Deliver Us from Evil by Peter Turnbull Page A

sensibly – sounded the horn as he did so. Rural dwelling people have a larger sense of personal space than the urban dwellers, so Webster had noticed and had also been advised, and do not care to be taken by surprise. A dog was heard to bark, clearly in response to the sound of the car’s horn. As the car approached the house the officers saw the lean-to, which had been hidden from view by shrubbery, and which sheltered two vehicles. One, very practically, thought Yellich, was a Land Rover, the other a Wolseley saloon, white, with a red flash, of 1960s vintage. The dog, when it appeared, was a large Alsatian, alert, well groomed and clearly well nourished. It had the run of the grounds and as Yellich halted the car it put its large, very large, paws up against the window of the driver’s side and barked and growled menacingly.
    â€˜Nice doggy . . . good doggy,’ Yellich said with a smile. Beside him Webster chuckled and said, ‘After you, sarge . . . you go first . . . he seems to like you.’
    Caution sensibly being observed, Yellich and Webster sat inside the car for, they later estimated, two or three minutes, until an elderly man appeared, exiting the ancient house via the decaying wooden porch. He stood looking suspiciously at the officers. Yellich held up his ID and wound the window down an inch and yelled, ‘Police’. The elderly man nodded and called the Alsatian back to where he stood and, as it reached him, bent and ruffled its ears as Yellich heard him say, ‘Good boy, good dog’.
    â€˜Police,’ Yellich said again as he and Webster stepped out of the car.
    â€˜Yes . . . I gathered.’ The man was stooped with age and walked with the aid of a gnarled wooden stick which he gripped tightly in an equally gnarled hand. Both officers had the impression that the man had once been powerfully built and athletic. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked, speaking with a cultured voice of received pronunciation without any trace of a regional accent.
    â€˜We hope so, sir. Is this the house of Mr Beattie?’ Yellich asked.
    â€˜It is.’
    â€˜Mr Alexander Beattie?’
    â€˜It is,’ the man held eye contact with Yellich, ‘I am he. Confess I have not been called Alexander for a while though, Alex is usually it. It’s been Alex for a long time now . . . an awful long time.’
    â€˜Yes, sir. Can we have a word with you, please?’ Yellich replied with a smile. ‘We just need some information; it’s nothing for you to worry about.’
    â€˜I’m eighty-three,’ Beattie responded with a similar smile. ‘It’ll have to be pretty damned serious for me to be called on by the police for something I’ve done amiss . . .’ he laughed softly and warmly. ‘Mind you, the company in jail would be welcome . . . no . . . no . . . probably not, but do come in. Don’t mind the dog, he’s got a loud bark, but he’s got failing hind legs. He can’t stand for very long before his hind quarters give way . . . a bit like his owner really . . . it’s a design fault in Alsatians, so the vet once told me. You could even probably outrun him. Well, one of you would get away anyway and his bite ain’t what it used to be. None of us is getting any younger. It seems the way of it is that some of us just have to hang around the old place longer than others but nobody’s clock goes backwards. Do come in.’ He turned his back on the officers and walked slowly towards the house. He wore brown cavalry twill trousers, a bright yellow cardigan and black shoes. Despite being stooped with age Yellich guessed Beattie was probably still six feet tall, and that he would have cut a fine figure in his day.
    Yellich and Webster followed Beattie into his house and saw that the interior was as original and as tired as the