Read Online A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) by Anthea Fraser - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anthea Fraser
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assume he’d spend his birthday with her. He’d been looking forward to a day alone sketching and painting; how should he know she was preparing a special meal?
All the same, he could at least have returned to eat it with her, instead of spending the evening at the pub. That had been sheer bloody-mindedness.
The sun was setting as he turned into Hillcrest and the purple clouds were tinged with gold. A hundred years ago, this had been a well-to-do avenue of stately, well-spaced houses in their own grounds. But the zealous bulldozers of the fifties had razed all but a few and in their place, like a flock of gawky phoenixes, had arisen one block after another of slab-faced flats, each pretentiously called after the dignified old house it replaced.
Webb turned into the driveway of Beechcroft Mansions and garaged his car for the first time in a week. Hannah’s flat on the first floor, more spacious than his, looked out over the large back gardens, well-tended now by contract gardeners and divided equally between the six flats in the block. He had never made use of his own portion.
He paused, pocketing the garage key, and let his eyes pass over the sweeping lawn, the vivid flower beds and the wild area at the far end. If he’d had his sketch-pad handy he might have been tempted to capture that interplay of light and shade as evening shadows advanced across the grass.
With a mental shrug he turned away, walked back round the house and in the front door. Usually he went up the stairs two at a time but it was a measure of his tiredness that he opted this evening for the lift, sailing without effort to the second floor, the bunch of dahlias in one hand, his meagre supper in the other. He let himself into the flat and on impulse crossed to the window and stood looking out. No, he didn’t envy Hannah her view of trees and garden. From his eyrie up here he looked right down the hill to Shillingham nestling at the foot, lights twinkling now at the approach of darkness. His patch, he thought, his little kingdom.
God, he was more tired than he’d thought! He turned away with a twisted smile, mocking his moment of sentiment. All the same, he liked his home, the position of it high on the hill, the neat masculinity of the interior.
In the pocket-sized kitchen he dumped the flowers on the draining board and unwrapped the solitary pork chop, deciding to make some chips to go with it. When his marriage broke up three years previously, he’d promised himself grimly that he wouldn’t live out of tins, and it was characteristic of him that, having made the decision, there was no tin-opener in the flat. Methodically he tied an apron round his middle and began to peel potatoes. He didn’t regret his aloneness. There was no longer any need to make phone calls of apology if he was late or called away, no one to whom he was accountable, and there was a certain bleak freedom in that. Which, he thought solemnly, brought him back to Hannah.
It wasn’t that she made claims on him — he couldn’t accuse her of that — but, circumstances being what they were, he couldn’t escape a sense of indebtedness.
An hour later, having eaten and tidied everything away, Webb collected the flowers, their purple heads already wilting in their paper sheath, and, pulling his door shut behind him, ran lightly down the stairs to ring Hannah’s bell.
It was some moments before she came to the door, wearing a housecoat and with a towel swathed round her head.
‘Hello, David. Come in. I’m just washing my hair.’ No hint in her voice of sulking or reproach, either for the circumstances of their last encounter or of the week’s silence that had followed it. But nor should there be, he reminded himself, following her inside.
‘I presume you’re not on duty, so pour yourself a drink. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
She disappeared and Webb went into the sitting room. This flat was a different layout from his, larger, more airy, and stamped with an
All the same, he could at least have returned to eat it with her, instead of spending the evening at the pub. That had been sheer bloody-mindedness.
The sun was setting as he turned into Hillcrest and the purple clouds were tinged with gold. A hundred years ago, this had been a well-to-do avenue of stately, well-spaced houses in their own grounds. But the zealous bulldozers of the fifties had razed all but a few and in their place, like a flock of gawky phoenixes, had arisen one block after another of slab-faced flats, each pretentiously called after the dignified old house it replaced.
Webb turned into the driveway of Beechcroft Mansions and garaged his car for the first time in a week. Hannah’s flat on the first floor, more spacious than his, looked out over the large back gardens, well-tended now by contract gardeners and divided equally between the six flats in the block. He had never made use of his own portion.
He paused, pocketing the garage key, and let his eyes pass over the sweeping lawn, the vivid flower beds and the wild area at the far end. If he’d had his sketch-pad handy he might have been tempted to capture that interplay of light and shade as evening shadows advanced across the grass.
With a mental shrug he turned away, walked back round the house and in the front door. Usually he went up the stairs two at a time but it was a measure of his tiredness that he opted this evening for the lift, sailing without effort to the second floor, the bunch of dahlias in one hand, his meagre supper in the other. He let himself into the flat and on impulse crossed to the window and stood looking out. No, he didn’t envy Hannah her view of trees and garden. From his eyrie up here he looked right down the hill to Shillingham nestling at the foot, lights twinkling now at the approach of darkness. His patch, he thought, his little kingdom.
God, he was more tired than he’d thought! He turned away with a twisted smile, mocking his moment of sentiment. All the same, he liked his home, the position of it high on the hill, the neat masculinity of the interior.
In the pocket-sized kitchen he dumped the flowers on the draining board and unwrapped the solitary pork chop, deciding to make some chips to go with it. When his marriage broke up three years previously, he’d promised himself grimly that he wouldn’t live out of tins, and it was characteristic of him that, having made the decision, there was no tin-opener in the flat. Methodically he tied an apron round his middle and began to peel potatoes. He didn’t regret his aloneness. There was no longer any need to make phone calls of apology if he was late or called away, no one to whom he was accountable, and there was a certain bleak freedom in that. Which, he thought solemnly, brought him back to Hannah.
It wasn’t that she made claims on him — he couldn’t accuse her of that — but, circumstances being what they were, he couldn’t escape a sense of indebtedness.
An hour later, having eaten and tidied everything away, Webb collected the flowers, their purple heads already wilting in their paper sheath, and, pulling his door shut behind him, ran lightly down the stairs to ring Hannah’s bell.
It was some moments before she came to the door, wearing a housecoat and with a towel swathed round her head.
‘Hello, David. Come in. I’m just washing my hair.’ No hint in her voice of sulking or reproach, either for the circumstances of their last encounter or of the week’s silence that had followed it. But nor should there be, he reminded himself, following her inside.
‘I presume you’re not on duty, so pour yourself a drink. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
She disappeared and Webb went into the sitting room. This flat was a different layout from his, larger, more airy, and stamped with an
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