Read Online A Question of Identity by Anthea Fraser - Free Book Online

Stirling, the provider of the photograph, Lindsey judged to be in his mid-fifties, a tall, well-built man with an easy manner and pleasant smile. At their first meeting he’d explained his wife’s absence by saying she had no interest in books, preferring to spend her time playing golf or bridge, neither of which appealed to him. From this, Lindsey inferred, rightly or wrongly, that they went their separate ways. In any event, following that early comment he’d not mentioned his wife again until the previous week, when he’d produced the photograph.
    For some reason she couldn’t fathom, Lindsey found him quite attractive – Rona always maintained she preferred older men – and she suspected her interest was reciprocated, a source of secret satisfaction when Dominic was at his most obtuse. Though she’d not analysed it too closely, part of her reason for volunteering Rona’s help had been to establish a contact with William outside the group – which made it all the more frustrating that her twin was studiously ignoring the photograph.
    She parked the car and, her mind still on William, was considerably startled when, rounding the corner into Guild Street, she cannoned into him.
    â€˜Lindsey, hello!’ he exclaimed, putting out a hand to steady her. ‘Sorry – I always dash along at a rate of knots! Are you OK?’
    â€˜Fine, thanks.’
    â€˜On your way to work?’
    â€˜Yes, I’m at Chase Mortimer.’
    â€˜Better mind my p’s and q’s, then! I’m just round the corner – Frinton Insurance.’ He paused. ‘We’ve been wondering if your sister was able to help with the photo?’
    â€˜Not as yet,’ Lindsey answered evasively. ‘I left it with her; I hope that’s OK?’
    â€˜Of course. She’s agreed to look into it, then?’
    â€˜Not exactly, but I’m working on it.’
    â€˜Look, I wouldn’t want to impose. If she hasn’t time, or she’s not interested, please don’t—’
    â€˜Oh, don’t worry, she’ll get round to it.’
    â€˜Well, as long as we’re not making a nuisance of ourselves . . .’ He paused again. ‘Glenda was wondering if she’s by any chance the Rona Parish who writes for
Chiltern Life
?’
    â€˜She is indeed.’
    He smiled. ‘No wonder you mentioned her detective skills! We always enjoy her articles. Look, I mustn’t hold you up now, but here’s my card. I know she must be busy, and I certainly wouldn’t want to press her, but if anything should come up before the next book group, could you give me a call? It’s just that this photo has really got to Glenda, and I know she won’t be happy till she knows who was blotted out and why.’
    â€˜We’ll see what we can do,’ Lindsey promised, and, with a brief smile, hurried on her way, obscurely disappointed with the outcome of the meeting.
    Had she but known it, Rona was at that moment staring with a mixture of resentment and curiosity at the offending photo, which she’d taken up to her study and propped against her pen holder. She’d stopped work the previous day at a sticky patch – never a wise move – and a night’s sleep had done little to solve the problem. Open to distraction, she succumbed and, leaning forward, picked it up and studied it closely for the first time.
    The print was black-and-white with a gloss finish, and despite being badly creased, the faces of those depicted were still clearly defined, frozen in a long-ago summer’s day.
    Passing quickly over the pupils – bright, expectant faces, ready for whatever life might throw at them – Rona focused on the eight members of staff: four women, three men, and one, gender unknown, completely obliterated by the ink splodge.
    On impulse, she reached for the phone and pressed the button for
Chiltern Life
.
    â€˜It’s Rona, Polly,’