Dying Fall by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Author:Cynthia Harrod-Eagles [Harrod-Eagles, Cynthia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2021-09-23T23:00:00+00:00

THIRTEEN

Pale Ire, Envy and Despair

When he got finally home, Joanna came down, just out of the bath, wrapped in a dressing gown and steaming gently. The garment in question was not even first cousin to a negligée – it was tough, impervious, all-concealing. It occurred to him that a sensible dressing gown like that was a mark of motherhood. She hadn’t owned even a frivolous one when he first met her, being more inclined to wander naked about her own home.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.

‘I had something at work,’ he said. ‘I could do with a cup of tea, though. It’s all right, I’ll make it. D’you want one?’

‘Make mine rooibos, or it’ll keep me awake. So the missing brother just walked in?’

‘It’ll save us hundreds of man-hours looking for him,’ he said. ‘Mr Carpenter ought to be pleased.’

‘Not more budgetary threats?’ she interpreted, sitting down at the kitchen table.

‘According to Mr Porson, they’re talking about amalgamating us.’

‘Why do I always think that means coating with zinc?’

‘I’d prefer coating with zinc to moving into Hammersmith. Carpenter’s the sort of boss you like better at a distance. A different continent would be ideal.’

‘So what’s he like? The brother, not Carpenter. I remember when you moaned about Mr Wetherspoon,’ she added parenthetically. Wetherspoon had been the borough commander before Carpenter.

‘I’d almost have him back,’ said Slider. ‘At least he came up through the ranks the hard way. Carpenter parachuted in from university. He doesn’t know his ACAS from his EMRO.’ He made the tea in two mugs, put them on the table and sat down opposite her.

‘So?’ she prompted. ‘How is Philip Armstrong?’

‘A bit pathetic – strung out and exhausted. If he killed his sister, he’s suffering for it. We’ve had a psych evaluation and we’ll start questioning him tomorrow.’

‘Saturday,’ she said flatly.

He looked apologetic. ‘Can’t be helped, I’m afraid.’

‘I mean, you’ll probably be working on Sunday as well.’

‘Oh, God, yes, your concert! What time are you on?’

‘Three thirty to five thirty rehearsal, seven thirty concert. It’s in Reading, so it won’t be worth coming back in between.’ She cocked him a warning look.

‘I might be able to keep it down to only the morning on Sunday,’ he said, ‘but just in case, I’d better have a word with Dad.’

‘If you were rich, we could have a live-in nanny, and none of these problems.’

‘Policemen don’t get rich.’

‘And if you hadn’t been a policeman, I’d never have met you.’

‘You should have married George Clooney when you had the chance.’

‘Yes, silly me, I hesitated too long between him and Leonardo DiCapricorn.’

‘What’s the programme on Sunday?’

‘Bit of a scrub-fest. William T. Hell Overture, Dvorak Scherzo Capriccioso, and Beethoven “Seven”. Strings do all the work and the brass gets all the glory.’

‘William Tell – isn’t that the Lone Ranger music?’

‘There’s my man of culture! It’s a bugger to play – we really need more than one rehearsal, but we won’t get it. All those down-bow ricochets on the sixteenths. If you don’t get it on exactly the right part of the bow …’

‘I’m happy to say I didn’t understand any of that.

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