Deadly Pleasures by Martin Edwards

Author:Martin Edwards [Edwards, Martin]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780727883179
Google: Z_GSmwEACAAJ
Amazon: 0727883178
Barnesnoble: 0727883178
Goodreads: 17707242
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

CLICK

Alison Joseph

Alison Joseph’s first book about Sister Agnes was Sacred Hearts, published in 1994, and the most recent title in the series is A Violent Act. She has worked in local radio, and is the author of a number of radio plays; she has also adapted books written by other writers for radio. She is the current Chair of the CWA.

‘You’d know if he was dead, though, wouldn’t you? Your own husband …’

She stared into the black water. Around her the trees dripped with recent rain.

Would I? she wondered.

It was all very well for Rosemary to say that, pouring her yet another cup of coffee in her warm kitchen. Trying to help, of course. ‘I mean, put it this way, Sheila, no news is good news, in my view David has just wandered off, memory loss, you know the kind of thing, I saw a programme on the telly about it, people just forget who they are sometimes, they’ll find him safe and sound, trust me …’

Safe and sound.

She left the lake and headed through the trees, her Wellingtons squelching in mud. Six days he’d been missing. Five and a half days since her phone call to the police, reporting that her husband hadn’t come back. Yes, she’d said, uncharacteristic. Very out of character, she’d agreed. A solicitor, she said. Semi-retired. Concentrating on the garden these days, and his antique collecting, a bit of tennis too, although his knee had been playing up … Our marriage? We’d been married thirty-two years last August. ‘Any problems in your marriage, madam?’ No, she’d said. No problems. ‘Ours was a happy marriage,’ she’d told the police officer.

The damp branches shivered in the cold wind.

A happy marriage.

How do I know? I know nothing about my marriage. I know nothing about my husband. All I know is that he set off for Waitrose in the Volvo, as he did every Thursday, and he never came back. There it was, our car on the news, last night, abandoned, police crawling all over it.

A happy marriage.

For all I know, he might be anywhere. He might be dead. For all I know.

She reached the path that led out to the Otley Road. The sky was heavy with impending rain.

Click. Camera 722, Otley Road. ‘11.04,’ the timecode said. Click. Camera 723. ‘11.21’ Click.

He zoomed in. The black and white image on the screen grew fuzzier, but the number plate was visible. That’s the car all right, he thought. Click. Camera 724 … 725 … Silver Volvo, there it is. And then it disappears. And reappears, six days later, abandoned in a side street, they’d had the call this morning.

He checked the map. So, he leaves his home, heads on to the Otley Road, Waitrose, the wife said, and then vanishes. CCTV of the Waitrose car park, no sign of him there—

There was a knock at his door. ‘Matt …?’ She stood in the doorway, black hair, black trouser suit, red lipstick.

‘Samira. Hi.’ He swivelled his chair.

‘The SIO sent me.’

‘He did, did he?’

‘He said he wants you to photograph the car.

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