The Price of Love and Other Stories

The Price of Love and Other Stories Read Free

Book: The Price of Love and Other Stories Read Free
Author: Peter Robinson
Tags: Suspense
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celebratory whisky, when there came a loud knocking at my door. It was a knocking I wish I had never answered.
    —
    Brimley Park was a thick wedge of green separating the terraces of back-to-backs on the east side and the more genteel semi-detached houses on the west. There was nothing else in the place but a few wooden benches and some swings and a slide for the kiddies. Chestnut trees stood on all three sides, shielding the heart of the park from view. There used to be metal railings, but the Ministry of Works appropriated them for the war effort a couple of years ago, so now you could make your way in between the trees almost anywhere.
    Harry Joseph, who had been dispatched by the beat constable to fetch me, babbled most of the way there and led me through the trees to a patch of grass where PC Nash and a couple of other local men stood guard. Of course, under normal circumstances, this sort of thing would hardly be the province of a special constable, but I had one or two successes in criminal investigations under my belt, and the local force was short-staffed.
    It was a sultry night and the whisky only made me sweat more than usual. I hoped the others couldn’t smell it on me. It was late enough to be pitch-dark, despite double Summer Time, and, of course, the blackout was in force. As we approached, though, I did notice about eighteen inches of light showing through an upper window in one of the semis. They’d better be quick and get their curtains down, I thought, or Obediah Clough and his ARP men would be knocking at their door. The fines for blackout violations were quite steep.
    Harry had babbled enough on the way to make me aware that we were approaching a crime scene, though I never did manage to find out exactly what had happened until I got there. PC Nash had his torch out, the light filtered by the regulation double thickness of white tissue paper, and in its diffused, milky glow, I could see the vague outline of a figure on the grass: a young woman with a Veronica Lake hairstyle. I crouched closer, careful not to touch anything, and saw that it was young Evelyn Fowler. She was lying so still that at first I thought she was dead, but then I noticed her headmove slightly towards me and heard her make a little sound, like a sigh or a sob.
    “Have you called an ambulance?” I asked PC Nash.
    “Yes, sir. They said they’ll be here straight away.”
    “Good man.”
    I borrowed Nash’s torch and turned back to Evelyn, whispering some words of comfort about the doctor being on his way. If she heard me, she didn’t acknowledge it. Evelyn wasn’t a bad sort, as I remembered. Around here, the girls were divided into those who don’t and those who do. Evelyn was one who did, but only the morally rigid and the holier-than-thou crowd held that against her. It was wartime. Nobody knew which way things were going to go, how we would all end up, so many lived life for the moment. Evelyn was one of them. I remembered her laugh, which I had heard once or twice in the Nag’s Head, surprisingly soft and musical. Her eyes may have been spoiled for me by that cynical, challenging look that said, “Go on, convince me, persuade me,” but underneath it all, she was scared and uncertain, like the rest of us.
    There was no mistaking what had happened. Evelyn’s dirndl skirt had been lifted up to her waist and her drawers pulled down around her ankles, legs spread apart at the knees. She was still wearing nylons, no doubt a gift from one of our American brothers, who seemed to have unlimited supplies. Her lace-trimmed blouse was torn at the front and stained with what looked like blood. From what I could see of her face, she had taken quite a beating. I could smell gin on her breath. I looked at her fingernails and thought I saw blood on one of them. It looked as if she had tried to fight off her attacker. I would have to make sure the doctor preserved any skin he might find under her nails. There was always the possibility

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