Only Death Will Divide by R.G. Fawcett

Author:R.G. Fawcett
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Murder, police, crime, serial killer, mystery, premonitions, revenge, killer, attacks, Yorkshire, dreams, sisters, twins, investigation, crash, fire, psychological, marple, morse, poirot, rendell, creek
ISBN: 9781782341772
Publisher: Andrews UK Limited
Published: 2012-08-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

The telephone on the bedside cabinet had a sharp, shrill ring that had Inspector Crossfield jerking out of a deep and dreamless sleep and stretching for the receiver before a second loud trill even had time to begin to assault his ears. He stabbed a finger at the switch on the small table-lamp and screwed his eyes against its sudden brilliance to squint at the green digital figures of the clock that was crammed onto the small surface of the locker. Six-fifty. He frowned as he spoke croakily into the mouthpiece.

The voice at the other end of the line was enthusiastic and garbled. ‘DI Crossfield? I am sorry to disturb you so early, sir, it’s PC Craven from the station and I thought I’d better ring straight away even though it’s not yet seven and I know it’s not usual for you to be contacted at this time of day but it seemed urgent and I spoke to the sergeant and he said that if I thought it was that important that I should ring you but I know that it’s early and that you wouldn’t be up yet so I’m sorry if...’

‘Craven!’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Craven, you’re right, it is early. I was asleep. And my brain still is. So will you slow down, start again, and tell me what you want.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Well the thing is like I was saying it seemed important and so I asked the sergeant..’

‘Craven!’

‘Sorry, sir. Will you go to the hospital? Sergeant Moody regained consciousness a couple of hours ago and is asking for you.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You don’t know any more than that?’

‘No, sir. The hospital phoned about twenty minutes ago and that was all they said. Apparently you had asked to be contacted as soon as anything changed?’

‘Yes, Craven. That’s right.’

‘So you didn’t mind me calling so early did you sir I mean because when I saw the time and I realised that it was only...’

‘No, no, Craven, you did the right thing. Thanks. I’ll get down to the hospital right away.’

Crossfield placed the handset carefully back onto its cradle and leant back wearily on his pillows. At his side, Mrs Crossfield lay flat on her back, her mouth slightly open and a husky, snoring sound resonating through her nose in time with the gentle rise and fall of the bedclothes pulled tightly across her chest. From outside the sound of chinking glass and rattling crates signalled the approach of the milkman, the jolly but repetitive whistling of the driver creating discordant harmony with the hum of the electric milk float. Then silence, a brief pause and the sound of footsteps and clinking bottles as the milkman strode up the footpath to the front door of the house. Clunk, clunk. Two pints. Receding footsteps. Rattle. Then the monotonous whistling began again, fading with the hum of the motor as the milk float continued its deliveries along the street.

The green figures shimmered seven-o-one. Crossfield sighed and reluctantly hauled himself out of the sanctuary of his bed and dressed quietly.

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