White Throat by Sarah Thornton

Author:Sarah Thornton [Sarah Thornton]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2020-10-29T00:00:00+00:00

The next day was Sunday. She rang the station to make sure Wiseman was in but Constable Griffin answered. Clem told him she’d be in to see them with the photos of the necklace.

‘You still on about that suicide?’

‘Yes I’m still on about it. I’ve got evidence proving Helen was abducted from her home.’

‘Case is closed, I’m afraid,’ he said officiously. ‘She was single anyway.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Half of all female murders are at the hands of a partner or an ex. Domestics.’

‘How about the other half, then?’ Clem scoffed.

He started rabbiting on about murder statistics, like he’d been swatting up on the topic for an exam recently…that morning even.

‘So when’s the sergeant in?’ she interrupted.

‘Not till the afternoon shift.’

Clem threw a load of washing on and took the dogs out, heading for the quarry. Plenty of time to check out the actual place of death. In fact she was angry with herself that she hadn’t done it previously. She’d been relying on the police, believing they would have been thorough. She should go up there, try to work out how someone could have got Helen to the top without leaving a second set of tracks. She stepped along gingerly, trying not to allow the hot sand to spill over the top of her thongs. Sarge kept to the shady bits beside the path while Pocket skipped around, wherever the scents drew him, his paws hardly touching the ground.

Her phone rang, a number she didn’t recognise. It was Selma Bennett. She wanted to know if Clem was up for another fishing trip. Ralph wouldn’t call himself, she said. ‘Silly old duffer didn’t want to admit he enjoyed your company. But he gets lonely going out on his own. I thought if I tell him you asked me, he’d jump at the chance.’

It was remarkable—Ralph such a brute and Selma still loving him.

And the moment the thought entered her head, Griffin’s statistics twigged: the birthday card she’d seen on the sideboard at Turtle Shores the last time she was there. Roses on the cover, all my love…What if it was from a lover? And the entire row of kisses. Who puts so many kisses on a birthday card? But Clem had been working closely with Helen for weeks and she’d never mentioned anything about a man.

‘Of course,’ said Clem, dragging herself back to Selma’s question. ‘I expect his fishing is about all he’s got to look forward to these days.’

‘That and his cards night. Second Saturday every month.’

Clem recognised the significance straight away. Helen had died on Saturday night the twelfth of November—the second Saturday of November. Ralph Bennett could not afford a hired killer, the tyres on his car did not carry quarry soil in the tread and now Selma, in complete innocence and without any hint of collusion, had confirmed he had an alibi. It was a strangely powerful relief to know she had finally, conclusively eliminated one suspect. It seemed that being a ghoulish old prick who likes to tell horror stories doesn’t make you a murderer.

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