alone. His wife didn’t come home all night, but he didn’t do anything about it, just got up and went to work this morning as usual – having forgotten to wash and shave – and blow me, there she was, down the hole! Well, you can’t help being convinced by a story like that, can you?’
Slider assumed a judicious frown. ‘I don’t know. Cyril Dacre, the owner of the house and thus the hole, was extremely anxious to lay the crime in Andrews’ lap, despite accidentally giving away the fact that he – Dacre – loathed the deceased with a deep and deadly loathing, and rejoices that she’s dead.’
Atherton slapped a hand to his cheek, wide-eyed. ‘Of course, I see it all now! It must have been Dacre. He pursued her up and down the terrace in his wheelchair until she fell into the hole and died of exhaustion. And, come to think of it, Andrews did say that the work on the terrace was Dacre’s idea. He says he told Mrs H there was no need to do anything, but she – i.e. her father, since his was the final authority – insisted.’
Slider shook his head. ‘Pity he said that, because Mrs Hammondsays it was Andrews who told her that the work needed to be done, or the whole terrace would collapse.’
‘So he was trying to distance himself from authorship of the hole?’
‘It was a silly lie to tell – too easy to expose,’ Slider said.
‘Perhaps he hasn’t had much practice. This could be the first time he’s murdered his wife.’
‘We don’t know she was murdered,’ Slider said, for the third time that day. ‘She might have dropped dead of a heart-attack, during a quarrel, for instance, and Andrews – or whoever – panicked and tried to get rid of the body.’
‘“Might” is right,’ Atherton said.
‘Well, we’d better try to expose a few more of Andrews’ lies, hadn’t we?’ Slider said. ‘If it was a domestic murder, the most likely place for him to do it was at home: private, convenient, and a thorough knowledge of the tools to hand to boot. The forensic team’s going over there when they’ve finished here, but we might as well have a look first.’
Woodbridge Road was the long road that led from the other side of St Michael Square to the main road. Fourways was at the far end, on the corner with the main thoroughfare. There was a red sports car parked on the hard standing, with the registration number JEN 111.
‘Hers, I bet you,’ Atherton said.
‘Give that man a coconut. Well, if she was working at the Goat In Boots last night, she must have come back here afterwards.’
‘Or she might have walked to work.’
‘So she might.’
‘Or he could have driven it back himself from wherever he killed her.’
‘So he could. Not much help, is it? Shall we go in?’
Fourways was a large, modern, well-appointed house, smelling strongly of new plaster, and full of large, modern, well-appointed furnishings of the sort that were obviously expensive without being in any way luxurious or even particularly pleasing. It was the sort of house to which you might invite people you didn’t know very well so that they could marvel at how well you were doing for yourself.
It had Atherton gaping. ‘Gloriosky, what a gin palace!’
‘Every mod con,’ Slider agreed. ‘Sunken whirlpool bath, electrically operated curtains—’
‘The expense of spirit in a waste of shame,’ Atherton said.
There was no sign of any struggle anywhere – no sign of life at all. Everything was clean and tidy, the beds made, the bathrooms spotless. There was no dirty crockery in the kitchen: if Andrews had eaten supper on Tuesday night and breakfast on Wednesday morning, he had not only washed up after himself but dried up and put away too.
‘As if!’ Atherton snorted. ‘No man on this planet puts away after he’s washed up. It’s against nature.’
The kitchen waste-bin contained a fresh bin-liner and nothing else; the toothbrushes in the
en suite
bathroom were both dry, as was the wash-basin, the
Slider assumed a judicious frown. ‘I don’t know. Cyril Dacre, the owner of the house and thus the hole, was extremely anxious to lay the crime in Andrews’ lap, despite accidentally giving away the fact that he – Dacre – loathed the deceased with a deep and deadly loathing, and rejoices that she’s dead.’
Atherton slapped a hand to his cheek, wide-eyed. ‘Of course, I see it all now! It must have been Dacre. He pursued her up and down the terrace in his wheelchair until she fell into the hole and died of exhaustion. And, come to think of it, Andrews did say that the work on the terrace was Dacre’s idea. He says he told Mrs H there was no need to do anything, but she – i.e. her father, since his was the final authority – insisted.’
Slider shook his head. ‘Pity he said that, because Mrs Hammondsays it was Andrews who told her that the work needed to be done, or the whole terrace would collapse.’
‘So he was trying to distance himself from authorship of the hole?’
‘It was a silly lie to tell – too easy to expose,’ Slider said.
‘Perhaps he hasn’t had much practice. This could be the first time he’s murdered his wife.’
‘We don’t know she was murdered,’ Slider said, for the third time that day. ‘She might have dropped dead of a heart-attack, during a quarrel, for instance, and Andrews – or whoever – panicked and tried to get rid of the body.’
‘“Might” is right,’ Atherton said.
‘Well, we’d better try to expose a few more of Andrews’ lies, hadn’t we?’ Slider said. ‘If it was a domestic murder, the most likely place for him to do it was at home: private, convenient, and a thorough knowledge of the tools to hand to boot. The forensic team’s going over there when they’ve finished here, but we might as well have a look first.’
Woodbridge Road was the long road that led from the other side of St Michael Square to the main road. Fourways was at the far end, on the corner with the main thoroughfare. There was a red sports car parked on the hard standing, with the registration number JEN 111.
‘Hers, I bet you,’ Atherton said.
‘Give that man a coconut. Well, if she was working at the Goat In Boots last night, she must have come back here afterwards.’
‘Or she might have walked to work.’
‘So she might.’
‘Or he could have driven it back himself from wherever he killed her.’
‘So he could. Not much help, is it? Shall we go in?’
Fourways was a large, modern, well-appointed house, smelling strongly of new plaster, and full of large, modern, well-appointed furnishings of the sort that were obviously expensive without being in any way luxurious or even particularly pleasing. It was the sort of house to which you might invite people you didn’t know very well so that they could marvel at how well you were doing for yourself.
It had Atherton gaping. ‘Gloriosky, what a gin palace!’
‘Every mod con,’ Slider agreed. ‘Sunken whirlpool bath, electrically operated curtains—’
‘The expense of spirit in a waste of shame,’ Atherton said.
There was no sign of any struggle anywhere – no sign of life at all. Everything was clean and tidy, the beds made, the bathrooms spotless. There was no dirty crockery in the kitchen: if Andrews had eaten supper on Tuesday night and breakfast on Wednesday morning, he had not only washed up after himself but dried up and put away too.
‘As if!’ Atherton snorted. ‘No man on this planet puts away after he’s washed up. It’s against nature.’
The kitchen waste-bin contained a fresh bin-liner and nothing else; the toothbrushes in the
en suite
bathroom were both dry, as was the wash-basin, the
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