intended to have a chat with Edward Marshall’s widow, assuming she was a widow. He could remember her well. She had straggling black hair, missing teeth and short skirts that would have looked great on an eighteen-year-old but, on her, were enough to turn the stomach. There was also a mean streak running all the way through her.
He lay down and closed his eyes again, but it was a waste of time. He might as well get up and do something productive.
Ten minutes later, he’d showered, shaved and dressed. All done without waking Harry and Ben, too. Even the dogs hadn’t stirred. Holly had crept on to his bed and made herself comfortable, and Fly was no doubt on the foot of Ben’s bed dreaming up fresh acts of mayhem.
At least it was another beautiful morning which made being out of bed less painful. He stepped outsideto enjoy the peace, and the warmth of the early morning sun . . .
Despite what Ruth Asimacopoulos had believed, Carol Blakely had changed her will to make ‘my best friend, Ruth’ the main beneficiary eighteen months ago. Until then, there had been generous bequests to her sisters and the rest would have gone to Vince Blakely. Ruth was right in that Carol had amended her will a month ago, but the only change was to add a bequest of ten thousand pounds to the local hospice . . .
Looking around, it struck Max just how tidy his garden was. Full of summer colour, too. Max could take no credit. His mother-in-law must have spent hours filling the borders with bedding plants. They’d obviously been there a while, too. He really should pay more attention.
Sometimes, he thought it would be bliss to retire early and spend his days pottering in the garden. Reality soon kicked in, though, and he knew he would be bored rigid in no time. Today, however, was one of those days when pottering appealed.
Alas.
He went back inside and shouted up the stairs. ‘Come on, you two. Move it!’
Ben and Harry were soon up and dressed for school. Once downstairs, they were pushing toast down their throats as if they hadn’t eaten for weeks.
‘Don’t forget it’s parents’ evening on Friday,’ Harry reminded him between mouthfuls.
Ben pulled a face. ‘We don’t have to go, do we?’
‘Are we parents?’ Harry scoffed.
‘This Friday?’ Max asked in astonishment.
‘Yes.’ Harry wore his resigned expression and nodded at the notice, a bright sheet of A4, pinned to the fridge door.
‘I’ll be there,’ Max promised.
He’d forgotten all about it, but he would be there. It had to be a couple of years since he’d managed the last one, and there was nothing like hearing how academically challenged your kids were. Fortunately, Harry excelled on thesports field. Ben, three years younger than his brother, refused to excel at anything.
‘You’d better do some hard graft between now and Friday then,’ he added.
The newspaper was pushed through the letterbox.
‘Fetch!’ Ben said, and Fly, part labrador, part collie, part psychopath, raced off to collect it. When the dog dropped it, unchewed, at Ben’s feet, even Max thought he deserved the piece of toast that Ben slipped him.
‘Hey, very impressive,’ Max said, surprised. He reached for the paper and unfolded it –
‘Oh, shit!’
‘Dad!’
Two hands shot out. Somehow managing to keep a few more furious expletives to himself, Max dug into his pockets and handed over two fifty-pence pieces for the swear box. Ben and Harry were saving for their holiday in Spain. At this rate, they’d be able to fly all their mates out and put them up in five-star hotels . . .
But shit! Max wondered if his boss’s paper was delivered at breakfast time. Phil Meredith would go berserk when he saw it.
Undertaker still alive!
How in hell’s name had they got wind of that?
A leak, he answered his own question. Someone on Max’s team, someone he trusted, had talked. And if Max got hold of them, they’d be lucky to talk again. Or walk.
Hell and damnation.
Perhaps
He lay down and closed his eyes again, but it was a waste of time. He might as well get up and do something productive.
Ten minutes later, he’d showered, shaved and dressed. All done without waking Harry and Ben, too. Even the dogs hadn’t stirred. Holly had crept on to his bed and made herself comfortable, and Fly was no doubt on the foot of Ben’s bed dreaming up fresh acts of mayhem.
At least it was another beautiful morning which made being out of bed less painful. He stepped outsideto enjoy the peace, and the warmth of the early morning sun . . .
Despite what Ruth Asimacopoulos had believed, Carol Blakely had changed her will to make ‘my best friend, Ruth’ the main beneficiary eighteen months ago. Until then, there had been generous bequests to her sisters and the rest would have gone to Vince Blakely. Ruth was right in that Carol had amended her will a month ago, but the only change was to add a bequest of ten thousand pounds to the local hospice . . .
Looking around, it struck Max just how tidy his garden was. Full of summer colour, too. Max could take no credit. His mother-in-law must have spent hours filling the borders with bedding plants. They’d obviously been there a while, too. He really should pay more attention.
Sometimes, he thought it would be bliss to retire early and spend his days pottering in the garden. Reality soon kicked in, though, and he knew he would be bored rigid in no time. Today, however, was one of those days when pottering appealed.
Alas.
He went back inside and shouted up the stairs. ‘Come on, you two. Move it!’
Ben and Harry were soon up and dressed for school. Once downstairs, they were pushing toast down their throats as if they hadn’t eaten for weeks.
‘Don’t forget it’s parents’ evening on Friday,’ Harry reminded him between mouthfuls.
Ben pulled a face. ‘We don’t have to go, do we?’
‘Are we parents?’ Harry scoffed.
‘This Friday?’ Max asked in astonishment.
‘Yes.’ Harry wore his resigned expression and nodded at the notice, a bright sheet of A4, pinned to the fridge door.
‘I’ll be there,’ Max promised.
He’d forgotten all about it, but he would be there. It had to be a couple of years since he’d managed the last one, and there was nothing like hearing how academically challenged your kids were. Fortunately, Harry excelled on thesports field. Ben, three years younger than his brother, refused to excel at anything.
‘You’d better do some hard graft between now and Friday then,’ he added.
The newspaper was pushed through the letterbox.
‘Fetch!’ Ben said, and Fly, part labrador, part collie, part psychopath, raced off to collect it. When the dog dropped it, unchewed, at Ben’s feet, even Max thought he deserved the piece of toast that Ben slipped him.
‘Hey, very impressive,’ Max said, surprised. He reached for the paper and unfolded it –
‘Oh, shit!’
‘Dad!’
Two hands shot out. Somehow managing to keep a few more furious expletives to himself, Max dug into his pockets and handed over two fifty-pence pieces for the swear box. Ben and Harry were saving for their holiday in Spain. At this rate, they’d be able to fly all their mates out and put them up in five-star hotels . . .
But shit! Max wondered if his boss’s paper was delivered at breakfast time. Phil Meredith would go berserk when he saw it.
Undertaker still alive!
How in hell’s name had they got wind of that?
A leak, he answered his own question. Someone on Max’s team, someone he trusted, had talked. And if Max got hold of them, they’d be lucky to talk again. Or walk.
Hell and damnation.
Perhaps
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