Read Online Last Writes by Catherine Aird - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Catherine Aird
Ads: Link
…
Yes, he supposed he did. What did that Simon Puckle, sitting behind his great big desk in his posh office, know about what made a man see red?
Solicitors, the police countered temperately, knew rather more about life than most men. Pity he hadn’t listened to them, wasn’t it?
Well, if they wanted to put it like that …
They said they didn’t have to put anything in any way. All they had to do was remind him he didn’t have to tell them anything without Mr Puckle being there. If it was Mr Puckle he wanted, of course …
He didn’t need him now, he said.
The police said that in their view he needed a solicitor more than ever now.
He said it was too late, now Pearl was dead.
So was that all? they said, making a note. About this last visit? Just to get her to say she was sorry?
And to see where she’d settled after they’d split up. Not that she’d let him into the house. The back garden was all that he got to see of it.
Very wise, said the police, although not in the circumstances wise enough.
No, he agreed at once, it wasn’t anything to do with him where she had gone but he wanted to do it.
And?
And it wasn’t anything like their old house.
Naturally, said the police who knew rather more about one person families than most.
Nasty, poky little semi-detached place down by the river in Berebury, he sniffed. Half a garden and cheek-by-jowl with the people next door. When you think of the place they’d had before … before … there was no comparison. No comparison at all.
Was that where he was living now? asked the police. The old house?
No, it wasn’t, he growled. He’d had to give up the old home when they’d broken up. That was another thing.
What was?
That she didn’t seem to mind enough about losing the old home.
Ah.
She said she was quite happy here, where she was, thank you. The neighbours were pleasant people. There was a nice quiet old lady next door and some cheerful types across the road. They’d asked her over once or twice and there was another couple next door on the other side, out at work all day, but around at the weekend and they’d asked her in once or twice, too. That was what had got his goat …
What exactly?
That she preferred what she’d got to all that she’d had.
Including him?
If they liked to put it like that. Yes.
Ah, said one of the policemen, more toffee-nosed than the others. A touch of the Brownings, was it?
No, he shook his head. He hadn’t shot her. He’d strangled her.
That, explained the toffee-nosed one, wasn’t what he had meant. Robert Browning’s ‘Last Duchess’ had a ‘heart too soon made glad’ and her husband hadn’t liked it either. The Duke had given commands to have his wife murdered but he had taken matters into his own hands, hadn’t he? Literally.
He didn’t know she was going to provoke him like she had, did he? he muttered defensively.
So why the ticket for the football match that he had set up to video?
He liked to see the game again. See where the ref had gone wrong and all that.
And the supporter’s scarf with his name on that he’d dropped in one of the stands before leaving the ground at half-time?
Because, he snarled, he hadn’t known that the little old lady was sitting just the other side of the garden fence and must have heard every word that passed between him and Pearl, had he?
True.
Otherwise he wouldn’t have turned himself in. No, the old lady hadn’t seen him but he’d said some very personal things to Pearl that only a wife could have known.
Loudly?
A man can’t help shouting when he’s worked up, can he? Not when a woman has made him see red.
Possibly not, said the police, deciding against telling him that the old lady next door was stone deaf and never wasted her hearing-aid battery when she was just sitting in the garden reading, and hadn’t heard a thing.
LA PLUME DE MA TANTE
Rhuaraidh Macmillan, the Sheriff of Fearnshire, paced round his room in his house at Drummondreach
Yes, he supposed he did. What did that Simon Puckle, sitting behind his great big desk in his posh office, know about what made a man see red?
Solicitors, the police countered temperately, knew rather more about life than most men. Pity he hadn’t listened to them, wasn’t it?
Well, if they wanted to put it like that …
They said they didn’t have to put anything in any way. All they had to do was remind him he didn’t have to tell them anything without Mr Puckle being there. If it was Mr Puckle he wanted, of course …
He didn’t need him now, he said.
The police said that in their view he needed a solicitor more than ever now.
He said it was too late, now Pearl was dead.
So was that all? they said, making a note. About this last visit? Just to get her to say she was sorry?
And to see where she’d settled after they’d split up. Not that she’d let him into the house. The back garden was all that he got to see of it.
Very wise, said the police, although not in the circumstances wise enough.
No, he agreed at once, it wasn’t anything to do with him where she had gone but he wanted to do it.
And?
And it wasn’t anything like their old house.
Naturally, said the police who knew rather more about one person families than most.
Nasty, poky little semi-detached place down by the river in Berebury, he sniffed. Half a garden and cheek-by-jowl with the people next door. When you think of the place they’d had before … before … there was no comparison. No comparison at all.
Was that where he was living now? asked the police. The old house?
No, it wasn’t, he growled. He’d had to give up the old home when they’d broken up. That was another thing.
What was?
That she didn’t seem to mind enough about losing the old home.
Ah.
She said she was quite happy here, where she was, thank you. The neighbours were pleasant people. There was a nice quiet old lady next door and some cheerful types across the road. They’d asked her over once or twice and there was another couple next door on the other side, out at work all day, but around at the weekend and they’d asked her in once or twice, too. That was what had got his goat …
What exactly?
That she preferred what she’d got to all that she’d had.
Including him?
If they liked to put it like that. Yes.
Ah, said one of the policemen, more toffee-nosed than the others. A touch of the Brownings, was it?
No, he shook his head. He hadn’t shot her. He’d strangled her.
That, explained the toffee-nosed one, wasn’t what he had meant. Robert Browning’s ‘Last Duchess’ had a ‘heart too soon made glad’ and her husband hadn’t liked it either. The Duke had given commands to have his wife murdered but he had taken matters into his own hands, hadn’t he? Literally.
He didn’t know she was going to provoke him like she had, did he? he muttered defensively.
So why the ticket for the football match that he had set up to video?
He liked to see the game again. See where the ref had gone wrong and all that.
And the supporter’s scarf with his name on that he’d dropped in one of the stands before leaving the ground at half-time?
Because, he snarled, he hadn’t known that the little old lady was sitting just the other side of the garden fence and must have heard every word that passed between him and Pearl, had he?
True.
Otherwise he wouldn’t have turned himself in. No, the old lady hadn’t seen him but he’d said some very personal things to Pearl that only a wife could have known.
Loudly?
A man can’t help shouting when he’s worked up, can he? Not when a woman has made him see red.
Possibly not, said the police, deciding against telling him that the old lady next door was stone deaf and never wasted her hearing-aid battery when she was just sitting in the garden reading, and hadn’t heard a thing.
LA PLUME DE MA TANTE
Rhuaraidh Macmillan, the Sheriff of Fearnshire, paced round his room in his house at Drummondreach
Similar Books
