Death of a Bovver Boy by Leo Bruce

but has a quiet little green Cortina for himself.’
    Carolus said goodbye, and as an afterthought askedLeng if he might come again if there was anything else he wanted to know.
    â€˜Of course,’ Leng said. ‘Come in any time.’
    Now it was time for Dutch Carver’s mother and Carolus reminded himself to say ‘Mrs Delafont’ when he addressed her.
    She had seemingly dressed for the occasion for surely a busy housewife would not be likely to be wearing what could only be described as a tea-gown, if such a thing was possible in the 1970’s. She welcomed Carolus and explained rather archly that she could guess what he had come about.
    â€˜You want to tell me about the Investment Trust I wrote in about.’
    â€˜No,’ said Carolus, but at first it did not seem that Estelle Delafont, as Flo Carver had become, had heard him. She was examining herself with a broad smile of approval in the mirror over the mantelpiece.
    â€˜I was sorry I was out when you came this morning. I was having my hair done. Do you like it?’
    â€˜No,’ said Carolus determined to attract her full attention, and before she could speak added—‘I’ve come to see you about your son Kenneth, the one who has been murdered.’
    He pronounced the last word with such emphasis that Estelle looked positively alarmed.
    â€˜I did see something in the paper about it,’ she answered coolly.
    â€˜You know you
had
a son, presumably?’ went on Carolus. ‘And that on Sunday night he was found dead in a ditch beside the road, stark naked?’
    â€˜I don’t know anything about that,’ said Estelle.
    â€˜You know now, because I’ve just told you. I gather Kenneth was not your favourite son. But surely news like this must be painful to you?’
    â€˜I suppose it is. Of course I hadn’t seen much of him lately. Are they sure it was murder?’
    â€˜Quite sure. He had been suffocated.’
    â€˜Dreadful, isn’t it? Would you care for a cup of tea?’
    â€˜No thanks. When did you see him last?’
    â€˜Who? Kenneth? Oh not for a long time. My husband didn’t encourage him to come here.’
    â€˜Your…?’
    â€˜Mr Delafont. He had no use for Kenneth. He knew how he’d made me suffer.’
    â€˜How?’
    â€˜He was always a thoughtless boy. Not like his brother Roger. Even his father admits that. I was so ashamed when he—Kenneth I mean—got into all that trouble.’
    â€˜What trouble?’
    â€˜He was never out of it. The police and everything. People looked at me as though it was my fault, as though I hadn’t brought him up properly. I’m sure I did everything I could for him. Mr Delafont says I did far too much.’
    â€˜And did you?’
    â€˜At first I did. But when I saw that he had no gratitude at all I gave it up. If you can’t show a little appreciation, I said, you can get someone else to do things for you because I’m not going to. Mr Delafont said I was quite right. I don’t like the way he’s made it all curl up above the ears, do you?’
    Carolus, who had long practise in this kind of dialogue, was able to realize that it had switched to this morning’s session at the Maison Chic but hung on like a bull-dog to the subject of Kenneth.
    â€˜How long is it, would you say, since you had helped your younger son?’
    â€˜Helped him? He doesn’t need help! He’s always got plenty of money, and buys himself more new clothes than I can afford to. Sometimes I think I look almost
shabby.
Don’t you think so?’
    â€˜I don’t know anything about it. Did you see Kenneth on the Saturday afternoon before his body was found?’
    â€˜Well, I don’t know about seeing him. The lady next door who spoke to you this morning did mention that he’d been round early in the afternoon.’
    â€˜How early?’
    â€˜Before three, she said. I had