Read Online Shallow Grave by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles - Free Book Online
Authors: Cynthia Harrod-Eagles
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bath and the floor of the shower. The towels were clean and folded and looked as if they had just been put out.
‘It doesn’t look as if he’s been home at all,’ Atherton said.
‘He said he was watching television all evening, but the TV listings are folded open at Monday,’ Slider observed. ‘Not that that proves anything. He could have known what was on, or just put it on at random when he got home.’
‘There was football on last night,’ Atherton blinked, feigning astonishment. ‘Blimey, even I know that! An international – England versus Italy. If he’d been in, he’d’ve been bound to look and see what time it started.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t like football.’
‘And the Pope’s a Jew.’
‘Just trying not to jump to conclusions, that’s all. One of us doing it is quite enough. Well, I think we’ve seen all we’ll see here. How was Andrews when you left him?’ Slider asked, as they headed for the front door.
‘He’s gone sulky,’ Atherton said. ‘Decided his best policy is to say nothing – but he’s not agitating to go home.’
‘Oh?’ Slider asked significantly.
‘I dunno,’ Atherton answered elliptically. ‘I don’t think I’d read anything into it necessarily. He seems to be in a state of lethargy.’
They opened the front door, and found a woman outside arguing with the guardian policeman. She was a small, fair woman in her fifties, with a neat face and figure, wearinga raincoat which hung open over a pink nylon overall, and she was carrying a raffia shopping-bag. She turned to them, her expression a mixture of belligerence and fear, and her sharp eyes effortlessly singled out Slider as the present peak of authority.
‘What’s going on?’ she demanded. ‘What’s happened? Only I was going past and I see all this kerfuffle. There’s not been a burglary?’
‘No, I’m afraid it’s more serious than that,’ Slider said. ‘Would you tell me who you are, please?’
‘I’m Pat, their cleaner. Pat Attlebury – Mrs,’ she added, as though they might already know several Pat Attleburys from whom she wished to be distinguished. ‘Tuesday and Friday mornings I do for them, two hours, though there’s not a lot to do, really, between you and I. Except for the dust. You always get a lot of dust in a new house,’ she explained, still scanning their faces. ‘What’s going on, then, if it’s not a burglary?’
‘How about a cup of tea?’ Slider invited, recognising a bunny champion when he saw one. ‘I expect you know your way around the kitchen?’
Over the requisite cuppa, Mrs Attlebury was perfectly willing to chat. She expressed a properly hushed shock at the news, but she seemed less than grief-stricken about Mrs Andrews’ fate.
‘It’s
him
I’m sorry for. He’ll take it hard. Besotted about her. Such a nice man, too – though I’m always having to speak to him about his boots. I mean, all right, the building trade’s a good business, and
he’s
done all right out of it – look at this place! But building sites mean dirt, you can’t get away from that. I think that’s what
she
didn’t like – always down on him, sneering, you know – as though she thought she was too good for him. Didn’t mind spending the money, oh, no! But it was beneath her to be married to a builder, even though he had got his own business. I mean, that’s where it is, isn’t it? He’s like the company chairman if you want to look at it that way. But he wasn’t good enough for Mrs Lady Docker Andrews! She didn’t like him coming home mucky, if you ask me. Though she had a point. It was bad enough when I used to do for them where they used to live before, but a new place like this shows up every mark, and she would have these pale carpets – madness, I call it. It made it hard for me, and he wasn’t careful where he put hisfeet. Well, men never are, are they? Take off your boots at the door, I said to him over and over, that’s all I ask. Well, even this dry
‘It doesn’t look as if he’s been home at all,’ Atherton said.
‘He said he was watching television all evening, but the TV listings are folded open at Monday,’ Slider observed. ‘Not that that proves anything. He could have known what was on, or just put it on at random when he got home.’
‘There was football on last night,’ Atherton blinked, feigning astonishment. ‘Blimey, even I know that! An international – England versus Italy. If he’d been in, he’d’ve been bound to look and see what time it started.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t like football.’
‘And the Pope’s a Jew.’
‘Just trying not to jump to conclusions, that’s all. One of us doing it is quite enough. Well, I think we’ve seen all we’ll see here. How was Andrews when you left him?’ Slider asked, as they headed for the front door.
‘He’s gone sulky,’ Atherton said. ‘Decided his best policy is to say nothing – but he’s not agitating to go home.’
‘Oh?’ Slider asked significantly.
‘I dunno,’ Atherton answered elliptically. ‘I don’t think I’d read anything into it necessarily. He seems to be in a state of lethargy.’
They opened the front door, and found a woman outside arguing with the guardian policeman. She was a small, fair woman in her fifties, with a neat face and figure, wearinga raincoat which hung open over a pink nylon overall, and she was carrying a raffia shopping-bag. She turned to them, her expression a mixture of belligerence and fear, and her sharp eyes effortlessly singled out Slider as the present peak of authority.
‘What’s going on?’ she demanded. ‘What’s happened? Only I was going past and I see all this kerfuffle. There’s not been a burglary?’
‘No, I’m afraid it’s more serious than that,’ Slider said. ‘Would you tell me who you are, please?’
‘I’m Pat, their cleaner. Pat Attlebury – Mrs,’ she added, as though they might already know several Pat Attleburys from whom she wished to be distinguished. ‘Tuesday and Friday mornings I do for them, two hours, though there’s not a lot to do, really, between you and I. Except for the dust. You always get a lot of dust in a new house,’ she explained, still scanning their faces. ‘What’s going on, then, if it’s not a burglary?’
‘How about a cup of tea?’ Slider invited, recognising a bunny champion when he saw one. ‘I expect you know your way around the kitchen?’
Over the requisite cuppa, Mrs Attlebury was perfectly willing to chat. She expressed a properly hushed shock at the news, but she seemed less than grief-stricken about Mrs Andrews’ fate.
‘It’s
him
I’m sorry for. He’ll take it hard. Besotted about her. Such a nice man, too – though I’m always having to speak to him about his boots. I mean, all right, the building trade’s a good business, and
he’s
done all right out of it – look at this place! But building sites mean dirt, you can’t get away from that. I think that’s what
she
didn’t like – always down on him, sneering, you know – as though she thought she was too good for him. Didn’t mind spending the money, oh, no! But it was beneath her to be married to a builder, even though he had got his own business. I mean, that’s where it is, isn’t it? He’s like the company chairman if you want to look at it that way. But he wasn’t good enough for Mrs Lady Docker Andrews! She didn’t like him coming home mucky, if you ask me. Though she had a point. It was bad enough when I used to do for them where they used to live before, but a new place like this shows up every mark, and she would have these pale carpets – madness, I call it. It made it hard for me, and he wasn’t careful where he put hisfeet. Well, men never are, are they? Take off your boots at the door, I said to him over and over, that’s all I ask. Well, even this dry
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