A Well-deserved Murder (Trevor Joseph Detective series) Read Free Page A

caller’s warning not to use it. He had to concede it was easier to spot a second car or a tail if you were watching a country road. Twice he heard helicopters overhead and wondered if whoever had phoned him could afford to rent one.
    Deciding he was paranoid, he turned off the road and on to a lane that led to a well-known beauty spot. After nine miles of winding track he pulled into a picnic area. He drove slowly around the perimeter to check it was as deserted as it appeared to be. Eventually he parked beneath a tree at the furthest point from the entrance because it gave a clear view of both the area and the approach road. He turned off his ignition, gazed blindly at the rain-sodden scene and mulled over the telephone call that had brought him here. After a few minutes he opened his briefcase and pulled out one of the notepads that was never far from his side.
    ‘ You want a scoop?’
    ‘ Every journalist wants a scoop.’
    ‘ I know where the beauty queen is.’
    ‘ Where?’
    ‘ Not in a rich Arab’s harem.’
    ‘ I never thought she was. So, where is she?’
    ‘ You think I’ll tell you on the phone.’
    ‘ How do I know you’re not a crank caller?’
    ‘ Because she has a birthmark on the top of her right thigh.’
    ‘ You can see it on every photograph of her taken during the swimsuit finals.’
    ‘ Can you see the one that runs into her pubic hair?’
    There was no way of checking the information, as the caller undoubtedly knew. It was every journalist’s dilemma. A story he was ninety-nine per cent certain was crap, but the one per cent dangled like the promise of a lottery win – with about the same odds.
    ‘ You want a scoop you have to pay for it.’
    ‘ You get nothing until I know your information is genuine.’
    ‘ Meet me at the picnic spot on the north side of Connor’s lake. You know it?’
    ‘ Why not somewhere closer?’
    ‘ Because that is close – for me. Take the scenic route not the motorway.’
    ‘ You want me to drive on B-roads?’
    ‘ I need to know no one is following you. I’ll be there between seven and nine tonight. Don’t look for me; I’ll find you and if I see the police or anyone else besides you there, you won’t see me.’
    Alan closed his notepad and reached into the back of the car for the sleeping bag. He unzipped it, threw it over himself, snuggled down in his seat and waited … and waited … and waited …
    Alan woke with a start. It was pitch black and hailstones were thundering on the roof of his car. Shivering, he peered into the darkness. He could make out nothing beyond the white blur hitting the windscreen. He switched on the ignition and his headlights. The car park yawned back at him, shadowy, empty and iced with white frost. He turned on the fan and heater and looked at his clock – nine thirty. The peculiar robotic voice echoed in his head.
    ‘ I’ll be there some time between seven and nine tonight. Don’t look for me; I’ll find you and if I see the police or anyone else besides you there, you won’t see me.’
    ‘Bloody lunatic!’ He wasn’t sure if he was cursing himself or the hoax caller. He allowed the car a few minutes to warm up before driving slowly around the picnic area again. Reluctantly he pulled away the sleeping bag and tossed it onto the back seat, fastened his seat-belt and drove away.
    The hail and rain had stopped and a full moon was shining, pale and waxy when Alan drove down his cul-de-sac at eleven o’clock. When he and Joy had moved in some thirty-five years before, they’d taken the trouble to get to know the neighbours, but most of the friends they’d made had long since moved on, and he’d lacked the will to make the acquaintance of the families who had replaced them.
    Without realising it, he had become more and more isolated within his own street. Driving from house to work and back, spending what little free time he had with colleagues, work contacts, police and “sources”. Since Joy had died,