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Authors: Peter Robinson
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unable to get the image of Alice Matlock’s body out of her mind.
III
Detective Constable Philip Richmond was almost as pleased with his recent promotion to the CID as he was with his new moustache: the latter made him look older, more distinguished, and the former, more important, successful. He had worn the uniform, driven the Panda cars and walked the beat in Eastvale for as long as he cared to, and he had an intimate knowledge of every alley, snicket and back-street in the town: every lover’s lane, every villain’s hangout and every pub where visiting squaddies from Catterick camp were likely to cut up a bit rough at closing time.
He also knew Gallows View, the cottages at the far western edge of the town. Developers had petitioned for their demolition, especially when Leaview Estate was under construction, but the council, under pressure from the Parks and Monuments Commission, had reluctantly decided that they could stay. There were, after all, only five cottages, and two of those, at the western end of the street, had been knocked together into a shop and living quarters. Richmond had often bought gob-stoppers, Tizer and lucky-bags there as a lad, later graduating to cigarettes, which the owner would often trade him for his mother’s coupons giving threepence off Tide or Stardrops.
Richmond stood in the street, drawing his raincoat tighter to keep out the chill, and cursed that damned slave driver Hatchley to himself. The bastard was probably guzzling the dead woman’s medicinal brandy while his junior paid the house calls in the rain. Well, blow him, Richmond thought. Damned if he’s going to get credit for anything I come up with.
Resigned, he knocked on the door of number four, which was opened almost immediately by an attractive young woman holding the lapels of her dressing-gown close around her throat. Richmond showed his identification proudly, stroked his moustache and followed her indoors. The place might be an old cottage, he thought, but by heck they’d done a good job on the inside: double-glazing, central heating, stucco walls, nice framed paintings, a bit abstract for his taste, but none of your Woolworth’s tat, and one of those glass-topped coffee tables between two tube-and-cushion armchairs.
He accepted her offer of coffee—it would help keep him awake—but was surprised at how long she took to make it and at the odd, whirring noises he heard coming from the kitchen. When he finally got to taste the coffee, he knew; it was made from fresh-ground beans, filter-dripped, and it tasted delicious. She put a coaster on the low table in front of him—a wild flower, wood sorrel, he guessed, pressed between two circles of glass, the circumference bound in bamboo—then, at last, he was able to get down to business.
First he took her name, Andrea Rigby, and discovered that she lived there with her husband, a systems analyst, who was often away during the week working on projects in London or Bristol. They had lived in Gallows View for three years, ever since he had landed the well-paying job and been able to fulfill his dream of country living. The woman had an Italian or Spanish look about her, Richmond couldn’t decide which, but her maiden name was Smith and she came originally from Leominster.
“What’s happened?” Andrea asked. “Is it Miss Matlock next door?”
“Yes,” Richmond answered, unwilling to give away too much. “Did you know her?”
“I wouldn’t say I
knew
her. Not well, at any rate. We said hello to each other and I went to the shops a few times for her when she was ill last year.”
“We’re interested to know if you heard anything odd last night between ten and midnight, Mrs Rigby.”
“Last night? Let me see. That was Monday, wasn’t it. Ronnie had gone back down to London . . . I just sat around reading and watching television. I
do
remember hearing someone running in the street, over in Cardigan Drive. It must have been about eleven because the
III
Detective Constable Philip Richmond was almost as pleased with his recent promotion to the CID as he was with his new moustache: the latter made him look older, more distinguished, and the former, more important, successful. He had worn the uniform, driven the Panda cars and walked the beat in Eastvale for as long as he cared to, and he had an intimate knowledge of every alley, snicket and back-street in the town: every lover’s lane, every villain’s hangout and every pub where visiting squaddies from Catterick camp were likely to cut up a bit rough at closing time.
He also knew Gallows View, the cottages at the far western edge of the town. Developers had petitioned for their demolition, especially when Leaview Estate was under construction, but the council, under pressure from the Parks and Monuments Commission, had reluctantly decided that they could stay. There were, after all, only five cottages, and two of those, at the western end of the street, had been knocked together into a shop and living quarters. Richmond had often bought gob-stoppers, Tizer and lucky-bags there as a lad, later graduating to cigarettes, which the owner would often trade him for his mother’s coupons giving threepence off Tide or Stardrops.
Richmond stood in the street, drawing his raincoat tighter to keep out the chill, and cursed that damned slave driver Hatchley to himself. The bastard was probably guzzling the dead woman’s medicinal brandy while his junior paid the house calls in the rain. Well, blow him, Richmond thought. Damned if he’s going to get credit for anything I come up with.
Resigned, he knocked on the door of number four, which was opened almost immediately by an attractive young woman holding the lapels of her dressing-gown close around her throat. Richmond showed his identification proudly, stroked his moustache and followed her indoors. The place might be an old cottage, he thought, but by heck they’d done a good job on the inside: double-glazing, central heating, stucco walls, nice framed paintings, a bit abstract for his taste, but none of your Woolworth’s tat, and one of those glass-topped coffee tables between two tube-and-cushion armchairs.
He accepted her offer of coffee—it would help keep him awake—but was surprised at how long she took to make it and at the odd, whirring noises he heard coming from the kitchen. When he finally got to taste the coffee, he knew; it was made from fresh-ground beans, filter-dripped, and it tasted delicious. She put a coaster on the low table in front of him—a wild flower, wood sorrel, he guessed, pressed between two circles of glass, the circumference bound in bamboo—then, at last, he was able to get down to business.
First he took her name, Andrea Rigby, and discovered that she lived there with her husband, a systems analyst, who was often away during the week working on projects in London or Bristol. They had lived in Gallows View for three years, ever since he had landed the well-paying job and been able to fulfill his dream of country living. The woman had an Italian or Spanish look about her, Richmond couldn’t decide which, but her maiden name was Smith and she came originally from Leominster.
“What’s happened?” Andrea asked. “Is it Miss Matlock next door?”
“Yes,” Richmond answered, unwilling to give away too much. “Did you know her?”
“I wouldn’t say I
knew
her. Not well, at any rate. We said hello to each other and I went to the shops a few times for her when she was ill last year.”
“We’re interested to know if you heard anything odd last night between ten and midnight, Mrs Rigby.”
“Last night? Let me see. That was Monday, wasn’t it. Ronnie had gone back down to London . . . I just sat around reading and watching television. I
do
remember hearing someone running in the street, over in Cardigan Drive. It must have been about eleven because the
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