Read Online A Choice of Victims by J F Straker - Free Book Online Page A

tennis this afternoon.’ He grinned. ‘Couldn’t just telephone, of course, had to ask him in person. The Doyles had just got back from where the body was found.’
    ‘Poor Andrew!’ Frances said. ‘I feel so sad for him. He strikes me as such a lost person, if you know what I mean. Lost and lonely.’
    ‘Andrew and Elizabeth weren’t exactly close,’ Maisie Scott said. Like her two daughters she had an abundance of rich auburn hair, but the resemblance ended there. She was a cheerful little tub of a woman, with a round face in which the features—nose, mouth, eyes—seemed unnaturally large. ‘I doubt if he’ll miss her all that much.’
    ‘Perhaps not,’ Frances said. ‘But now he has to rely entirely on his father. And although I’m sure David’s fond of him, he—well, he’s not an outward-looking person, is he?’
    ‘You mean he’s selfish,’ Harvey said. ‘Unsympathetic.’
    ‘I suppose so.’
    ‘Andrew isn’t exactly a hail-fellow-well-met type either, is he?’ Maisie wiped perspiration from her brow. ‘Not what you’d call a mixer. So withdrawn.’
    ‘You can say that again,’ Harvey said. ‘Did you know we are off on holiday on Wednesday, Frances? No? Well, we are. To Cos. However, yesterday Felicity told us she couldn’t make it—something to do with that gallery of hers—and when Patricia heard the news about Elizabeth she asked if she might invite Andrew to take Felicity’s place. Well, it seemed like a good idea. Get the lad away for a bit, and he’d be company for Patricia. You know how she feels about him. Besides, why waste a ticket?’ Harvey shook his head. ‘Blow me if Andrew didn’t turn it down!’
    ‘Really? Did he say why?’
    ‘No. Or if he did Patricia kept it to herself. But I can guess.’
    So could Frances. The prospect of an adoring Patricia Scott as a constant holiday companion had scared Andrew stiff. She was about to ask if her children might continue to use the Scotts’ swimming pool while they were away (the Scotts would consider the request superfluous between friends, but courtesy demanded it) when she saw George Hasted in conversation with her husband and moved away to join them. Before she could do so, however, she was button-holed by Margaret Shawby, who lived with her retired schoolmaster husband in a modern bungalow down Yellham Lane. She was a frail little woman in her late sixties and fluttered her hands nervously as she talked. What a terrible thing to happen, Mrs Shawby said; she had heard of it only that morning from Ivy Bates, who had given her a lift to church. ‘I don’t drive, you see,’ she explained. ‘And Arthur’s in hospital.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Frances said. ‘I didn’t know. I hope it isn’t serious.’
    ‘Waterworks. He had the operation Thursday. Doing nicely, they say. But it means I’m on my own, you see, and when something like this happens it—well, it makes you think, doesn’t it?’ Frances nodded. The Shawby bungalow was isolated. ‘Only yesterday—no, Friday—two young men knocked on the door and asked if they could shelter somewhere from the rain. Lunchtime, it was, during that downpour. Well, I had the door on the chain, like I always do when I’m alone in the house, but even so I was nervous.’
    ‘I’m sure you were,’ Frances said. ‘Were they local?’
    ‘No. Londoners, they said. They said they’d spent the night in a barn and were making for the coast, hoping to find work.’
    ‘You didn’t let them in, did you?’
    ‘Oh, no! I felt sorry for them, poor things, they were absolutely soaked. But I couldn’t risk it.’
    ‘Very sensible,’ Frances said. ‘You know, I think Inspector Hasted might be interested in what you’ve just told me. He’s over there, talking to my husband. Come and have a word with him, will you?’
    Hasted was very much interested. He listened intently as Mrs Shawby said her piece. Then he said, ‘Let me drive you home, Mrs Shawby. I’d like to hear more