Fate Worse Than Death by Sheila Radley Page A

in the first place. Anyway, what brings you out now, Marjorie? Isn’t this your usual supper-time?’
    â€˜Yes it is, but Howard’s not back from fishing yet. Not that it matters – that’s the advantage of having a cold meal, we can be flexible about our timing. But now look here, Constance, about the produce show: you really must –’
    Tired of lingering on the scruffy stairway, Martin stepped down into the sitting-room. Glad of his intervention, Con introduced him to her neighbour.
    â€˜Ah yes, I remember you.’ Marjorie stood four-square and looked him over, the chains on either side of her cheeks swinging aggressively. ‘See here, young man, I know you’re a detective, so answer me this: why was it that when my sister Helen, who lives near Colchester, was burgled, it was over an hour before the police arrived in answer to her 999 call? And although she gave the detective a detailed list of the missing items, not one single thing has been recovered! It’s an absolute scandal –’
    It was a well-known hazard of police work, being cornered off-duty and held responsible for the activities of every criminal and every police force in the country. As his former boss – Alison’s father – Chief Inspector Quantrill had advised him, Tait smiled politely and said nothing. (‘They don’t want to listen to reasoned explanations,’ Quantrill had said. ‘They don’t want to listen at all. Let’em get it off their chests, and just be thankful that you don’t work as an income-tax inspector. Their social life must be hell.’
    â€˜Excuse me, Marjorie,’ Con said firmly, going to his rescue, ‘but Martin is just off to the Flintknappers to collect some drink – I forgot to get in any lager for him. And while you’re there, Martin, please ask Phil Goodwin the landlord if he’s got that bottle of brandy I ordered.’
    â€˜You don’t drink brandy,’ objected her neighbour.
    â€˜It’s for cooking with,’ said Con grandly. She accompanied Martin to the back door. ‘Actually,’ she whispered, ‘I asked Phil to get me a good cognac – but not a word to Marjorie, it’s nothing to do with her.’
    Martin winked and went, glad to be out in the heat of the early evening sun instead of being cooped up and stifled indoors.
    In the oven of her prison, Sandra Websdell shivered. The nervous sweat that had sprung as she stood poised in front of her captor, ready to blind him and run, now felt deathly cold on her skin. She huddled in a corner listening, sick and afraid.
    Would he come back with the dish of fruit and custard she had asked for? Would he come back that evening at all?
    If he didn’t, then she would have to wait a whole twenty-four hours before she had another opportunity to escape. By that time, would she still be capable of taking the opportunity? Would she be capable of taking it now, even if he came back?
    A sudden sound in the gloom startled her. But it was only a rustle, a scrabble of tiny feet and a squeaking as her room-mates found her supper. She wept again, in weakness and despair.
    And then, when she was no longer listening for it, a noise came from outside. With a pounding heart and a plug of fear in her throat she forced herself upright and waited for the door to be opened.

Chapter Twelve
    When Phil Goodwin hadn’t returned home to the Flint-knappers Arms by six o’clock, his wife’s attitude of cross acceptance began to corrode into anger. As if it wasn’t bad enough of him to leave all the bar work to her at lunch-time – not to mention the subsequent clearing and washing-up, in this heat! And now it was time to open again for the evening … Damn Phil and his little bits on the side! Damn the woman, whoever she was …
    The fact that Charley Horrocks failed to make his usual entrance soon after six o’clock did nothing to cheer