Read Online Death of a Sunday Writer by Eric Wright - Free Book Online Page B

slip of paper, folding the note into her purse. Before she switched off, she tried an idea on the “Diary” file that she had not yet unlocked. Perhaps her cousin had simply used his own name to protect the file? But the answer came back with the same result: “Enter Password.” She did not think the word would be arbitrary; it had to be significant so that Trimble would not forget it. She would find it when she knew her cousin better.
    Peter Tse appeared, and Lucy told him about the locked diary and asked him if he had any suggestions. “Try Journal,” he said. She punched in Journal. No good. “Try Secret.” No good. “Private.” Tse said. No good. She switched off and Tse asked why she was so keen to get into the diary file. She told him.
    â€œYou going to ask the police about his pals?”
    â€œI already have. I’m going back this afternoon.”
    â€œGood luck.”
    She drove first to Trimble’s apartment and went through all of Trimble’s clothes carefully, but her cousin had apparently been scrupulous about his wardrobe, alwaysemptying everything from his pockets before he hung up his clothes. She shook out his shirts and unrolled his socks, but there was not even a stray coin.
    Next, she emptied the fridge: frozen dinners in sealed packets, canned food, half a loaf of bread. Dumping the bread, she put the frozen food back into the freezer compartment, and the cans back into the cupboard where they belonged.
    She was left with the bed, an armchair, a rug, a television set, and a lot of framed pictures of Trimble — all group photographs in which Trimble and one or more other men were posed at the racetrack. The one peculiarity of the pictures was that in each, Trimble was wearing an empty camera case, from which Lucy deduced that all of them were taken at his request with his own camera.
    There was nowhere else. The bathroom contained all the expected items as well as a lot of old-fashioned toiletries, including a tin of brilliantine and another bottle of toilet water from Trumpers of London. Lucy squeezed, shook, held up to the light, unscrewed, and generally made sure that nothing as big as a nutmeg could have been concealed (she also looked in the toilet tank), and came to the conclusion that there were no secrets in the apartment.
    On the way out of the building, she bumped into the janitor and asked him what the situation was with David’s rent.
    â€œHe paid the first and last month, so if you give me notice then there is five weeks left.”
    â€œIs there a big waiting list for these apartments?”
    â€œNot now. Last year we had calls every day, but lately it’s calmed down.”
    â€œIf I wanted it, could I just take it over?”
    â€œI’ll ask the manager. You’ll have to sign another lease.”
    â€œWould you do that? Ask him for me? By the way, you can have all the clothes in the closet. Throw the underwear and socks away.”
    â€œCan I have the shirts? Thanks. Mr. Trimble had some nice shirts. I’ll use the socks for rags.”
    â€œTake it all. I’ll call you in a few days about the vacancy.”
    â€œThere won’t be no problem.” He winked and grinned, and Lucy realised she had been bribing him.
    When she returned to the office Lucy now thought of as hers, she called Buncombe, the lawyer, and explained what she planned to do. Buncombe was as bad as Tse, pointing out to her, by implication, that she was a foolish, middle-aged woman, far too naive even to think of getting involved in the boredom, the sleaze, the hand-to-mouth existence of a private investigator. So concerned was he that he dropped his affectations and spoke normally.
    â€œWhat about the risk?” she asked.
    â€œForget about the risk. Think about the sleaze. You’ll be one step up from a debt-collector, about on a par with a magazine subscription salesman.”
    â€œI’m going to try it. If