Shooting Elvis Read Free Page A

of torture, until her knees were strong enough to kick over a JCB. Apparently the exercises were designed to develop her slow-twitch muscle fibres. It’s the fast-twitch ones that bodybuilders are fond of, so Sonia’s legs didn’t change shape, for which I was grateful. We’d done the Three Peaks and I’d had her on the Mosedale round in the Lakes, over Pillar, Scoat Fell and Yewbarrow. The descent from Yewbarrow is a real knee killer. When we arrived back at Wasdale Head our knees were throbbing like cobblers’ thumbs, but the pain came in matched pairs, hers and mine, so that was OK.
    And tonight we were going running for the first time.
    Sonia had checked the casserole in the slow cooker and declared it still edible, and was already changed into her kit when I arrived home.
    ‘It’s just over three miles,’ I told her. ‘At a slow pace. In running circles I’m known as the Mr Toad. We’ll park in the golf club car park and do a circuit through the woods. That’s good fun. Then we’ll skirt the golf course until we come out on Rhododendron Drive, which is a straight blast back to the clubhouse. Tonight you are learning the route, that’s all. Then you’ll be able to come and run it at your own speed, all by yourself. Do you understand?’
    Sonia was tying the lace of her trainer. I put my hand on her head and said, ‘Are you listening?’
    ‘Yessir!’ she exclaimed, standing up. ‘I’ve got to keep my place behind you. Now come on, let’s go.’
    It really is fun, running through the woods. Frankly, it’s rare that you can describe anything about running as fun, but in the woods you are more concerned about keeping upright than travelling fast. The path is narrow, snaking in and out, up and down, between the trees. Fallen branches have to be skipped over, twigs scratch your legs and brambles tug at your clothes. The sunlight slanting down through the branches flickers across your face and if there’s been rain lately, and there usually has, the air smells of leaf mould and wild garlic.
    ‘Log!’ I shouted over my shoulder as I adjusted my stride to step over it.
    ‘Got it!’ Sonia called back to me.
    We burst out of the shadows of the trees onto therolling fairway of the golf course and she moved alongside me. The sun was low, casting long shadows, and three golfers making their way towards the next hole gave us a wave.
    I tried to glance at her without moving my head, so she couldn’t see that I was watching her. Sonia’s style of running is unusual. Her head pecks back and forward with each stride, like a chicken, as if she’s urging herself on. She holds her hands in front of her rather than by her sides, and lifts her knees higher than necessary. Sonia Thornton doesn’t run puffing and blowing, head rolling, face contorted with effort. She prances, like a fancy pony in an equestrian show.
    ‘Are you allowed to tell me all about the suspicious death?’ she asked, as casually as if we were sitting down for our evening meal.
    ‘It’s…an old man,’ I replied, between breaths.
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘It looks…as if he…electrocuted…himself.’
    ‘Poor man. So why is it suspicious?’
    ‘Do you…mind if I…tell you…about it…later?’ I gasped.
    We dropped off the grass onto Rhododendron Drive. This is about half a mile long, the first bit slightly downhill before it levels out and becomes a climb. We speeded up slightly on the firmer ground, my big feet going slap-slap-slap as they pounded the surface, her smaller ones making a soft tch- tch-tch as they skimmed over it. I was feeling tired now,the chest hurting and the legs wobbly. As the slope turned against me Sonia edged away and the gap between us widened. I thought of an elegant yacht leaving the quayside, and I was the hapless fool who had cast her loose, left behind on dry land.
    I was over a hundred yards behind when she reached the car. There were about six vehicles parked near the clubhouse and another four at the