Read Online Murder on Page One by Ian Simpson - Free Book Online Page B

houses were mostly old and substantial, and the gardens had a tidy winter look that promised an explosion of colour in a few months’ time. There were two traditional-looking pubs and half a dozen shops. At the north end of the narrow Main Street stood a small, grey Norman church. It had a neat graveyard whose weathered stones reflected the age of the community. Saxon Walk lay behind the church. It comprised a single row of cottages, many of which had been knocked together to make larger properties. The numbering was consequently erratic. Number 11, which had swallowed up number 10, was opposite a black wooden gate leading to the rear of the graveyard.
    ‘Remember that Candy Kissin’s real name is Candice Dalton,’ Baggo said as Flick parked on the grass verge beside the graveyard wall. ‘Shall I lead this time? I expect she reacts better to men than women.’
    ‘Good idea,’ Flick said. She imagined a blousy, over-made-up tart who would flirt with men and ignore women.
    The front garden caught the sun. It was sprinkled with crocuses and small, blue hyacinths. The wooden outer door was open and through the glass inner door, a cramped hallway could be seen. The bell gave a strong, musical chime.
    A small, thin lady with short, wiry hair that made Baggo think of a Brillo pad answered. She peered at them through brown-framed spectacles. ‘Yes?’ she snapped, her forced smile only marginally more welcoming than her tone of voice.
    ‘Are you Mrs Dalton?’ Baggo asked.
    ‘Yes. Of course.’
    ‘Candice Dalton?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Do you sometimes write under another name?’
    The effect was immediate and dramatic. ‘Who are you? What do you mean coming here?’
    ‘We are police officers, Mrs Dalton. Sergeant Fortune and DC Chandavarkar. We’re investigating a series of murders. We’d be grateful if we could come in and ask you some questions. If you are embarrassed to talk here, we could go somewhere else. These are routine enquiries. There’s nothing to worry about.’ Baggo produced his warrant.
    Mrs Dalton inspected it, then glanced past them at the unmarked car and seemed relieved. After a moment of indecision, she opened the glass door fully and let them in. She led the way past a bicycle into the sitting room. It was dusty, cluttered and homely, with brown wood furniture and faded chintz. The mantelpiece alone was devoid of dust. Family photographs, all black and white, were precisely arranged, exactly parallel to the wall and equidistant, those with the largest frames in the middle. The subjects posed formally in an old-fashioned way.
    Mrs Dalton sat on the edge of an armchair. ‘My husband’s out at the moment. I should explain, he has no idea about …’
    ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Dalton. We have no wish to embarrass you. We shall use our discretion.’ Flick sounded reassuring.
    ‘I don’t know how long he’ll be. The funeral’s on Friday. One of our oldest parishioners, but it’s always a shock when they go.’
    ‘Is your husband …’ Baggo said.
    ‘The vicar?’ Flick finished his question.
    ‘Why, yes. Didn’t you know?’ Mrs Dalton smiled. ‘Obviously not,’ she added.
    ‘It is a bit surprising, given what you write about,’ Flick said.
    ‘Look, I’ll answer your questions, but if my husband comes back, I’m going to pretend you’re here about some poor girl that’s missing. I do voluntary work at a homeless unit. You won’t let me down, will you?’ She looked appealingly from one to the other. Taking their silence as affirmation, she added brightly, ‘So I’ll make a nice pot of tea.’
    After Mrs Dalton had left the room, her movements quick and bird-like, Flick inspected the bookcase. The lower shelves contained religious works. Higher up, Stevenson, Bronte, Austin, Dumas and Dickens were arranged, some in better condition than others. Wuthering Heights and The Count of Monte Cristo were held together by sellotape. The top shelf held faded paperbacks by Conan Doyle, Christie