The Best Corpse for the Job by Cochrane Charlie

Author:Cochrane, Charlie [Cochrane, Charlie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Riptide Publishing
Published: 2014-07-23T22:00:00+00:00

Despite the glimpses he’d had of newer properties hidden away in little side streets, as though they weren’t allowed to show themselves on the main road, Robin had begun to believe that just about every house in Lindenshaw had been old enough for Cromwell to knock it about a bit. He’d expected the Bookhams’ house to be of a similar vintage, but it was clearly a 1950s build, immaculately looked after given the external paintwork, but a bit stuck in the past. Like the school. No wonder Marjorie Bookham felt at home there.

Still, one thing all the houses in the area seemed to have in common was the ability to leak sound. Robin waited after ringing the doorbell and could hear a gruff, masculine voice bellowing, possibly from upstairs. A curt “Door, Marjorie” suggested Mr. Bookham was as much of a dinosaur as Oliver Narraway. Like the old fogeys who had infested Lindenshaw during his childhood, spoiling all the fun.

“Yes, I’m going.” Mrs. Bookham opened the door, her look of surprise swiftly turning into a smile and the crossness in her voice being toned down. “Oh!”

Robin smiled, something usually guaranteed to melt the stony hearts of women of any age. If you’ve got it, why not use it? “I’m sorry to call unannounced, but that’s what my job’s like at times. I’ve got a couple of things you might be able to clarify. About St. Crispin’s school.”

“Oh, of course.” She didn’t look enthusiastic. “Come in.”

“Thank you.”

Mrs. Bookham called up the stairs. “It’s only the police, Derek.”

“About these bloody shed burglaries? About time too. Shoot the lot of them, that’s what I say.”

“No, dear,” Mrs. Bookham said through gritted teeth. “It’s about Thursday.”

“You won’t need me, then.” The disembodied reply clearly gave Mrs. Bookham the message she wanted to hear.

“Shall we go through?” she sounded more relaxed and pointed to a half-open door. “It’s comfier in the lounge.”

Like the house—and maybe Mr. Bookham himself—the decor in the room seemed trapped in the fifties, another bulwark against the steady tide of progress and change. Everything was spotless, if a touch in need of restoration. Perhaps that reflected on the man of the house too. Robin took the seat he was offered—a slightly sagging comfy chair—while his hostess perched primly on the edge of the sofa.

“Please ignore Derek. He gets a bee in his bonnet about things, but he’s basically harmless.”

“Been a lot of burglaries round here?” Robin’s local gossip network had let him down; he’d not heard about this Lindenshaw crime spree.

Mrs. Bookham rolled her eyes. “Only a couple of plant pots and some tools taken as far as I know, at least around here. He saw something on the local news about Stanebridge—which he thinks is a den of iniquity—and has convinced himself that gangs of armed robbers are about to park their white vans by the village green and go on the rampage.”

“If that happens, I’ll send Anderson straight round to let down their tyres.” Robin’s deliberately charming smile seemed to put his hostess at ease.

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