Read Online Worse than Death (Anna Southwood Mysteries) by Jean Bedford - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jean Bedford
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look quite as mass-produced as the others. He had dark curly hair and was built like a heavyweight boxer. “Who’s that?”
Graham peered more closely. When he looked up his eyes were narrow with frowning. “That’s Terry Birkett,” he said. “I saw old photos of him at that club, in the footie teams. Detective-Sergeant Terry Birkett.”
The next photo showed Birkett again, talking to a man in a tracksuit on a bridge. Behind them was what looked like river and scrub. I stared at Evan.
“I followed him for a while,” Evan said smugly. “Rex had gone back inside and it wasn’t lunchtime yet, so I thought I’d leave him to it. I was interested in this bloke, too, wasn’t I? He looked to be having a right old row with Mr Channing. That’s over near Liverpool, near an old power station. There’s a golf course there, too, and that’s the Georges River. Nice spot.”
“I don’t understand,” I moaned, clutching at my hair. “That’s him. In the tracksuit. That’s the bloke who pushed me off the wharf. I’m sure of it. How come he knows Birkett? Why? What did I ever do to him ?”
“Perhaps it was an accident,” Graham said. “Perhaps he really did try to grab you and then he didn’t want any publicity…”
“Bullshit.” I remembered that shove in the back very clearly. “He meant to kill me. And anyway, it’s just too much of a coincidence that he knows Birkett, and Birkett knows Rex.”
“Anna, I don’t think he did,” Evan said suddenly. “Mean to kill you, that is. I think he just wanted to give you a fright. Just a ducking. He couldn’t have planned on the ferry hitting you.”
I subsided, and took a large gulp of champagne. He was right of course. But there were still a few hard questions I wanted to ask Rex Channing.
“D’you want the rest of my report then?” Evan got out a handsome leather notebook. “Well, mostly it’s just captions to these photos here. Except the visit to the cemetery.” He shuffled through the pictures and brought out one of Rex staring thoughtfully at a gravestone. There were fresh African orchids in a pot on the slab.
“That’s his mum’s grave,” Evan said. “It’s got her name and ‘Beloved mother of Rex’ on it, but I don’t know who this is…”
He put another picture on the desk. It showed Rex standing in front of what looked like a row of tiny terrace houses, faced with stone, each with its own little porch and pot-plants on the steps. The one he stood outside also had fresh flowers in a vase — African orchids again.
“What on earth is it?” I said.
“They’re family vaults,” Evan said. “Apartments for the dead. I talked to one of the men working there. It’s like any other housing development — they pre-sold the building lots before they built them. Mainly Italian and Yugoslav families bought them. Most of them have just got one or two bodies so far, but they’ve got room for everyone unto the nth generation.”
“But what’s the connection with Rex?” I asked. I was fascinated by the little mausoleums. I made a private vow to go out and look at them myself, soon.
“Don’t know,” Evan said. “This chap’s name is Giuseppe Digrigorio. He died at the age of eighty-one.”
“I know,” Graham said grumpily, looking at me. Then, in an offensive imitation of my voice: “Check it out. It was probably some old codger he hit with the Ferrari.”
“It’s a Merc,” I said absently, remembering seeing it parked outside his house. I was still trying to work out why Terry Birkett had thought it worthwhile to get a thug to frighten shit out of me.
“He’s got a Ferrari, too,” Evan said. “It’s in the photos. Number-plate’s REX 000. The Merc’s probably just for the servants to use when they go shopping. Or when Rex is visiting his more respectable pals. D’you want me to go on with this, then?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve found the chap I was looking for.” I wrote Evan a cheque and Graham left with
Graham peered more closely. When he looked up his eyes were narrow with frowning. “That’s Terry Birkett,” he said. “I saw old photos of him at that club, in the footie teams. Detective-Sergeant Terry Birkett.”
The next photo showed Birkett again, talking to a man in a tracksuit on a bridge. Behind them was what looked like river and scrub. I stared at Evan.
“I followed him for a while,” Evan said smugly. “Rex had gone back inside and it wasn’t lunchtime yet, so I thought I’d leave him to it. I was interested in this bloke, too, wasn’t I? He looked to be having a right old row with Mr Channing. That’s over near Liverpool, near an old power station. There’s a golf course there, too, and that’s the Georges River. Nice spot.”
“I don’t understand,” I moaned, clutching at my hair. “That’s him. In the tracksuit. That’s the bloke who pushed me off the wharf. I’m sure of it. How come he knows Birkett? Why? What did I ever do to him ?”
“Perhaps it was an accident,” Graham said. “Perhaps he really did try to grab you and then he didn’t want any publicity…”
“Bullshit.” I remembered that shove in the back very clearly. “He meant to kill me. And anyway, it’s just too much of a coincidence that he knows Birkett, and Birkett knows Rex.”
“Anna, I don’t think he did,” Evan said suddenly. “Mean to kill you, that is. I think he just wanted to give you a fright. Just a ducking. He couldn’t have planned on the ferry hitting you.”
I subsided, and took a large gulp of champagne. He was right of course. But there were still a few hard questions I wanted to ask Rex Channing.
“D’you want the rest of my report then?” Evan got out a handsome leather notebook. “Well, mostly it’s just captions to these photos here. Except the visit to the cemetery.” He shuffled through the pictures and brought out one of Rex staring thoughtfully at a gravestone. There were fresh African orchids in a pot on the slab.
“That’s his mum’s grave,” Evan said. “It’s got her name and ‘Beloved mother of Rex’ on it, but I don’t know who this is…”
He put another picture on the desk. It showed Rex standing in front of what looked like a row of tiny terrace houses, faced with stone, each with its own little porch and pot-plants on the steps. The one he stood outside also had fresh flowers in a vase — African orchids again.
“What on earth is it?” I said.
“They’re family vaults,” Evan said. “Apartments for the dead. I talked to one of the men working there. It’s like any other housing development — they pre-sold the building lots before they built them. Mainly Italian and Yugoslav families bought them. Most of them have just got one or two bodies so far, but they’ve got room for everyone unto the nth generation.”
“But what’s the connection with Rex?” I asked. I was fascinated by the little mausoleums. I made a private vow to go out and look at them myself, soon.
“Don’t know,” Evan said. “This chap’s name is Giuseppe Digrigorio. He died at the age of eighty-one.”
“I know,” Graham said grumpily, looking at me. Then, in an offensive imitation of my voice: “Check it out. It was probably some old codger he hit with the Ferrari.”
“It’s a Merc,” I said absently, remembering seeing it parked outside his house. I was still trying to work out why Terry Birkett had thought it worthwhile to get a thug to frighten shit out of me.
“He’s got a Ferrari, too,” Evan said. “It’s in the photos. Number-plate’s REX 000. The Merc’s probably just for the servants to use when they go shopping. Or when Rex is visiting his more respectable pals. D’you want me to go on with this, then?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve found the chap I was looking for.” I wrote Evan a cheque and Graham left with
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