The Mistress of Alderley by Robert Barnard Page B

Briggate in Leeds. The shop sold mobile phones, but the establishment next door was a kebab take-away, so the odors were sometimes pungent. Reg told himself he was part of the regeneration of the inner cities. He also told everyone who would listen that it was better than living with his wife, though if pressed he might have admitted that it was not better than living with a wife.
    His dog, Trueman, was part of this guarded satisfaction with his present life. Reg took him for a walk every day around eight, before the city girded its loins to start the day. He came home for his lunch break, gobbled the sandwich he had prepared at breakfast time, then took him round the streets. After work he was almost always in, with an early-evening and later-evening stroll. Mostly, like 90 percent of British people, he just watched the television. Trueman did too. The favorite program of both of them was Pet Rescue.
    So today there was no work at Austin Reed’s, no being friendly to customers he didn’t give a damn about, no dealings with reps or company high-ups, all trying to guess next season’s fashion trends. A lazy day. Reg turned up Briggate, crossed Merrion Street, and eventually made his way to the little oasis of green that surrounded the newly built and unusual block of flats that were called CASPAR. Their distinction, their departure from the urban norm, was that they were round, were faced with wood, and looked from a distance like nothing so much as an Elizabethan theater. Close to, it might have seemed that they were exclusive indeed, a little fortress for the moneyed, and way out of Reg’s price league; in fact, however, CASPAR stood for Citycenter Apartments for Single People at Affordable Rents.
    Trueman had no ambitions to live there, but he liked the greenery around the apartments. The public was allowed onto the lawns, with their modest and low-maintenance shrubs and bushes. Lingering now became the order of the day: Trueman could sniff to eternity before he decided which of the various growing things would be favored with his urine. Sundays he could be pampered, and he took every advantage of this fact. Trueman was a dog of well-developed ego.
    At the high point of the little patch of garden, the Yorkie outdid himself in dilatoriness. Bored but obedient, Reg turned away and looked down toward the center of the city. He could see down Briggate, with the Grand Theatre to his left, the Odeon on the same side farther down, then the main section of the street, with all the big chain stores—Debenhams, House of Fraser, Marks & Spencer—followed by Lower Briggate, which curved out of his sight.
    Trueman had gone to the limits of his long lead and was now tugging. Reg turned away from the city and followed the little dog. Something was drawing him, exciting him. Trueman pulled toward a flourishing shrub abutting a stretch of fencing. He scrambled into it, then turned around and barked. Reg peered into the dense and flowery vegetation. He saw what looked like an arm. Appalled at the thought of a severed limb, Reg tried to edge through the row of bushes. The arm was not severed at all, but attached to a body—a smart, besuited middle-aged man. Reg dragged Trueman away, down the slope toward North Street, the dog protestingly barking that his little legs didn’t do running. Then Reg came to what he was seeking and bundled Trueman and himself into a telephone booth to dial 999.
    â€œIt’s a body, near those new flats past Upper Briggate—up from North Street, you know the ones, they’re called CASPAR—it’s a body hidden in the bushes around the flats. There’s blood on his shirt. He’s somebody, this chap. It’s a very good suit—Armani or whatever—a very good suit indeed.”
    The constable taking the message thought it was an odd thing to put so much emphasis on, but then he knew nothing of the man who was ringing in. Clothes were Reg’s business,