determination. ‘We’re going to get this bastard for both the murders. My gut feeling tells me he’s responsible for both killings.’
He stands up, pushes the chair into the table and takes me by the shoulders. I feel the heat of his hands through the thin fabric of my shirt; warm twitters curl in my stomach. I feign nonchalance.
‘Susan, I meant what I said. I want to spend time with the girls. When’s Brittany coming back to Queens-land?’
‘I don’t know. Brit always makes the most of her grudges.’
My eldest daughter has decided I am to blame for her stepfather’s desertion. ‘It’s all your fault!’ she’d screeched. ‘If you weren’t so obsessed by that bloody job, dad wouldn’t have found someone else!’ I know she’s right. I’ve berated myself many times for my failings since Brittany and Harry left. That is, when I’m not breaking my heart and crawling with guilt over young Danny Grey’s death. I’ve been absolved from responsibility for the fiasco. His widow and my colleagues don’t blame me, but in my heart I should have been more vigilant and kept a tighter rein on my team. David releases me, pats my shoulder and then heads for the hall.
The Winslow women are wiping their eyes and preparing to leave. They thank me for my hospitality, Carissa exchanges mobile numbers with Marli, who stands beside me, as the BMW drives away. Adam Winslow, with a red-hot glance at Marli, intercepted suspiciously by her father, slips behind the wheel of the patrol car. With a wave, they’re gone.
The silence is absolute. A chill wind has picked up, causing the heads of the dahlias to strain away from their stakes. The cows standing near the fence, watching the proceedings with great interest, start to wander off, their coats rippling as air currents ruffle their long, shaggy hair. In a couple of minutes, the patrol car is a speck in the distance. My daughter marches into the house, straight-backed and boot-faced. I follow slowly, bracing myself for what I am well aware is going to be a somewhat lively “mother-daughter” discussion.
I am furious with myself, a thirty-eight year old experienced detective senior sergeant, recently Acting Inspector, allowing myself to be completely thrown by the presence of my ex-husband, father of my twin daughters.
CHAPTER 8
The Face in the Crowd
The Policeman
Monday: late morning.
P art of Senior Constable John Glenwood wanted to be at the incident room, set up in the conference room of the town police station, but the rest of him yearned to stay in bed with the covers over his head until the detectives solved the whole ghastly case or Edna and Jack sprang back to life–whichever came first.
His wife had been dressed and ready to go out when he arrived home from the hospital. When he told her about Edna’s demise, she hadn’t wanted to know anything about it. ‘I didn’t like the woman when she was alive and I’m not going to change my mind now she’s gone and got herself murdered. And that Harlow was a disgusting reptile.’ She slapped his dinner plate down in front of him and snatched up her handbag. ‘You’ve been up all night, so you’d best get to bed as soon as you’ve finished this.’
‘Nola, you can’t get yourself murdered,’ he protested wearily.
‘Well, mark my words; this’ll be a family thing.’
‘Yes, Miss Marple,’ he replied, as she disappeared into the garage, jumped into her car and headed off to the shops.
The lamb roast, which had looked and smelled so appetising minutes before, turned his stomach. He covered the plate with foil, put it in the refrigerator and poured his cup of tea into the sink, after which he plodded into the bedroom where he wasted no time in showering, getting into his pyjamas and climbing into bed. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, but Edna’s blue-white waxy face kept appearing inside his tightly closed eyelids. He tried to transfer his thoughts to the identity of the face
He stands up, pushes the chair into the table and takes me by the shoulders. I feel the heat of his hands through the thin fabric of my shirt; warm twitters curl in my stomach. I feign nonchalance.
‘Susan, I meant what I said. I want to spend time with the girls. When’s Brittany coming back to Queens-land?’
‘I don’t know. Brit always makes the most of her grudges.’
My eldest daughter has decided I am to blame for her stepfather’s desertion. ‘It’s all your fault!’ she’d screeched. ‘If you weren’t so obsessed by that bloody job, dad wouldn’t have found someone else!’ I know she’s right. I’ve berated myself many times for my failings since Brittany and Harry left. That is, when I’m not breaking my heart and crawling with guilt over young Danny Grey’s death. I’ve been absolved from responsibility for the fiasco. His widow and my colleagues don’t blame me, but in my heart I should have been more vigilant and kept a tighter rein on my team. David releases me, pats my shoulder and then heads for the hall.
The Winslow women are wiping their eyes and preparing to leave. They thank me for my hospitality, Carissa exchanges mobile numbers with Marli, who stands beside me, as the BMW drives away. Adam Winslow, with a red-hot glance at Marli, intercepted suspiciously by her father, slips behind the wheel of the patrol car. With a wave, they’re gone.
The silence is absolute. A chill wind has picked up, causing the heads of the dahlias to strain away from their stakes. The cows standing near the fence, watching the proceedings with great interest, start to wander off, their coats rippling as air currents ruffle their long, shaggy hair. In a couple of minutes, the patrol car is a speck in the distance. My daughter marches into the house, straight-backed and boot-faced. I follow slowly, bracing myself for what I am well aware is going to be a somewhat lively “mother-daughter” discussion.
I am furious with myself, a thirty-eight year old experienced detective senior sergeant, recently Acting Inspector, allowing myself to be completely thrown by the presence of my ex-husband, father of my twin daughters.
CHAPTER 8
The Face in the Crowd
The Policeman
Monday: late morning.
P art of Senior Constable John Glenwood wanted to be at the incident room, set up in the conference room of the town police station, but the rest of him yearned to stay in bed with the covers over his head until the detectives solved the whole ghastly case or Edna and Jack sprang back to life–whichever came first.
His wife had been dressed and ready to go out when he arrived home from the hospital. When he told her about Edna’s demise, she hadn’t wanted to know anything about it. ‘I didn’t like the woman when she was alive and I’m not going to change my mind now she’s gone and got herself murdered. And that Harlow was a disgusting reptile.’ She slapped his dinner plate down in front of him and snatched up her handbag. ‘You’ve been up all night, so you’d best get to bed as soon as you’ve finished this.’
‘Nola, you can’t get yourself murdered,’ he protested wearily.
‘Well, mark my words; this’ll be a family thing.’
‘Yes, Miss Marple,’ he replied, as she disappeared into the garage, jumped into her car and headed off to the shops.
The lamb roast, which had looked and smelled so appetising minutes before, turned his stomach. He covered the plate with foil, put it in the refrigerator and poured his cup of tea into the sink, after which he plodded into the bedroom where he wasted no time in showering, getting into his pyjamas and climbing into bed. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, but Edna’s blue-white waxy face kept appearing inside his tightly closed eyelids. He tried to transfer his thoughts to the identity of the face
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