran his eyes appreciatively up and down her figure, approving the shapely calves, the skirt which revealed enough leg to stimulate his imagination, the slim waist, and the ample breasts beneath the light green sweater.
His head moved backwards and forwards as it reviewed his visitor’s curves, tracing an invisible arabesque of her figure in the air of the spacious room. Only when he had surveyed her contours and approved them did he come back to her face and look into her wary blue eyes with a wide, unmistakably lascivious smile.
“Better than a sweaty sergeant with big boots!” he said. He appeared to think this an excellent opening gambit.
You learned to assess people’s ages when you worked in the police. Di had found that difficult when she joined in her late teens, tending to put anyone between forty and seventy at around the same age, but she was better at it now. She put this man in his late thirties, reasonably attractive, well - nourished and healthy of face, despite his wheelchair. She said, “It must be awkward for you. Being on the first floor, I mean.”
“Oh, the wheelchair, you mean? That’s not permanent, m’dear. Compound fracture of the fibula, you see. Healing up nicely, they say, but it takes time. Road accident. Passenger in a car driven by my wife. Well, ex-wife. Cow.” He spoke the last word without any real rancour, as if he was stating a fact, without sullying his credentials as a feminist. “It’s only temporary, the wheelchair, and it’s
“I told them I was here, for the whole of the evening.”
“And do you think they believed you?”
She looked at him, fond but slightly puzzled. She hadn’t really studied the policemen’s reactions to her answers very closely. It was a habit of hers, now, which Arthur knew, but she was scarcely conscious of herself. She was so used to proclaiming the self-evident truths of the Way of the Lord that she scarcely looked for reactions in her hearers. “Oh, yes, I think they believed me. They asked if anyone could confirm it, and I said you were here with me, for the whole of the evening.”
Arthur’s heart sang within him. Sarah didn’t seem to be troubled by untruths nowadays, once she was sure that the end warranted them. He hadn’t even needed to persuade her, to point out the wisdom of standing together against the forces of evil and suspicion in an ungodly world. The lie was hers now, not his.
All he would need to do would be to repeat it, in due course.
***
John Lambert had told the dead girl’s landlady, Jane King, how useful old ladies who spent their days observing the world from behind lace curtains could be to the police. At the time, he had not expected to find such a useful source of information in this case, but the diligent door-to-door enquiries by the uniformed police unearthed a watcher who was pure gold to the investigation.
This one, however, was male. As WDC Curtis, who was sent to interview him, became swiftly aware. Di Curtis was twenty-three, blonde, healthy, with a Junoesque figure, and well versed in the martial arts. Many a Saturday-night thug had underestimated Di’s strength and skills, and paid the penalty. She was delighted with her transfer to CID three months ago and determined to make a success of it. Dispatched to the Georgian house in Rosamund Street almost opposite the one where the ill-fated Tamsin Rennie had lived, with instructions to glean all possible information from a source who was anxious to help them, Di scented a chance to make a name for herself. She would be patient and thorough, taking all the time necessary to add significantly to the so far distressingly sparse information accruing on the computer about the dead girl and her associates.
She had expected the man to be older. Somehow you automatically assumed that people in wheelchairs would be either seriously handicapped or seriously decrepit. This man didn’t seem to be either, as he would shortly confirm. He ran his eyes appreciatively up and down her figure, approving the shapely calves, the skirt which revealed enough leg to stimulate his imagination, the slim waist, and the ample breasts beneath the light green sweater.
His head moved backwards and forwards as it reviewed his visitor’s curves, tracing an invisible arabesque of her figure in the air of the spacious room. Only when he had surveyed her contours and approved them did he come back to her face and look into her wary blue eyes with a wide, unmistakably lascivious smile.
“Better than a sweaty sergeant with big boots!” he said. He appeared to think this an excellent opening gambit.
You learned to assess people’s ages when you worked in the police. Di had found that difficult when she joined in her late teens, tending to put anyone between forty and seventy at around the same age, but she was better at it now. She put this man in his late thirties, reasonably attractive, well - nourished and healthy of face, despite his wheelchair. She said, “It must be awkward for you. Being on the first floor, I mean.”
“Oh, the wheelchair, you mean? That’s not permanent, m’dear. Compound fracture of the fibula, you see. Healing up nicely, they say, but it takes time. Road accident. Passenger in a car driven by my wife. Well, ex-wife. Cow.” He spoke the last word without any real rancour, as if he was stating a fact, without sullying his credentials as a feminist. “It’s only temporary, the wheelchair, and it’s
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