Crime Writers and Other Animals Read Free

immediately fitting the new ventilation hose on to the tumble drier. George Marshall was back in his own home and back into his role as boring homemaker. Every moment she spent in his company, Natalie hated him more and became more aware of the differences between her husband and her lover, Trevor.
    Still, I don’t have to put up with it for long, she comforted herself. By this time tomorrow, George will be dead, I’ll be in line to inherit all his money and there’ll be nothing in the way of Trevor’s and my happiness.
    She followed George into the kitchen and indicated the bottle of brandy on the dresser. Her intention had been to fill her husband up with the drugged fluid as quickly as possible, but George’s dutiful domesticity made this impossible. He said he’d settle down with a drink once he’d knocked up their little snack. Natalie must be feeling dreadful after what’d happened. She should just put her feet up, and he’d sort out everything in the kitchen. He ushered his wife back into the sitting room, sat her in an armchair, placed another log on the fire and put a glass of champagne into her hand.
    Natalie sipped her drink and bided her time. The delay did not worry her unduly. She still felt confident her plans would work. There was no danger that she herself might inadvertently get drugged. Natalie never drank brandy – it was George’s favourite tipple – and her constant dieting, even more important now her body had Trevor to admire it, ruled out the possibility of her touching the brandy butter.
    She switched on the television and surfed quickly through the channels, but nothing caught her attention. Jovial game-show hosts in Santa suits did not fit with her current mood and preoccupations. The traditional red costume and beard did give her an idea, though. She and Trevor enjoyed dressing up for sex. Maybe that night she’d make love to Father Christmas. The thought gave her a warm anticipatory glow.
    George soon came bustling in with a loaded tray. Boringly predictable, he’d done scrambled egg on toast for them. More satisfactorily, from Natalie’s point of view, he’d also brought in a plate of mince pies and a large dish of brandy butter. The doctored bottle of brandy and a balloon glass were also on the tray.
    â€˜Oh, got something for you,’ George remembered just before he sat down. He disappeared into the hall for a moment, then returned carrying his briefcase.
    â€˜What is it?’ asked Natalie, her curiosity aroused.
    George winked mysteriously. ‘Something you’ll like very much. Show you after supper.’
    Then, finally, he uncorked the brandy bottle and poured a generous measure into the balloon. He raised it to his wife. ‘To us, Natalie. To us.’
    She lifted her champagne glass to his, though she could not bring herself to echo his words.
    While he ate, George talked, unworried by the spray of crumbs from his mouth. Natalie had forgotten how disgusting she’d always found this habit of his. Still, that was just another detail which would very soon cease to be a problem for her.
    â€˜So what happened with Trevor?’ her husband asked, a fleck of yellow egg beading the corner of his mouth.
    â€˜It came to an end,’ Natalie lied. ‘I just realized it wasn’t working. I fell out of love with him, I suppose, and then it seemed incredible that I had ever loved him. When I came to my senses, I hated myself for what I had done to you. I knew the whole episode had been a ghastly mistake, so I told Trevor it was over.’
    â€˜Ah.’ George nodded sagely.
    â€˜And you’re fully at liberty to say what you like. God knows, you have the right.’
    â€˜What do you expect me to say?’
    â€˜I don’t know. I suppose “I told you so” would be appropriate.’
    George Marshall reached across and took his wife’s hand. The touch of his flesh felt to her like