self-confessed pagan, grew very tired of. Personally, Colonel, I think—”
“Ja, ja, so do I, Jones. But surely the point is, this Tetwe can vouch for the fact Slater was on the premises all night?”
“Exactly, Colonel. As to Slater’s connection with the deceased—”
“Who was the other suspect you interviewed, hey?” said Colonel Muller, making a show of consulting his wristwatch at the foot of the fire-escape.
“Miss Yvonne Frobisher, white adult female—”
“Can’t I just have the main drift for now?”
“Er, certainly, Colonel,” replied Jones, his mouth going sulky. “The aforesaid, a librarian by trade, claims to have hadan early night after listening to some concert on the radio, and the maidservant, resident on the premises, who helps her with her wheelchair, corroborates the above statement.”
“Excellent, Jones!” said Colonel Muller, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now, I really must—”
“Any news from Kramer, sir?”
“Aha,” said Colonel Muller mysteriously.
Two reporters and a television crew were hanging about outside Theo Kennedy’s flat at Azalea Mansions, eating what smelled like bacon sandwiches. Kramer walked right past them.
“Bugger it!” he said under his breath, not having expected the press to be out and about so early.
Then a familiar figure came running up to him. “Mummy says you must come,” she said, reaching for his hand. “Come with Amanda.”
“Oh ja? But what does Daddy say?”
“Daddy’s not there—Daddy’s in Heaven, silly! Come
on
, or I’ll pull you!”
He let her tug him all the way to the door of Number 7. The reporters, he noticed, gave him no more than a glance, having no interest in the commonplace. A moment later he was inside the flat, which also smelled of bacon, and the front door had been closed behind him.
“I hope you didn’t mind that,” said Vicki Stilgoe, smiling shyly and showing that she, too, had a dimple or two. “But I guessed you probably wanted to see Theo, and we’ve got him in here with us.”
“T’eo’s in the bath,”
Amanda confided. “Washing.”
“Really?” said Kramer.
“He’ll be out in a moment, though,” said Vicki Stilgoe. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee in the meantime? Come through to the kitchen.”
Kramer followed her down the short passage, wishing hecould see whether she had more dimples where her neat little bottom joined the small of her back. But she was fully dressed, in pressed blue jeans and a crisp cotton blouse, and he had to content himself with admiring her earlobes.
“With milk, or without?” she asked, lifting a coffee-pot.
“With, please.”
She laughed. “At least someone took it quietly last night,” she said. “Bruce and Theo have been drinking theirs black and
very
, very strong, I’m afraid.”
“Ja, I packed in early, about seven-thirty—this artist bloke got right up my nose—and decided it’d be better making a fresh start this morning. But what happened here?”
“Bruce went over to Theo’s, who didn’t want to know him at first, and then, so I gather, one thing led to another. I heard them coming in about two, and noises while they tried to find more booze for themselves; and, the next thing I knew, I had two corpses on my hands in the living-room. God knows how Bruce pulled himself together enough to leave for work—I’d hate to be one of his factory boys this morning!”
“The lady’s a widow,” Kramer was telling himself. “Is that why she gives me this feeling? Christ, I must have some sort of thing about widows! Is it they’re touched with death in some way, and this appeals to me because death is my business—my life even?” He had never thought of himself as a pervert before, and stood mildly shocked by the very suggestion.
Joseph “Gagonk” Mbopa was looking at the single rose which grew in the courtyard of the CID building. A black prisoner on loan as a cleaner from Trekkersburg jail, distinctive in his red
“Ja, ja, so do I, Jones. But surely the point is, this Tetwe can vouch for the fact Slater was on the premises all night?”
“Exactly, Colonel. As to Slater’s connection with the deceased—”
“Who was the other suspect you interviewed, hey?” said Colonel Muller, making a show of consulting his wristwatch at the foot of the fire-escape.
“Miss Yvonne Frobisher, white adult female—”
“Can’t I just have the main drift for now?”
“Er, certainly, Colonel,” replied Jones, his mouth going sulky. “The aforesaid, a librarian by trade, claims to have hadan early night after listening to some concert on the radio, and the maidservant, resident on the premises, who helps her with her wheelchair, corroborates the above statement.”
“Excellent, Jones!” said Colonel Muller, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now, I really must—”
“Any news from Kramer, sir?”
“Aha,” said Colonel Muller mysteriously.
Two reporters and a television crew were hanging about outside Theo Kennedy’s flat at Azalea Mansions, eating what smelled like bacon sandwiches. Kramer walked right past them.
“Bugger it!” he said under his breath, not having expected the press to be out and about so early.
Then a familiar figure came running up to him. “Mummy says you must come,” she said, reaching for his hand. “Come with Amanda.”
“Oh ja? But what does Daddy say?”
“Daddy’s not there—Daddy’s in Heaven, silly! Come
on
, or I’ll pull you!”
He let her tug him all the way to the door of Number 7. The reporters, he noticed, gave him no more than a glance, having no interest in the commonplace. A moment later he was inside the flat, which also smelled of bacon, and the front door had been closed behind him.
“I hope you didn’t mind that,” said Vicki Stilgoe, smiling shyly and showing that she, too, had a dimple or two. “But I guessed you probably wanted to see Theo, and we’ve got him in here with us.”
“T’eo’s in the bath,”
Amanda confided. “Washing.”
“Really?” said Kramer.
“He’ll be out in a moment, though,” said Vicki Stilgoe. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee in the meantime? Come through to the kitchen.”
Kramer followed her down the short passage, wishing hecould see whether she had more dimples where her neat little bottom joined the small of her back. But she was fully dressed, in pressed blue jeans and a crisp cotton blouse, and he had to content himself with admiring her earlobes.
“With milk, or without?” she asked, lifting a coffee-pot.
“With, please.”
She laughed. “At least someone took it quietly last night,” she said. “Bruce and Theo have been drinking theirs black and
very
, very strong, I’m afraid.”
“Ja, I packed in early, about seven-thirty—this artist bloke got right up my nose—and decided it’d be better making a fresh start this morning. But what happened here?”
“Bruce went over to Theo’s, who didn’t want to know him at first, and then, so I gather, one thing led to another. I heard them coming in about two, and noises while they tried to find more booze for themselves; and, the next thing I knew, I had two corpses on my hands in the living-room. God knows how Bruce pulled himself together enough to leave for work—I’d hate to be one of his factory boys this morning!”
“The lady’s a widow,” Kramer was telling himself. “Is that why she gives me this feeling? Christ, I must have some sort of thing about widows! Is it they’re touched with death in some way, and this appeals to me because death is my business—my life even?” He had never thought of himself as a pervert before, and stood mildly shocked by the very suggestion.
Joseph “Gagonk” Mbopa was looking at the single rose which grew in the courtyard of the CID building. A black prisoner on loan as a cleaner from Trekkersburg jail, distinctive in his red
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