Read Online A Talent For Destruction by Sheila Radley - Free Book Online

the facts in full; and, yes, lying when he had said there was nothing else he could tell the police.
    What about the car with the Australia sticker that had been seen parked along St Botolph’s Street last summer? What about the Australian girl who had been a frequent visitor to the Rectory, even living there during July? There had to be some connection between the girl and the car and the dead man. The girl was the obvious person to help the police with their enquiries, and Ainger must know her name. So why had he deliberately withheld that information? Was it because he knew more about the corpse in Parson’s Close than he cared to admit?
    Quantrill pushed aside his plate and lifted his mug. He glanced out of the window. The mourners were coming out of St Botolph’s after the funeral service, and the traffic warden was organizing the departure of the hearse and the accompanying cars. The Rector had presumably gone ahead so as to reach the cemetery first. Quantrill couldn’t see him; instead, he saw the Rector’s wife.
    Gillian Ainger was just outside the Coney, buying from a vegetable stall, a preoccupied frown on her face and a laden shopping-bag in her hand. Quantrill thought rapidly. He had really wanted to challenge Robin Ainger about the Australian girl; he wanted to hear not only what Ainger said about her, but the way he said it. However, the girl had been Mrs Ainger’s friend, according to the verger, and so it was possibly more appropriate to make the initial approach to her. He could always tackle her husband later.
    He seized his hat and overcoat, and caught up with her outside Boots the chemist. ‘Good morning, Mrs Ainger. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes of your time?’ It would have been civil to invite her to join him for a drink, but she looked too harassed to want to linger.
    â€˜Oh – Mr Quantrill …’ She was evidently taken aback, and not in any way glad to see him. ‘I’m afraid … I really must ask you to excuse me. This is my day for helping at the community centre on the new estate. I slipped away to do some shopping and make Dad’s lunch, but I have to get back as soon as possible.’
    â€˜I won’t delay you, I promise. Perhaps I could walk back to the Rectory with you, if you’ve finished your shopping? Here, let me carry that.’
    He insisted on taking from her hand the bulging shopping-bag with its leafy protrusion of cabbage and celery. She seemed inordinately embarrassed, whether by his company or by the fact that he was carrying her shopping he wasn’t sure.
    His stride, which he had shortened to Mrs Ainger’s, checked as he caught sight of his own wife disappearing into the butcher’s. He hated helping her with the shopping, and always tried to make his irregular working hours an excuse for not doing so. He’d never live it down if she were to see him now, carrying another woman’s shopping-bag …
    He jammed his hat over his eyes and rounded the corner into St Botolph’s Street in a hurry. Gillian Ainger had to trot to keep up with him, doing a skip and a jump to avoid wading through the dirty slush in the gutter.
    â€˜Have you – did my husband come to see you this morning?’ she asked a little breathlessly.
    He slowed his pace. ‘Yes, he told me about the Australian who camped in Parson’s Close last summer. It’s a very useful lead. What I’d really like to do now is to talk to someone who knew him better than your husband and yourself. Is there anyone you can suggest?’
    After a moment’s hesitation she said, ‘No, I’m afraid not.’
    He turned his head to look at her. Vanity-free, she had bundled up her fair hair under a woollen hat, but fine tendrils of it had escaped untidily over her ears and at the nape of her neck. If she had put on any make-up that morning, it had worn off. She was pale, apart from the tip of her nose