Питер Ловси - Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose [Stories]

“I wonder,” said Julie. “I find it difficult to believe in this crazy admirer.”

Diamond said loftily, “You may understand better when you meet Trish Noble. She’s on the side of the angels and bloody attractive. Dangerous combination.”

“That would explain everything,” murmured Julie in a bland tone. “Shall I organize house-to-house to find out if anyone was spotted on the railway embankment yesterday afternoon?”

“It’s under way,” he told her. “Two teams.”

Trish Noble’s sister lived in a semi-detached on a council estate north of Trowbridge. But it was the bloody attractive young widow herself who answered their knock. In jeans and a white tee-shirt, with the height and figure of a pre-teen schoolgirl, she looked too frail to use a knife on a chocolate cake, let alone a man. The hours since the killing had taken a toll. Her big eyes were red-lidded and they seemed to have sunk deeper into her skull. Julie must have wondered at Diamond’s ideas of attractiveness.

He introduced her and said there were things he needed to ask. Trish calmly invited them in, explaining that she had the house to herself because her sister was at work. In a narrow sitting room, watched by two unwelcoming spaniels, Diamond took the best armchair and launched straight into the workover. “You didn’t kill your husband with the teapot, Mrs Noble. He was stabbed in the back.”

She frowned and stared.

Julie said, “Why don’t you sit down?” She stood behind the second armchair until Trish Noble acted on the advice.

“Did you stab him?” Diamond asked.

Trish seemed to have difficulty taking in what she had just been told — or she was making a convincing show of being stunned by the news. She shook her head.

Diamond said, “If you’d like to explain how it happened, we’re ready to listen.”

She said, “Stabbed?”

“Twice, in the back.”

“That’s impossible. He was sitting in the kitchen.”

“Your story.”

“It’s true! He was at the table when I got in. I’ve told you this.”

“You didn’t stab him yourself?”

“That’s insulting.”

“We’d like a clear answer, Mrs Noble.”

She said vehemently, “No, I did not stab my own husband.”

“That’s clear, then.” Diamond glanced across at Julie, who had found an upright chair by the sideboard. “Got that? She denies it.”

Julie opened her notebook.

“If you didn’t stab him yourself,” Diamond plunged in again, “we’ve obviously got to look for someone who did. Was there anyone else in the house when you got home from the hospital?”

The tired eyes widened. “No one.”

“You’re sure? You can’t be sure, can you? Let’s take this in stages. Did you see anyone?”

“No. This is unbelievable.”

“Or hear them?”

“No.”

“Is there anyone else living in the house?”

“What do you mean — a lodger? No.”

“Does anyone have a key?”

“What?”

“Some friend, perhaps?”

“We don’t give keys to our friends.”

“I’ll tell you what I have in mind,” Diamond offered. “If someone let himself into the house unknown to your husband, he could have taken him by surprise and stabbed him shortly before you came in.”

“Who would do that?” she said, and there was a note of scorn in the voice. She was getting over the shock.

“Do you have a lover?”

She reddened, but that wasn’t necessarily an admission. Almost anyone would have blushed at the question. She told him with a glare, “You should wash out your mouth.”

“Would you like it rephrased?” Diamond said. “A boyfriend? A fancy man? A bit on the side? Come on, Mrs Noble, you work in a hospital. Life in the raw. I don’t have to pick my words with you, do I?”

“I am a married woman — or was,” she answered primly. “I took vows before the Lord.”

“No need for a boyfriend?”

The look she gave him was her response and he was convinced by it. Moreover, he’d seen inside her husband’s bedside drawer.

“In that case, we have to consider what used to be called unrequited love. To put it crudely, some nutter who fancies you. You see what I’m driving at, don’t you? This man obsessed by you murders your husband to have you to himself.”

She sighed like a scythe and said, “I can’t listen to these serpent-words.”

“No secret admirer you’re aware of? Let’s look at another possibility. Did your husband have any enemies?”

The change of tack brought a more measured response. “Glenn didn’t have enemies.”

“Then did he have friends? Encouraging him in bad habits, perhaps?”

She said, “I can do without your sarcasm.”

“These are friends, presumably?” He took from his pocket the photo taken at Minehead, the piggyback picture. “Were these people in the printing trade?”

She snatched it possessively. “You were the one who stole them, then. My photos are personal.”

“Who are the people?”

The resentment remained in her voice. “The Porterfields. Friends of ours. We had a day out with them.”

“Is Mr Porterfield a printer?”

“No. Basil is a businessman. He sells car-parts.”

“And the lady?”

“His wife Serena. She’s an art teacher.”

“That’s Serena mounted on your husband’s back?”

She gave him a cold stare. “That was for a silly photograph.”

“At Minehead?”

“Yes.”

“For a wayzgoose?”

She frowned. “I beg your pardon.”

“Look on the back. My dictionary says that a wayzgoose is a works outing for those in a printing house. A silly photo at a wayzgoose makes sense to me.”

She glanced at the words on the back of the photo and shrugged. “It doesn’t make any to me. Basil and Serena had nothing to do with Glenn’s job. Besides, he was already redundant when we went to Minehead. He’d been out of work for over a year.”

“I noticed an art book in your living room. French painter.”

“Delacroix?”

“Yes. Was that a gift from Mrs Porterfield?”

“No. Glenn bought it himself.”

“So he was interested in art?”

“Only in Delacroix.”

“Are the Porterfields local?”

“They live up by the golf course.”

“What’s the address?”

“I don’t want them troubled. They’ve got nothing to do with this. They’re decent people.”

“In that case, they’ll want to help me find your husband’s killer.”

She said openly, “I can’t believe this is happening. I thought I killed him. I was sure of it.”

If she is playing the innocent, Diamond thought, she’s doing it with style. He tried to resist making up his mind. First impressions were so misleading. In his time he’d made more mistakes over women than King Henry the Eighth. And this one with her martyred eyes was taking the steam out of his workover.

“After you hit him with the teapot and he fell off the chair, what did you do? Tell me precisely.”

“I went to him at once. I could tell from the way he fell that he was out cold when he hit the floor. I found he’d stopped breathing, so I tried to revive him. Tilted back his head and drew the chin upwards. I don’t have to go through the drill, do I?”

“Mouth to mouth?”

“Of course.”

“Think carefully. While you were doing it, did you hear any extraneous sounds?”

“What do you mean?”

“If anyone else was in the house, in that kitchen, even, they may have picked this moment to run out.” It was a wily suggestion. He couldn’t have handed her a better opportunity of shifting the suspicion to some mythical intruder.

She hesitated, then said, “I didn’t notice a thing.”