Read Online Death Watch by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cynthia Harrod-Eagles
Tags: Crime
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all once. But you keep changing every five minutes. Can’t keep up with you no more. Which one are you, then?’
He sat down beside her, and she peered at him from closer quarters. The sun shone into her face. There was a bloom of age, like blue algae, over the brown of her irises, and it seemed to him that there was grey dust in the deep seams of her wrinkles. He wondered how old she was. Probably not more than sixty, though it was always hard to tell. Once people parted with the normal comforts and concerns of civilisation, they came to look both older and younger than their age.
‘Yes, I know you now,’ she announced. ‘Mr Slider, ain’t it? Yore the one who got his eyebrows burned off. I ain’t seen you about lately.’
‘I don’t get out on the street as much as I’d like to. How are you, Else? You’re looking fit.’
‘Gotta keep fit, ain’t I? No – one else’ll look after me.’ She examined him keenly. ‘Yore puttin’ weight on. See it round yer chin. Been on good grazin’, aintcher?’
‘I don’t get the exercise you do, walking all day.’
‘Got a girl, ‘ave yer?’ she asked astutely, and chuckled. ‘Wass that advert they useter do, for evaporated milk? Comes from contented cows.’
He felt he should distract her from that train of logic. Her scrabbling fingers caught his eye. ‘Here, let me open that for you.’
She looked down at the packet in her hand blankly, having evidently forgotten all about it. Like magic it disappeared, whisked into her bag as though it had never existed. Stolen, he thought. Did she actually steal it from a baby? Lifted it out of a pram, as like as not. But her need was probably greater than the baby’s.
‘Wanted a cuppa tea,’ she complained, with a natural association of ideas, ‘but the caffy’s shut.’
‘The cafe’s been closed down for years, Else,’ Slider said, wondering if D’Arblay was wrong about her memory.
But she looked indignant. ‘I know that! Whadjer think, I’m going sealion?’
‘No, not you, Else. You’ll see us all out.’
‘Sharp as a bell,’ she said severely.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Slider said, ‘because I wanted to ask you something.’
‘Didn’t think it was a social call,’ she said, looking away from him across the grass. Girls were beginning to come out of the school, strolling across the park in pairs, all wearing short, tight skirts, white ankle socks, and black rowing-boat shoes. They all looked so alike, it made Slider feel dizzy, and he looked away.
‘You want to know about the fire, I s’pose,’ she said suddenly, without looking at him.
He was surprised. ‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Man got killed, didn’t he? Pleece gotter investigate. You’re The Man up Shepherd’s Bush now, aintcher, now Mr Raisbrooke’s gone. What happened to him, anyway?’
‘He retired,’ Slider said automatically. With her deductive powers, he thought, she should have been a detective. ‘Did you see the fire, then?’
‘I was there,’ she agreed, between relish and pride. ‘Iwatched the firemen. Gor, it was a good one! Went up like a bombfire. They never had no chance of puttin’ it out, I could see that ‘fore they ever got there. I stopped all night, watchin’. It was lovely! Just like the war,’ she said happily, ‘and no bleedin’ ARP wardens to tell you to clear off out of it, neether.’
‘Were you round that way before the fire started? Did you see anyone going in, or coming out?’
Her gaze sharpened again. ‘Which one you interested in?’ Silently he gave her the photograph of Neal, blown up from a snapshot provided by Mrs Neal. She studied it. ‘Is he the one what died?’
‘Yes. Did you see him at the motel that night? Or parking his car, perhaps? He had a red car, sporty, parked it in Rylett Road and walked down. Maybe he had someone with him?’
‘Na, I never see him there,’ she said. She looked up from the photograph and eyed Slider speculatively, and then smacked
He sat down beside her, and she peered at him from closer quarters. The sun shone into her face. There was a bloom of age, like blue algae, over the brown of her irises, and it seemed to him that there was grey dust in the deep seams of her wrinkles. He wondered how old she was. Probably not more than sixty, though it was always hard to tell. Once people parted with the normal comforts and concerns of civilisation, they came to look both older and younger than their age.
‘Yes, I know you now,’ she announced. ‘Mr Slider, ain’t it? Yore the one who got his eyebrows burned off. I ain’t seen you about lately.’
‘I don’t get out on the street as much as I’d like to. How are you, Else? You’re looking fit.’
‘Gotta keep fit, ain’t I? No – one else’ll look after me.’ She examined him keenly. ‘Yore puttin’ weight on. See it round yer chin. Been on good grazin’, aintcher?’
‘I don’t get the exercise you do, walking all day.’
‘Got a girl, ‘ave yer?’ she asked astutely, and chuckled. ‘Wass that advert they useter do, for evaporated milk? Comes from contented cows.’
He felt he should distract her from that train of logic. Her scrabbling fingers caught his eye. ‘Here, let me open that for you.’
She looked down at the packet in her hand blankly, having evidently forgotten all about it. Like magic it disappeared, whisked into her bag as though it had never existed. Stolen, he thought. Did she actually steal it from a baby? Lifted it out of a pram, as like as not. But her need was probably greater than the baby’s.
‘Wanted a cuppa tea,’ she complained, with a natural association of ideas, ‘but the caffy’s shut.’
‘The cafe’s been closed down for years, Else,’ Slider said, wondering if D’Arblay was wrong about her memory.
But she looked indignant. ‘I know that! Whadjer think, I’m going sealion?’
‘No, not you, Else. You’ll see us all out.’
‘Sharp as a bell,’ she said severely.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Slider said, ‘because I wanted to ask you something.’
‘Didn’t think it was a social call,’ she said, looking away from him across the grass. Girls were beginning to come out of the school, strolling across the park in pairs, all wearing short, tight skirts, white ankle socks, and black rowing-boat shoes. They all looked so alike, it made Slider feel dizzy, and he looked away.
‘You want to know about the fire, I s’pose,’ she said suddenly, without looking at him.
He was surprised. ‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Man got killed, didn’t he? Pleece gotter investigate. You’re The Man up Shepherd’s Bush now, aintcher, now Mr Raisbrooke’s gone. What happened to him, anyway?’
‘He retired,’ Slider said automatically. With her deductive powers, he thought, she should have been a detective. ‘Did you see the fire, then?’
‘I was there,’ she agreed, between relish and pride. ‘Iwatched the firemen. Gor, it was a good one! Went up like a bombfire. They never had no chance of puttin’ it out, I could see that ‘fore they ever got there. I stopped all night, watchin’. It was lovely! Just like the war,’ she said happily, ‘and no bleedin’ ARP wardens to tell you to clear off out of it, neether.’
‘Were you round that way before the fire started? Did you see anyone going in, or coming out?’
Her gaze sharpened again. ‘Which one you interested in?’ Silently he gave her the photograph of Neal, blown up from a snapshot provided by Mrs Neal. She studied it. ‘Is he the one what died?’
‘Yes. Did you see him at the motel that night? Or parking his car, perhaps? He had a red car, sporty, parked it in Rylett Road and walked down. Maybe he had someone with him?’
‘Na, I never see him there,’ she said. She looked up from the photograph and eyed Slider speculatively, and then smacked
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