The Ink Man Lies by Hughes Julia

Author:Hughes, Julia
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-10-25T00:00:00+00:00

Once downstairs McKay retrieved her briefcase and perched on the sofa’s armrest. Just as the stairs creaked and she looked up to see Cyril descend, the front door swung open. She was prepared for a string of excuses, peppered with outright lies. But instead of a middle aged red haired Marilyn, a middle aged fair haired woman walked into the flat. This one was smaller and about ten years younger than Marilyn. She eyed McKay with curiosity, then swapped her briefcase into her left hand to extend her right. ‘Hello, I’m Heather Cooke, CEO of Golden Acres. Is Marilyn Barlowe around?’

Thinking, that’s what we’d all like to know, McKay shook hands. ‘I’m Detective Constable McKay.’

Heather’s eyes widened, so she added hurriedly, ‘Mrs Barlowe witnessed an accident and has agreed to help with our enquiries.’

‘Oh,’ Heather said and there was a wealth of meaning in that one syllable. The stairs creaked again. Both Marilyn’s boss and McKay glanced up in time to see Cyril trying to creep back upstairs.

‘Mr Barlowe! What are you doing here?’

He cringed like an overgrown schoolboy caught out of bed after lights out. McKay answered for him. ‘Mr Barlowe offered to check and make sure Marilyn wasn’t upstairs.’

With an expression of disgust, Heather turned her back on Cyril.

‘I’ve been trying to contact Marilyn since seven o’clock. With all due respect, today’s hardly ideal for Marilyn to be helping police enquiries. The mayor and local press are due here at three, when there’s a handing over ceremony.’

‘Handing over?’

Heather’s hand rotated. ‘The access roads and services are formally adopted by the council. Most of our new residents have chosen to take possession of their properties today. I can’t believe that Marilyn’s forgotten.’

Neither could McKay. It was clearly Marilyn’s goal in life to create as much confusion as possible.

‘It didn’t,’ Cyril said. He’d got as far as the half landing two stairs above the hallway and no further. McKay guessed Heather was no fan of Mr Barlowe. Under her scrutiny, he rammed his spine against the exposed brick wall and developed a sudden interest in his toes.

‘Would you care to explain why she’s not here then? Why she hasn’t answered her phone? Why she’s wasting the valuable time of this young lady?’ Heather pelted questions at him like stale buns. ‘And where,’ she asked in an even more glacial tone, ‘are your socks and shoes, Mr Barlowe?’

Cyril glared. ‘Don’t take that tone with me — I’m not your husband!’

Nose wrinkled in distaste, Heather muttered ‘Thank God!’

Dismissing Cyril, she turned and stared at the fireplace. For the first time, McKay noticed that the artfully arranged sprigs of tree leaned drunkenly to one side. A flurry of pink blossom littered the hearth. Still clutching her briefcase, Heather marched towards the fireplace.

Puzzled, McKay glanced at Cyril for clues and caught him tiptoeing towards the kitchen, most likely aiming to sneak out through the garden.

‘Stay put,’ she warned. By now Heather had pulled the display clear and was standing inside the cavernous fireplace. Metal

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