The Dead Letter Read Free Page B

Carolyn. He is handsome . Best glanced up from his notebook, looked directly into her eyes, and smiled. Carolyn felt an involuntary blush redden her cheeks. She smiled back at him, certain that her attempt at smiling produced only a foolish, self-conscious, ineffectual smirk.
    â€œI’m Constable Best,” he said, “and I just have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
    He smiled again.
    Carolyn felt another hot flush. She felt suddenly girlish. Her face reddened even more, and a surge of mortification swept it along.
    The knock on the door to the makeshift interview room was a welcome distraction. The door opened. Constable Jamie MacFarlane poked his head through.
    â€œSergeant wants you back at the station when you’re through here, Sam.”
    â€œBut it’s the end of my shift. Got plans.”
    â€œA meeting. He wants everyone there.”
    Best nodded.
    Carolyn felt hairs bristle on the back of her neck and blood drain the blush from her cheeks.
    Carolyn’s terror grew as her head slowly turned toward the door behind her. It was the same voice Carolyn had heard one floor below her on the night of the murder. There was no doubt in her mind. It was a deep voice. It was rich and clear. Robust. It had strength and control. It was a voice she could never mistake. It was a voice she wished she had never heard.
    MacFarlane acknowledged Best’s response, smiled apologetically toward Carolyn, and closed the door behind him.
    â€œMiss Jollimore…” said Constable Best. The now-closed door had gripped Carolyn’s attention. Her eyes were transfixed.
    â€œMiss Jollimore…” he said again. Carolyn slowly turned toward him. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
    â€œI…uh…yes… I mean no.”
    He smiled again. This time it was more forced. He had tired of feigning interest. The same questions, the same answers from each of the twenty-two women who worked in that office. It had been tedious and a waste of time. Now a staff meeting to look forward to. Best drew a deep breath, refocused, and began again.
    â€œNo need to be nervous. Your full name?”
    Terror welled up, and once again she forced it down.
    â€œCarolyn Jollimore.” For a moment it sounded like the name of some person she scarcely knew.
    â€œDid you know Simone Villier?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWere you working on Friday, October 5?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat time did you leave the building?”
    Carolyn stumbled over a handful of inaudible words. Best looked up quizzically.
    â€œSix o’clock,” she said.
    â€œWhat time did you begin work?”
    â€œFour.”
    â€œFour?”
    â€œYes, I work different hours from the rest.”
    â€œYou only worked two hours?”
    â€œYes. I received a call from my sister. An urgent one. Our mother was ill. She has Alzheimer’s. I had to go home. I’ve been out a week. I just returned to work today,” she said. She had stressed “urgent one” and “had to go home.” Now she regretted it. It made her sound like a child making desperate excuses, and she feared that he would see through her pretence and know that she was lying.
    â€œDid you observe anyone in the building when you left?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œTo your knowledge would anyone else be working in the building then?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid you notice anyone outside when you left the building? Anyone?”
    â€œNo. No one.”
    â€œVery good. That’s all we need. Your help is appreciated. One more thing before I go. You said you left the building at what time? Seven?”
    â€œNo, six. Six o’clock.” Her voice sounded stronger, more confident.
    â€œThanks for your cooperation, Miss Jollimore.”
    Carolyn got up, went out to her desk, and sat down. Davidia bounced over. She was excited.
    â€œIsn’t he gorgeous? I’d squeeze him to pieces if I had the