Slice Read Free Page B

Now there’s a whole can of worms.’
     
    Fulton got home around ten o’clock that morning, tired, even more irritable than usual and very hungry. But he found the small detached bungalow on the outskirts of Hodham village where he had lived with Janet for close on twenty years far from welcoming without the woman’s touch he had come to expect for so long.
    The smell of the takeaway he had bolted down the previous evening still lingered, the kitchen sink was overflowing with unwashed crockery and the crammed waste-bin had started disgorging its sticky contents all over the floor. The place was a tip and, to make matters worse, the cafetière needed thoroughly cleaning out before it could be used again, the stale coffee gunge at the bottom smelling like a week old ashtray.
    Slumping into an armchair in the lounge, he settled for a whisky and another cigarette instead of breakfast. The day had started badly and with the corpse of a murdered judge now lying in the mortuary, it could only get worse. A juicy story like this was almost certain to have been passed to the press by now – maybe filed by a local stringer or even leaked by one of his own officers for a bit of back-pocket money – and he knew from bitter experience that the newshounds and ‘houndesses’ would soon be all over him like a rash. Time to reflect for a few moments in the sanctity of 6 Colmore Gardens before the whatnot hit the fan in tsunami-like quantities. Not that he had much to reflect on as yet. His visit to Lyall’s house had raised more questions than it had answered and his interview with the bobby who had found his body had produced nothing of significance – except managing to raise his blood pressure.
    Fulton had never liked sycophants – they turned his stomach – which was probably why he had taken such an instant dislike to PC John Derringer.
    Thin and weasel-like, with restless dark eyes and an inbuilt obsequious manner, there was nevertheless a hint of contempt in the set of the slightly crooked mouth, suggesting that, deep down, Derringer saw himself as a cut above the rest. Not a young man (he had to be in his late thirties) Derringer was an experienced mid-service bobby who knew most of the wrinkles associated with the job and, according to the shift inspector Fulton had chatted to on his way to see him, not averse to taking liberties if he thought he could get away with it. But he was also one of those lucky officers who always seemed to be in the right place at the right time and although not promotion material, having failed the selection board for sergeant regularly over the past ten years, he had been commended for good police work on five separate occasions.
    His discovery of Lyall’s body was another of his successes and though Fulton did not like the man, he was forced to acknowledge in a grudging way that Derringer had produced a good result and therefore had every reason to be pleased about it. But that was about as far as things went. The patrolman hadn’t noticed anyone at the scene or any cars parked in the lane next door. In fact, other than being able to confirm his discovery of the body at a quarter past one precisely, he had had nothing really useful to offer the investigation – apart from himself, of course, and he made absolutely certain Fulton was aware of his interest in joining the inquiry team.
    ‘Prick!’ Fulton muttered, drawing the smoke from his cigarette deep into his lungs and leaning back in the chair to stare at the discoloured ceiling. Where the hell did the force get arseholes like Derringer?
    But he didn’t get the chance to ponder that particular point any further, for the telephone by his elbow shrilled.
    ‘Yeah?’ he barked into the receiver.
    ‘Hello, Jack.’
    He recognized the seductive voice at once. ‘Hello, Janet,’ he said quietly, straightening in the armchair.
    There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. ‘Missing me?’
    He took a deep breath. ‘Where are you,