Death of a Salesperson by Robert Barnard

Albert suddenly realized, with a little moue of distaste, that his holiday had had its little spice of adventure after all.
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    â€˜Well!’ said Terry’s dad, when the police had finally left. ‘We know who we have to thank for that !’
    â€˜There wasn’t much point in keeping it secret, was there? He was the only one Terry talked to at all. And he seemed such a nice man!’
    â€˜I’m going to write him a stiff letter,’ fumed Terry’s dad. ‘I know he works in the tax office in Hull. Interfering, trouble-making little twerp!’
    â€˜It could have been serious, you know. I hope you make him realize that. It could have been very embarrassing. If we hadn’t been able to give him the names and addresses of both Terry’s grannies . . . Oh, good Lord! What are they going to say?’
    â€˜The police are going to be very tactful. The Inspector told me so at the door. I think they’ll probably just make inquiries of neighbours. Or pretend to be council workers, and get them talking. Just so’s they make sure they are who we say they are.’
    â€˜ My mother will find out,’ said Mrs Mumford, with conviction and foreboding. ‘She’s got a nose! . . . And how am I going to explain it to her? I’ll never forgive that Wimpole!’
    Later that night, as they were undressing for bed, Terry’s mum, who had been thinking, said to Terry’s dad:
    â€˜Walter: you don’t think we ought to have told them about Wayne Catherick’s gran, do you?’
    â€˜What about her?’
    â€˜Old Mrs Corfitt, who lived next door. Should we have told them that she died of an overdose?’
    â€˜No. ’Course not. What’s it to do with Terry? They said the old lady got confused and gave herself an extra lot.’
    â€˜I suppose it would just have caused more trouble,’ agreed Mrs Mumford. ‘And as you say, it was nothing to do with Terry, was it?’
    She turned out the light.
    â€˜Well,’ she said, as she prepared for sleep, ‘I hope next time we go on holiday Terry finds someone nicer than that to make friends with!’

BREAKFAST TELEVISION
    T he coming of Breakfast Television has been a great boon to the British.
    Caroline Worsley thought so anyway, as she sat in bed eating toast and sipping tea, the flesh of her arm companionably warm against the flesh of Michael’s arm. Soon they would make love again, perhaps while the consumer lady had her spot about dangerous toys, or during the review of the papers, or the resident doctor’s phone-in on acne. They would do it when and how the fancy took them—or as Michael’s fancy took him, for he was very imperative at times—and this implied no dislike or disrespect for the breakfast-time performer concerned. For Caroline liked them all, and could lie there quite happily watching any one of them: David the doctor, Jason the pop-chart commentator, Selma the fashion expert, Jemima the problems expert, Reg the sports round-up man, and Maria the link-up lady. And of course Ben, the link-up man.
    Ben, her husband.
    It had all worked out very nicely indeed. Ben was called for by the studio at four-thirty. Michael always waited for half an hour after that, in case Ben had forgotten something and made a sudden dash back to the flat for it. Michael was a serious, slightly gauche young man, who would hate to be caught out in a situation both compromising and ridiculous. Michael was that rare thing, a studious student—though very well-built too, Caroline told herself appreciatively. His interests were work, athletics, and sex. It was Caroline who had initiated him into the pleasures of regular sex. At five o’clock his alarm clock went off, though as he told Caroline, it was rarely necessary. His parents were away in Africa, dispensing aid, know-how and Oxfambeatitudes in some godforsaken part of Africa, so he