Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 30

CHAPTER THIRTY

“You are not getting out of this car, Fred Winter, until you tell me exactly what you’re up to.” Sadie Chapman laid a restraining hand on the detective’s arm.

“I’m not Liam, Sadie, so don’t talk to me as if I were knee high to a flaming grasshopper!” Winter snapped and tried to pull away.

Sadie’s grip tightened. “Is that what you think? That I’m a cradle snatcher?” Her face fell, became a picture of misery that genuinely surprised him. “I dare say his mother thinks that too,” she added with uncharacteristic bitterness. 

Winter’s guffaw wasn’t in the least forced. “My dear Sadie, you’re no more a cradle snatcher than I am!” In his mind’s eye he saw himself sitting next to the pretty student in the Dane John Gardens in Canterbury (What was her name?) struggling with an essay about Joseph Conrad. He guffawed again. He could see the girl’s face clearly enough, but no name sprang to mind. Then the face dissolved, suddenly, into another, to which he had no problem putting a name. Nor could he look away from the lovely violet eyes even as he collected himself sufficiently to carry on talking to Sadie Chapman. Ah, Carol, where did we go wrong? “You really mustn’t worry my dear. Young Liam has a mind of his own, like his mother. It’s my guess, that’s how he survived as Harry Smith. If he loves you, as I am sure he does, neither Carol nor wild horses come into the equation. Trust an old copper who’s seen it all.” He chuckled and gently prised her hand free from his arm but made no immediate move to get out of the car. 

“You’re not old.” He felt reassured by her mock seriousness.

“I dare say we can both give the devil a run for his money yet,” he remarked with a grin. “Now, Lovell’s on his way so you’ll soon have some company.  Whatever happens, don’t let anyone near the place until I give the word.  I mean that, Sadie, and make sure Lovell knows I mean it too. No matter what you see or hear, no one comes barging in until I say so. Understood?”

Sadie nodded, looking far from happy. “You’re mad, stark raving mad. If this Cotter bloke is in there, he’s not going to stand by and let you hand him over to the police or anyone else for that matter. He’ll kill you, just like he killed Liam’s dad. And the partner, how do you propose to deal with him? Horton’s no pushover from what precious little I’ve managed to piece together so far. It’s not as if anyone tells me much,” she added darkly.

“Trust me. And don’t worry about Liam. He adores you.” Winter tried to sound reassuring, but was already easing himself out of the passenger seat without waiting for a response. He strode, purposefully, towards the house, trying hard not to grimace with every painful step. At the door, he hesitated but a fraction before ringing the bell.

No reply.

He tried again, keeping his finger pressed against the buzzer longer this time.

Still there was no reply.

He bent down and peered through the letterbox. “It’s Fred Winter. You know me and you know I know you. And I know you’re in there. So you might as well let me in for a chat as carry on playing silly beggars. Because I’m not shifting my fat arse and that means you’re not shifting yours either, except to get off it one of you, and open the bloody door.”

A heavy silence dragged on for so long that Winter began to wonder whether perhaps his hunch hadn’t been way off target after all.

“You mess with us again, Mr Detective and next time you won’t get off so lightly,” came a rattled voice from within. Winter recognized Horton’s voice. A muffled exchange followed between it and another squeaky, protesting noise that Horton assumed to be Cotter’s.

“Are you mad?  If we let him in we’re done for!” Cotter was saying.

Horton shrugged. “We might as well hear what he’s got to say. Could be, we’re done for anyway so what have we got to lose?” He went to the door and opened it, holding on tightly to the revolver as he did so. “Come in, copper, and make yourself at home.”

“Ex-copper,” Winter reminded him, careful to keep his tone even, almost friendly. “I don’t mind if I do, thanks.” He stepped inside. 

From her vantage point in the car, Sadie Chapman felt her heart skip a beat and prayed for Lovell to hurry.

Both men had cleaned themselves up and changed their clothes.  Moreover, judging by the way shirts and jeans hung loose on Cotter and fitted tightly on Horton, Winter could only assume they had raided Sam Bishop’s wardrobe. (Where is Bishop, anyhow?)

Cotter had abandoned his Sarah Manners disguise. It came as something of a shock to Winter’s system to find himself confronted by this nervous, balding man who emanated none of the librarian’s authoritative manner or strident good looks.  Without waiting to be invited, he eased himself into a chair and summoned a leisurely smile as if he were, indeed, nothing more than old friend popping in for a chat. “I suppose you thought it was clever to come here? Sorry to disappoint you,” he began conversationally, “You must realize you haven’t a dog in hell’s chance of getting away with attempted murder, not to mention the success stories already notched up. How many is it now - two, three, four?  Let’s see…” counting on his fingers, “there’s Sean Brady of course, then there’s the real Marc Philips and James Morrissey. We  mustn’t forget Ruth Temple either. Bump her off too did you?  Silly question, of course you did. Oh, and let’s not miss out Sarah Manners. What happened to her, eh, the real one I mean?  It must have put a spanner in the works good and proper when Liam Brady turned up alive and kicking? I’ll say! Still, it was a good excuse to try again and maybe even manage to lose a few more spanners along the way, eh?”

“Not to mention the odd copper,” Horton sneered while pointing the gun directly at Winter and pretending to shoot. “Bang, bang, you’re dead!” He gave a loud guffaw. “It’s just like when we were kids, eh, playing cowboys and Indians…or maybe you preferred cops and robbers, eh, Fred my old son?” He guffawed again. Cotter, for his part, stayed silent, eyes darting between the detective and Horton as if he were some faintly hypnotised spectator at a tennis match. “Weird, isn’t it? All those clues when you’re a kid as to how you’re likely to turn out and no one picks up on them, just leaves you to follow the trail yourself. And here we are, at the end of the road, all grown up and still playing stupid games.”

“It’s the end of the road all right,” Winter agreed.

“For you, too, copper. I only have to pull the trigger and…whoosh…no more Fred Winter.”      

    “If that’s what turns you on.” Winter gave a nonchalant snort. “But then killing people must come as second nature to the pair of you by now.  Doesn’t it ever get tedious?  Mind you, killing a copper, even an ex-copper, that has to be a bit special I suppose…different, anyway. You might as well go out in a blaze of glory since all you’ve got to look forward to is fading away in some shit hole of a prison.” He looked pointedly at Cotter, “The old lags will have a field day with you. They’ll think Christmas has come early!”

    Cotter took the bait. “I can’t go to prison, Daz, I just can’t!” he wailed. “You’ve got to get us out of here.”

     “I’d say the ball’s in your court, Horton, wouldn’t you?” Winter’s icy smile belied his casual tone. “So what’s the plan? You can try using me as a hostage of course, but it won’t help you much. We’re too far into the game for that and you know it. As for killing me, well, go ahead and see where it gets you…”

    “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” said Horton bluntly. Winter recoiled involuntarily, in the chair. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You haven’t come to do a deal or talk us into giving ourselves up. You’re got a flaming death wish!” He threw back his head and roared with laughter. 

     Winter, to his utter consternation, found himself blushing. “Think what you like,” he snapped.

“See, Ralph, he can’t even deny it. Why is that?  I’ll tell you, shall I? Because once a copper always a copper and coppers are always supposed to tell the truth. You poor arse-hole, life got that damn pathetic for you has it?”

“Hark who’s talking!” Winter countered, forcing a laugh but feeling horribly exposed all the same. He hadn’t expected this.  It was wild, misinformed speculation on Horton’s part of course. Or was it?  Had some kind of death wish brought him here?  For a moment he honestly wondered, then (almost) dismissed the notion from his mind as nothing more than a preposterous fantasy on Horton’s part. Let him play amateur psychologist if he likes. Fred Winter knows himself better than that. Well, didn’t he?  He missed Helen, of course he did, but…

Winter gritted his teeth, forced draw on untapped reserves of willpower and professionalism in order to concentrate on the matter in hand. Turning to Cotter again, he jibed, “Cat got your tongue, Miss Manners? To think you had us all fooled as a woman who could hold her own with the best of ’em. Who’d have guessed what you were hiding in your knickers?”

“Why, you…” Cotter made an impotent lunge towards him. Winter forced himself not to stir. Cotter stopped suddenly, uttered a yelp and limped backwards to rejoin Horton.  “He can’t talk to me like that, Daz, can he? You can’t let him talk to me like that. Give me the gun, I’ll show him, damn me if I won’t.”

But Horton clearly had no intention of surrendering the weapon. Instead, he continued to taunt the detective with a vicious sarcasm, “Sorry to disappoint you, copper. You’re free to walk out of here any time you like. Have a nice day, yeah?”

“And what about you, are you coming with me?”  Winter may have been caught momentarily off guard but he was no fool. Two can play at this game.

Horton guffawed again. “Thanks for the invite, copper but – no thanks. We walk out that door with you and we kiss our freedom goodbye, right?”

“Try walking out that door without me and you’re dead meat,” Winter retorted, resisting an impulse to cross his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Had Lovell arrived on the scene yet, he wondered?

“What are we going to do?” an erstwhile Sarah Manners was sobbing now. “You said everything would be okay, you promised…” Cotter rounded on Horton accusingly.

Horton’s eyes hadn’t left the detective’s face.  Winter was bluffing, he was sure of it.  The old buzzard was right about one thing, though, he was certain of that too.  This is endgame. “You won’t mind if my partner and I have a few words in private?” Winter shrugged, spread his hands and shook his head. “Go in the bedroom, flower. I’ll be right with you. No, not that one,” he snapped as Cotter made to go into the same room where Sam Bishop lay trussed on the bed. “Go on, I’ll be right there,” he repeated encouragingly,  “and shut the damn door.” Cotter did as he was told but left the door slightly ajar.

Horton turned his attention back to the detective. “You’re not so clever, copper. You and I both know the score. Ralph and me may well have come to a dead-end but at least we’ve had a good run. Can you honestly say that?  No, I didn’t think so. It shows, you know. One look in them baby blues and anyone can see you’re nothing more than a done-for has-been who’s wondering what the devil it’s all been about.”  Then, after a long pause, “Am I right or am I right?” he leered.

Winter shrugged, hoping to convey a nonchalance he was far from feeling. “Think what you like, I’m not the one whose life is on the line here.”

“No?”

In spite of himself, the detective visibly winced. It required a maximum of effort to keep his voice steady and controlled. “It’s like you said, we both know the score,” he responded cryptically.

Horton shrugged. “See you later, alligator…” he sneered and followed Cotter into the bedroom.

“In a while, crocodile…” Winter muttered. But if the other man heard, he gave no sign.

In the bedroom, Cotter was standing by the window. He was trembling. Gazing at a flowering hydrangea, gently caressed by shadows in a fast failing light, he did not turn round upon hearing Horton enter, close the door behind him and approach.

“We will be okay, Daz? You do have a plan?”

“Have I ever let you down?”  In an uncharacteristic gesture of affection, Horton slipped his hand in Cotter’s. “It’s you and me against the world, flower, right? What chance does this fucked-up old world stand against the likes of you and me, eh? We’ve been there, done that, and what the heck?  So we have to start over...so what?  You’re not going to chicken out on me now, are you?” he chuckled.

Cotter felt suddenly much calmer. It was good to hear the familiar sound in his ear, feel the large, rough hand squeeze his own so …lovingly? He had often wondered if Daz really loved him, since he had never said so. Now, at last, he thought he knew. It was a good feeling.  Daz would have a plan. Everything was going to be just fine. . He half turned, still debating with himself whether or not to give Daz a big hug and a long, sloppy kiss…when Horton pulled the trigger and blew his lover’s brains out.

For a long time, Horton knelt in that gloomy room, Cotter’s head in his lap, wide eyes unseeing that he could not bear to close.  Would Fred Winter still be there, he wondered? Of course he would. The detective, too, had known the whole fucked-up score. Winter would wait for as long as it took him, Darren Andrew Horton, to come to a decision. Twice, three times, four times, he raised the gun barrel to his head and rammed it against his skull.  Each time he lowered it, cuddled Cotter and sought hard and long for a glimpse of - what?  Redemption…justification…blame…love, even?  Had it been love that kept them together? He’d often wondered…

But the sightless eyes were giving nothing away.

Horton was getting cramp. He shifted his position slightly. Cotter’s body felt like a ton weight in his lap. He leaned over the pale, already partially discoloured face and kissed the cold lips.

Once again he raised the gun to his head then changed his mind and rammed the barrel in his mouth instead. Without taking his eyes from Cotter’s, his finger stroked the trigger. “You can do it, Daz, you can do it,” the already stiffening corpse - whose dry, matted hair he had begun to stroke with his free hand - seemed to be urging him.”  He couldn’t resist a chuckle. It wasn’t like Ralph to sound so confident. There had to be an ulterior motive of course and he thought he knew what it was. Ralph would not be able to stand being on his own for long…whether it in heaven or hell. Is there a hell? He had never given it much thought before but now he wished, fervently, that he knew for sure. You can do it, you know you can, a familiar voice in his head kept saying. But, could he?

On hearing the first shot, Winter had resisted his first impulse to investigate, barely shifting in his chair even, but waited, expectantly, for a second. When it didn’t come, he helped himself to a stiff drink then decided it was time he found out what had happened to Sam Bishop.  He went into the main bedroom, freed the terrified man but held a finger to his lips as he removed the gag. “Say nothing,” he whispered, “just leave the house, quietly. A friend of mine is waiting in her car outside. Wait there until the police come, if they’re not here already. And make sure no one, NO ONE, comes within an inch of the front door before I give the word. Do you understand?”

Sam Bishop nodded, swallowing hard, having long since given up even trying to make any sense of the situation. “It’s nightmare, a bloody nightmare,” he croaked back, “Just get me out of here!”  Careful, in spite of a growing desperation, to keep his voice low, he stammered, “My wife…?”

 Winter shook his head. “Later. She’s fine,” he added, trying hard not to imagine the pale, battered face as he had seen it last. “Go now, but keep very quiet,” he whispered. Sam Bishop did not need to be told twice. Seconds later he was gone, his toupee slipping… Like a furry bat out of hell… Winter chuckled, grateful for a snatch of humour to help ease his discomfiture.

As soon as Bishop had left, the detective went and put an ear to the wall. But there was barely a sound issuing from the next room and no voices. One of them had to be dead, he reasoned. In which case, what the devil was the other one (it had to be Horton, surely?) playing at?  Or maybe Horton had flunked it and both were still alive?  Anything was possible. You might as well face it, Fred Winter. Reason has no place in this particular equation.  He returned to the same chair in the sitting room but not before taking a swig from a half-empty bottle of excellent white rum on the table. Nor did he let go of the bottle.  

By the time he heard the second shot, the detective had lapsed into a maudlin, if not morbid state.  His earlier exchange with Horton kept returning to haunt him. He had been acting on a hunch, a copper’s nose. There was no question of any ulterior motive, certainly no death wish. The whole idea was fanciful, absurd in the extreme.  Sure, he had been unhappy since Helen died and there had been times, now and then, when he’d wished…that he was dead? No, never that. Even so, it would have been nice to go first, perhaps…

The second shot continued to reverberate in his head for some time, far longer than the first.

He had no inclination to go and see whether Horton had shot himself or flunked it.  Nor had he the slightest desire to stare death in the face. Not his own, or anyone else’s.  Oh, he’d seen plenty of dead bodies in his time. It went with the territory, after all. He’d long since ceased to be squeamish about death.

When he’d first looked upon Helen’s pretty, made-up face in the funeral parlour, it had been hard to believe at first that she wasn’t asleep. Then he’d caught a glimpse of something immensely sad, beyond the subtle hairdressing skills and undertaker’s arts – and hadn’t like what he saw. He’d left abruptly, caught up not only in an overwhelming grief but also an abiding fear. Yes, he, Fred Winter, was afraid. In his job, he could expect to be called upon to deal with all sorts. And hadn’t he taken everything and everyone in his stride? But this…this was personal. Helen’s death (taking another swig of rum and spluttering on it) had…yes, unmanned him. “Shit!” he growled, scrambled awkwardly to his feet and, lurching only a little, left the house.   

Sadie Chapman gave a cry of relief, ran towards the detective, embraced him in a big hug and chose to ignore the obvious fact that he’d been drinking heavily.

Over her right shoulder, Winter could just make out Charlie Lovell’s concerned expression as well as Pritchard’s red hair and some bodiless flak jackets. Mouth wide open, he promptly forgot what he was going to say then discovered he couldn’t shut it again.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Fred Winter passed out cold.

  

EPILOGUE 

Come on, Fred, get off your backside and do what a man has to do. This place is a tip. Helen must be turning in her grave. Winter, sprawled in his favourite armchair, lifted one eye, risked a glance around the room and closed it again.  For a while longer, he ignored the persistent, nagging voice in his head. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He got up, made his way through a jumble of newspapers, magazines, beer cans and dirty plates to the window, took one look at the garden - and wished he hadn’t.

He went to the bathroom, spared a passing glance at a mirror over the washbasin and tried to remember the last time he’d had an encounter with soap and water. “You look rough, my friend, really rough,” he told the sombre reflection with a total absence of remorse.

The doorbell rang. He ignored it. It rang again, and again, and again.

“Go away, I’m out!” he yelled.

“I’m not going anywhere so you might as well let me in!” Carol Brady’s voice shouted back at him through the letterbox.

Winter groaned. Carol was not a woman to take no for an answer. Was that why, he wondered, he had written her a note all those years ago rather than tell her to her face it was over between them? He groaned again. Why had he listened to Julie Simpson?  Why hadn’t he stuck to his guns and told her to find someone else to chase after her fantasies. Only, they hadn’t been fantasies, had they?  He’d found himself on a murder trail the weirdest creative mind could not have composed for the worst pulp fiction. Even if it had, no one would have thought it remotely credible. And fiction had to be credible, didn’t it?  We mustn’t feel we’re being taken for a ride. Yet, he had been, hadn’t he?  He’d been taken for a ride by his own stupid conscience and Carol Brady was right there in the thick of it, dragging on his nerves like a carthorse taking coals to Newcastle. Do I love her?  “Damn the woman,” he growled.

“I know you’re in there, Freddy, so let me in!”

No, he didn’t love her. Nor had he ever. Helen meant everything to him. Now he had nothing. Listen to yourself, you self-pitying slob.  What are you, a man or a mouse? No, he didn’t love her. Oh, but I’ve missed her. Yes, he’d certainly missed her.

Winter sighed. He had missed them all…Julie Simpson, Sadie, young Liam, Arthur Bailey, Charlie Lovell, even Pritchard and dotty old Audrey Ellis. It had been good while it lasted, good to feel…useful again.

“Either you let me in or buy a new front door because there won’t be much of it left by the time I’m through!”  Carol Brady’s voice had an edge to it that he recognized. She meant business.

Sighing wearily and reflecting that he felt twice his age (probably just as well since he looked it?) Winter went to the door and opened it a fraction. “What do you want, Carol?”  

“Never mind what I want,” she returned breezily, “It’s bloody obvious what you want – a good wash and tidy up for starters!” She barged her way noisily into the house and he made no attempt to stop her, if for no better reason than it would have been a waste of time and energy. She looked around, hand on hips. 

So much like Miss Parker on the warpath, Winter reflected and heaved  a sigh. For what was he sighing, he asked himself, defeat,  resignation, pleasure...? The detective frowned and permitted himself a wry smile. Yes, pleasure was definitely in the frame. 

 “My, Freddy, you certainly know how to turn a place upside down. What a mess!” She flung him an accusing look. “I’ve heard you can tell how a person lives by the way he looks. Now I know it’s true. What are you trying to prove, Freddy…that old coppers don’t fade away, they just end up on a rubbish tip?”

“Less of the old,” he complained irritably. She’d always had this effect on him since the first time they met. He’d never known such a woman for knowing how to get under a man’s skin.

“You know me, Freddy Winter, I speak as I find.”

“You don’t know the half of it!”

“No, and I haven’t got time to hear it either. Go and get washed and changed and I’ll see what I can do about making this place halfway respectable. But you’ll have to look me out an old shirt and jeans or something, I’m not ruining this outfit to save your face so don’t think for one minute I am…”

He realized then that she was dressed up to the nines and looked…fantastic.

“You’re looking okay,” he conceded, “Going somewhere?”

“Julie Simpson’s wedding.”

“It’s on then?” He had begun to wonder.

“Yes, and we’re been invited.”

“By ‘we’ I take it you mean, you and Liam?”

“No thickhead, you and me. Besides, Liam’s going with Sadie.” She glanced at her watch. “They will be here to pick us up in less than an hour so we’d better get our skates on.”

In Winter’s bedroom, Carol began to undress. He stared, open-mouthed, for several seconds before it occurred to him to look away. “I haven’t got anything you haven’t seen before, so gawp all you like. Now, get me a shirt. Don’t bother, this one will do.” She picked up a striped shirt left hanging carelessly over the back of a chair, retrieved a pair of jeans from the floor and slipped into them. Right, that’s me ready for a spot of spit ‘n’ polish. Now let’s see how long it takes you to get ready for a wedding, shall we?”           

“What gives you the right to barge in here and start telling me what to do?”

“You’re right, I’m out of order. Now, are you going to do me proud at this wedding or do I have to tell my son and his…fiancée…that I had to give you up for a bad job?”

She stood, glaring, hands on hips again, the lovely violet eyes issuing a challenge he could not refuse.

………………..

Miles away, Horton’s eyes were barely open. He could have been asleep. Only, he wasn’t.

A sound like waves crashing about his ears, Horton turned his head a fraction, the better to observe a uniformed police constable lolling in an armchair beside the hospital bed while flicking through pages of a magazine.

In his mind’s eye, Horton saw Ralph Cotter’s face. How could he ever have thought murder was easy? Killing his lover had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. Yet, he had no regrets. Poor Ralph would never have coped with a life behind bars. As for himself…would he fare any better, he wondered? Why, oh, why had he fired the gun into the bed instead of his mouth? How can I have so lost my nerve at the last second? Could it be that fate hadn’t quite finished with him just yet…?

A young doctor arrived, nodded to the constable and proceeded to curtain off the bed. Horton pricked up his ears at the sound of retreating footsteps. The constable had left, to answer a call of nature perhaps?

The doctor was speaking but Horton did not hear a word. The glimmer of an idea was taking shape in his mind like sunshine penetrating layers of mist.

Bending over Horton and resting a stethoscope on his chest, the doctor bowed his head. Caught completely off guard by the attack, he did not even cry out. Seconds later, he could only manage a low, croaking noise. Nor did the young registrar struggle for long as large, determined hands tightened their grip around his neck…

If no one stops me before I get out of this damn ward, I’m home and dry, Horton kept telling himself as he walked slowly, purposefully, towards the doors at the end of the ward, If no one stops me...

No one did.

The End

Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“Never mind that now!” Winter snapped, “Get the duvet, shove it under the door and block the smoke. DO IT, WOMAN, NOW, before we all choke to death!”

“He’s right mum.” Liam squeezed his mother’s hand before both mother and son launched into fits of violent coughing.

Carol stared through watery eyes at the smoke pouring with rapidly increasing intensity through the gap between door and floor, finally appeared to appreciate the gravity of their situation and hastened to do as she was told.

“There’s a knife under the bed. Get it and cut us free….NOW, woman, not next year!”

“Okay, keep your hair on!” she snapped back. Winter grinned, much relieved to see Carol displaying signs of her old self. 

It did not take long to free the two men. Resisting every impulse to see to Liam first, Carol’s native commonsense told her that Freddy Winter must be her priority, if only because he was in the best shape to get them out of this mess.

“Can you stand?” the detective asked Liam. Brady nodded, tried to get up but fell back. Carol gave a sharp cry and was instantly on her knees beside him. “How about you, Carol, can you manage?”

“Don’t worry about us, just get us out of here!” she yelled. Wads of acrid smoke were already finding their way past the duvet, thickening all the time.

Winter staggered to the bed, leaned over the inert form of Mary Bishop and felt for a pulse. He found one but it was very weak. Next, he grabbed a chair and hurled it through a window, using a jumper lying on the floor to clear most of the remaining glass from its frame.  “Carol, you help Liam and I’ll take Mary!” he barked and hoped she would not look behind her and see flames starting to lick at the duvet and crawl, slowly but surely, across the carpet.  But Liam had already spotted the danger and, leaning heavily on his mother, dragged himself to his feet. “Good man.”  Winter nodded approvingly. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

It took time and time was not on their side. Winter fought hard to restrain a growing impatience as Carol climbed gingerly through the window, broken glass pricking bare arms and legs, before helping Liam, assisted by Winter, to safety.

By now the flames were quickly taking hold. Winter dashed to the bed, seized Mary Bishop in both arms and flung her over one shoulder. Mindful of the intense heat on his back, he scrambled through the open window with seconds to spare before the entire cottage went up in a huge fireball.  He did not dare look back but ran until he judged they were quite safe, lay his burden down as gently as he could, then slumped on the ground, gasping for breath, an almighty explosion ringing in his ears.

“Thank God, you’re safe!” He looked up to find Sadie Chapman, of all people, dropping to her knees beside him, her finer features contorted by a desperate anxiety. Carol and Liam…?”

“They’re fine,” she assured him and he thought he saw a trace of pain in the tired eyes. He tried to sit up and would have fallen flat on his back if she had not taken charge and helped him to sit.

The cottage was well ablaze. There was smoke everywhere. The wind was blowing it towards some trees. Relieved, he heard the distinctive wail of fire engines, saw two appear out of the corner of one eye, closely followed by an ambulance. He thought he heard Mike Pritchard’s voice, grating as ever on the nerves. But the smoke…trees…danger there…and…cover? Alarm bells replace the clamour of sirens in his head. “Cotter, Horton,” he tried to say but, try as he might, could only manage a croak, unintelligible even to his own ears.

“You’re a fine one and no mistake!” Charlie Lovell appeared – his face at least, if not the rest of him – hovering briefly within the rapidly narrowing perimeters of Winter’s hazy vision. One last effort to speak coherently proved too much…

Winter lost consciousness.

..........................................

Cotter and Horton waited until the very last minute before haring through the tunnel of smoke towards the trees. Draped in wet towels, a handkerchief tied around nose and mouth, they did not stop until well among the trees, Cotter stumbled and fell heavily.  He let out a yelp, clamped a hand over his mouth and continued to moan softly. “I think it’s broken,” he wailed, nursing his right ankle and looking at Horton as if half expecting a good hiding for impeding their escape.

Horton knelt and with surprising tenderness probed the injured ankle with his fingers. Cotter yelped again. “I don’t think it’s broken but I can’t say for sure until I take a closer look and we haven’t got time for that now, that’s for sure.  I guess it’s piggy back time, flower. Climb on my back and don’t near throttle me like you did once before, remember?” Both men chuckled and it came as no small relief to ease the tension a little. Once, years ago, they had challenged the Bishops to a race across the village green, Mary on Sam’s back and Cotter on Horton’s. Sam had won easily. Poor Horton, close behind, had been all but asphyxiated by Cotter’s frantic hold around his neck.

Hoisting Cotter on his back, Horton ran a few more yards then doubled back in the direction of the village, albeit taking a long circuitous route. Cotter soon cottoned on and began to panic. “What are you doing? You’re going the wrong way. We can’t go back to the village, that’s the first place they’ll be looking for us! We’ll be sitting ducks.  We have to get well clear or we’re done for, right?”

“Wrong, my turtle dove,” panted Horton, “it’s the last place they’ll be looking for us, especially where I have in mind…” He ran on, ignoring Cotter’s various sighs, grunts, and snorts of undisguised scepticism in between stifled yelps of pain.  On the outskirts of Monk’s Tallow, Horton told Cotter he would have to get down and walk.

“I can’t, it hurts!” Cotter wailed.

“I’ll help you. But me giving you a piggy back is going to draw attention to us and we don’t want that, right?” Cotter shook his head. “So lean on me and, with luck, people will just think their estimable librarian is a bit pissed…”

“What, in the middle of the day?” Sarah Manners sounded suitably shocked. Both men roared with laughter.

At the Bishops’ house there was no reply at first. Horton rang the doorbell again. “Sam, are you there? It’s me, Daz. Open up, I need a word. It’s important,”

It was several minutes before an unkempt Sam Bishop opened the door. His unshaven face brightened upon seeing Horton but he scowled as soon as he saw his friend had company.

“Where’s my wife?” he shouted at the librarian, who was hopping on one leg, grimacing as if in pain.

Horton smirked inwardly. It was evident from the way he slurred his words that Bishop had been drinking. That would suit his little plan very well. “Not now, Sam” he snapped, “Later, not now.” He pushed his way past Bishop, Cotter having to struggle to keep his balance, let alone keep up.

Bishop laid a hand on Cotter’s arm. “You’re welcome here any time, Daz, you know that.  But this one can sling her hook right now unless she tells me where Mary is!”  “Well, what have you got to say for yourself, you miserable piece of baggage?” But Cotter jerked free and literally tumbled into a chair. 

“Later, Sam, later,” Horton repeated, “Sarah’s hurt her ankle badly. Got any brandy?” 

“If you think I’m wasting good brandy on the likes of her, you can think again,” muttered Bishop. Then, as if for the first time, he began to take in their smoke smudged faces and generally dishevelled appearance. “Looks to me as if you could both do with a double,” he declared grudgingly, flung Sarah Manners a dirty look and went to fetch the drinks. He was pouring from a handsome, cut glass decanter, wondering what the devil was going on, when Horton came from behind and brought the gun butt crashing down against the back of his head, thus depriving him, temporarily at least, of an answer.

Horton dragged his old friend and chess partner into a bedroom, tied and gagged him to be on the safe side then rejoined Cotter.

“We can’t stay here,” Cotter protested.

“We can and we will, till it gets dark anyhow. Then I’ll go and nick a car and we’re away…”

“You make it sound so easy!” Cotter was sceptical.

“It will be, you’ll see. Most of the turnips around here forget to lock their cars, let alone turn on an alarm. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby. Meanwhile, we get cleaned up, help ourselves to a change of clothes and…Bob’s your uncle, we’re as fresh as a couple of daisies and ready for whatever. Now, let’s look at that ankle…” He was already tugging at Cotter’s shoe. Barely had he started peeling off the sock before the room resounded with piercing shrieks that were not, Horton reflected with a chuckle, in the least Sarah Manners-like. “Shut up, will you?  Talk about making enough noise to wake the dead….”

Cotter quietened but continued to sob, sigh and bite his lip during the entire process of Horton’s ministrations, nor letting up for some time afterwards.

………………………….

Meanwhile, in a private room at Brighton General Hospital, Fred Winter opened his eyes and was pleasantly surprised to see Sadie Chapman, lying back in a chair beside the bed fast asleep. He glanced out of a window, saw that daylight was fading and wondered if it was the same day or…

 “How long have I been here?” He murmured and hadn’t meant to ask the question aloud but it was enough to jolt Sadie awake.

 “Thank heavens you’re all right. You’ve been out for hours.”

 “Only hours, you say?” That’s all right then.  Feeling reassured, he asked after the others.

“Carol’s fine. She’s been giving the doctors merry hell because they want to keep her in for observation. Mary Bishop is apparently ‘stable’ whatever that means.” She hesitated.

 “And Liam?” he prompted gently.

 Sadie shrugged. “He’s fine, apart from a splitting headache, as far as I can tell. I saw him not long ago, just before they took him down to X-Ray.”

  “And…?”

 “He seems to remember just about everything. He and Carol are very close,” she added almost wistfully.

 “So…how is he with you?” Winter could see she was close to tears but a stubborn streak in him insisted he must not let this remarkable woman sell herself short.

 Sadie merely gave another shrug and said nothing. Winter waited and was finally rewarded with a wry smile. “He was pleased to see me, so I suppose that must count for something,” she said quietly.

Winter was trying to think of an appropriately encouraging comment when an image slipped into his mind and stuck there. He saw the blazing cottage, thick smoke carried towards some trees on a stiff breeze forming what could almost be described as a tunnel of sorts. “Cotter, Horton?” he sat up and glared questioningly and with such ferocity at Sadie Chapman that the poor woman started in alarm. “I don’t know,” she stammered, “I did hear they weren’t found in the house when the fire fighters finally went in but they can’t have got far, surely?”   

The detective lay back on the pillows, his thoughts so jumping ahead and tumbling over each other that he had to close his eyes to reassemble them in any lucid form. To Sadie Chapman’s relief, he seemed much calmer when he opened them again.  He spotted a nurse in uniform pause to chat with a patient in the bed opposite and called her over. “Nurse, I’m leaving so I’d be grateful if someone can bring my clothes.”

“You need to rest, Mr Winter. And it’s sister, not nurse,” Maggie Kershaw told him in a crisp, no-nonsense voice reminiscent of Miss Parker.

Winter shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I need to get out of here and I need to do it now, this minute. So whatever it takes, please arrange it. I’ll gladly sign myself out if that will make you happy.”

“It certainly won’t make me happy, Mr Winter. But if you insist…” she sighed and walked away in the brisk, efficient, but never hurried manner of nursing staff the world over. Minutes later a male nurse appeared with the detective’s clothes, looking much the worse for their earlier mangling. He was holding out a discharge form and already reaching for the biro tucked behind one ear.

Winter snatched the form. “Do you have a car?” he asked Sadie, who nodded but looked disapproving.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Fred.”

“Nor am I but needs must as the devil drives, eh?”

Not long afterwards, they were sitting in Sadie’s blue Cavalier about to leave the hospital car park when another vehicle pulled alongside and DS Mike Pritchard wound down his window, the better to say his piece. “Where do you think you’re going, Winter? I was just on my way to see you. My guv’nor thinks you can tie up a few loose ends for us…”

“I dare say,” commented Winter dryly, “But I have things to do, sorry. You’ll want to talk to the others, too, of course. Well, don’t let me keep you.  By the way, is it true you let Cotter and Horton get clean away?”

“Cotter?” the younger man reddened and looked perplexed.

“Oh, never mind. It’s a long story. Get Lovell to fill you in and while you’re at it tell him I’ll be at the Bishops’ place. I need to see Sam Bishop urgently.”

“You’ll be lucky,” retorted Pritchard, “We’ve been trying to get hold of him for hours. He seems to have gone walkabout. Out looking for his wife, the locals seem to think. They have a few choice ideas of their own about Mary Bishop and Sarah Manners, it appears.”

“I’m sure they do.” Winter did not doubt that for one minute, “Just remember to tell Charlie where I’ve gone, okay?” He turned to the woman beside him, “Step on it Sadie, I’ve got a feeling we’re running late.”

“Look here, I don’t think…” Pritchard started to protest. But the Cavalier was already on its way back to Monk’s Tallow and his thoughts might as well have been meant for a passing seagull.

All credit to Pritchard (he must have learned his lesson) Winter noted approvingly less than five minutes later as familiar bars conjuring up childhood images of a masked man on a white horse blared in his pocket. He read Lovell’s name on the tiny screen. “Hello Charlie,” he said cheerfully, ignoring the stream of verbal abuse that followed. “No, I’m not up to anything. I’m just paying Sam Bishop a friendly call. You can’t object to that, surely?” He grinned, glad that Sadie Chapman could not hear what was being said, for all she was plainly a woman of the world. “Holding out on you? Now, would I do that? Talking of which, how come you haven’t filled Pritchard in on the Sarah Manners charade. What do you mean, giving you bullshit? I’ve told you everything I know, what more do you want… evidence, for heaven’s sake?” This time he held the phone away from his ear while Lovell continued to make no attempt to choose his words carefully. “Look, I haven’t time for all this. Meet me at the Bishops place as soon as you can but don’t do anything until you’ve spoken to Sadie first. Yes, Sadie Chapman, she’s in the driving seat…”

“Fat chance!” he heard Sadie snort next to him as he gestured to her to make a right turn.

“Yes, well, maybe it is one of my daft hunches but, well, you know me, never one to walk away. Bye Charlie, see you soon I hope.” He switched the phone off and laid it on the shelf above the glove compartment.

“So what is this daft hunch of yours?” Sadie wanted to know. Winter, though, was giving nothing away just yet. He merely scratched an ear and made no immediate reply. How could he? Wasn’t he still mulling it over in his head, far from sure himself that he wasn’t barking up the wrong tree? Not for the first time, Fred, not for the first time. He chuckled and began to relax. Not for a moment did the notion occur to him that they should turn back.   

“You heard Pritchard. Sam Bishop’s nowhere to be found. What makes you think he’s going to turn up just to oblige you, Mr Detective?”

“Turn left, left again then straight ahead till I tell you to stop,” was all Fred Winter trusted himself to say.

……………………………..

 Sam Bishop out cold in the bedroom, Cotter and Horton were swigging brandy and exchanging reminiscences…anything to take their minds off their situation. Cotter was no fool. Things couldn’t get much worse…could they? At the same time, if Horton said he had a plan, he was more than happy to go along with that.  He was dog tired, his ankle hurt and his lungs felt as if they had been yanked out, soaked in petrol and thrust back inside.

“So we get ourselves a car, what then?” he wanted to know. “Besides, there will be roadblocks, the whole caboodle, we won’t get very far.”

“Do I know every side road and short cut around here like the back of my hand or do I not?” Horton demanded, feigning an indignant air. “Have faith, my turtle-dove, have faith. When did I ever let you down, eh?”

“I’m scared, Daz. Where will it end?”

Horton knelt beside his long-time lover stretched out on the sofa and tweaked his nose. “Nothing’s going to end, flower, you’ll see. It will be a new beginning. Once we get sorted it will be you and me against the world, just like it’s always been. Nothing’s going to change because of a few hiccups and some nosy bastard of a detective sticking his oar in. Now, am I right or am I right?”

Cotter managed a weak smile but couldn’t help thinking how he much preferred his partner when he was beating the living daylights out of him. That was an act of love he understood. This gentle, considerate, reassuring, all but romantic Daz was practically a stranger.  Oh, he was grateful. But it was unnerving, almost surreal. Even so, he returned his partner’s unexpected kiss on the lips with a passion that had nothing to do with gratitude.

To be concluded

Predisposed To Murder - Chapter Thirty-Seven

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“If anything happens to Sadie or the baby, I’ll never forgive myself,” said Carol as she rose from her chair and proceeded for the umpteenth time to pace anxiously to and fro

“You mustn’t blame yourself,” Winter told her firmly. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me for not pre-empting what the crazy little bitch would do next.”

“You weren’t to know. Besides, but for your presence of mind to chase after that crazy little bitch, she’d have got clean away. The rest of us were near hysterical, for heaven’s sake. Poor Liam was in a state over Sadie and I wasn’t any help either. I wasn’t really taking anything in, Freddy, not any of it, not Nina semi-conscious in that damn bath or Sadie falling down the bloody stairs. But you came through for us, solid and dependable as always.”

Winter frowned, unsure whether he liked being described as solid and dependable, it sounded too boring for words. “How is Nina?”

“She’s fine as far as I can tell. Honestly, Freddy, the woman’s incredible.”

“She certainly came up trumps offering to help look after the pub while we make this dump a second home.” Winter agreed.

Carol examined the Rolex on her wrist, a wedding present from her late husband, Liam’s father. “Do you realize we’ve been hanging around this bloody hospital for nearly fourteen hours?”

“The locals won’t know what’s hit ’em.” Winter chuckled and wondered how long it would take the press to get wind of the fact that Nina Fox, star of April Showers, had turned barmaid. “I have to confess I didn’t think she had it in her. Nearly gets herself murdered, hasn’t had any more sleep than the rest of us, and now she’s pulling pints!” But Carol was preoccupied with her own thoughts and made no reply.

They were in a comfortable but oppressive room at Kent and Canterbury Hospital, anxiously waiting for news of Sadie. Liam had been allowed to stay with his partner although she was in a bad way.

“Suppose poor Sadie has a miscarriage and loses the baby? How can I live with myself when I hated the idea of her having it in the first place?  Oh, Freddy, I feel so wretched.” Carol burst into tears and refused to be comforted.

The door opened and Liam entered. He looked pale and drawn, but managed a weak smile. “She’s going to be okay, the baby too.”

“That’s fantastic news,” Winter, not a tactile person by nature, flung both arms around the young man and gathered him in a bear hug.

“I’m so pleased,” said Carol, aware the words sounded trite, but they were the first that came into her head.

“Are you, Mum?” Liam gave her a long, reproachful look. “You haven’t been very enthusiastic about the baby so far.”

“That’s not true,” Carol was quick to deny it, but again the words rang more than a trifle hollow.

“Your mother has been desperately afraid for Sadie and the baby,” Winter told him.

Liam appeared less than convinced. “I must go back now, she needs me. I just thought you’d want to know…”

“Of course we do,” Winter acknowledged with a reassuring smile. “We were so worried… both of us,” he emphasized, and Liam threw him a grateful if fragile smile. “Can we see her, just for a minute or so?”

“Sure, but not just yet. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He left the room, sparing his mother a brief, accusing glance before closing the door behind him.

“You could have sounded as if you meant it!” Winter wasted no time rounding on Carol as soon as Liam had disappeared. “You’re the one who should have been giving the lad a big hug...Yes, you, his mother, and not some old grizzly bear like me. What’s the matter with you, woman? Get a grip, for heaven’s sake.”

“But I’m not his mother am I?” she groaned, close to tears.

“Of course you’re his mother,” Winter growled. “You always have been, and always will be as far as the pair of you are concerned or anyone else for that matter. So you and Sean committed perjury with the birth certificate, so what? It was in a good cause. Worse things happen at sea, for crying out loud. You don’t have to look any farther than Pip Sparrow to get a sense of proportion. Huh! I’ll say not.”

“What will happen to her?” Carol gladly changed the subject.

Winter spread his hands in a gesture of mock despair. “Not a lot, most likely. Take a young girl who’s, been through the mill, father in prison, still at school, pressure of revising for exams…you don’t have to know much about the law to add up that little lot and arrive at diminished responsibility.”

“But she won’t get away with it, surely?” Carol was incredulous.

“As near as…give or take a token stretch in some open prison.”

“Broadmoor would be more appropriate, surely?”

“I agree.”

“But she told Nina…” Carol was so angry that she could hardly speak, “She has killed at least four people.”

“Hearsay,” declared Winter, spreading his hands wide and giving a shrug that spoke volumes. “Where’s your evidence? We have to face it, Carol.. Our Pip has a remarkable talent for murder.”

“But how on earth could she have thought she’d get away with killing Sadie?”

“There but for Stanley…” Winter reminded her, “and I must say I’ve been having second thoughts about that dog lately. Not that I consider myself a doggie person, you understand, but I suppose there are exceptions to every rule.”

Carol managed a wan smile. “You don’t fool me one bit, Freddy Winter, you’re very fond of Stanley.”

Winter replied with a noncommittal shrug before continuing, “She wouldn’t have got clean away with killing Sadie, of course.” There would have been marks on Nina’s shoulders, especially so soon after the event. No self-respecting pathologist would have missed that. Nina’s no piece of cake, unlike poor Ruth Manners,” he pointed out, referring to a much older victim in a previous case who had been killed in similar circumstances.

“Of course,” he went on, “the girl’s state of mind is questionable to say the least. Mind you, it’s my opinion she’s perfectly sane. Our Pip knew exactly what she was doing. I have no doubts whatsoever on that score. Oh, yes, she knew what she was doing alright, and enjoyed every minute. As for what the law might have to say on the subject, well, that’s something else.” He paused. “One thing’s for sure. Pip Sparrow needs to be kept out of harm’s way for a very long time, for everyone’s sake including her own.” He paused again and sighed. “You know, Carol, she took some incredible risks. Who knows? Maybe, subconsciously, the poor kid wanted to get caught...” whereupon, a flood of contradictory theories proceeded to grapple with that possibility for several minutes, but without arriving at a verdict.  Winter shook his mane of steely hair as if to clear his head. “Now, about you and Liam…”

“Not now, Freddy, I’m not in the mood.”

“Yes, now, Carol. The months ahead aren’t going to be easy for Liam and Sadie. God knows how long she’ll be stuck in here, maybe until the baby is born. Liam needs us to be strong for him. More than anything else, he needs his mother’s love. You love him and he loves you, very much. How does that Beatles song go? All you need is love, love, love is all you need…” he sang with an excess of enthusiasm but so out of tune that Carol couldn’t help laughing. “That’s better,” he commented approvingly. “You’re so beautiful when you smile and drop dead gorgeous when you laugh…”

“What’s this, compliments? Be careful, Freddy, I might start thinking you care.”

“You know I do.”  Somewhere beneath the banter, each acknowledged what neither could quite put into words. This time she did not avoid the comfort of his arms around her and returned his embrace.

Liam returned sooner than expected to tell them that Sadie was awake but very tired and asking to see them. It crossed his mind that Fred and his mother looked more comfortable with each other than he had seen them in ages. He was pleased. He liked Fred.

“Go on ahead, Freddy, I want a quick word with Liam,”

“She’s not in a ward, Fred. Turn right outside the door here, take a first left then a right at the double doors and it’s room number nine, on the right, about half way down the corridor on the right.”

 Carol was already pushing Winter out of the door, but he managed to turn his head and give her a warning look. Liam intercepted it and groaned inwardly. It had been a long night and the last thing he needed right now was aggravation from his mother. He loved her dearly, but she was inclined to lecture him on how he should live his life from time to time...

Winter closed the door behind him, resisting an impulse to peer through the window at mother and son to reassure himself all was well. Stifling a yawn, he struggled to recall Liam’s directions to Sadie’s room.

“Yes, mum, what is it now?” Liam glared at his mother as if daring her to get up on any high horse.

Carol hesitated. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she began.

“Can’t it wait?”

“No, it can’t”

“Okay, so let’s have it. What do I need to know?”

She couldn’t help thinking how he looked so much like his father and how a guardian angel must have been looking after her for him not to resemble Siobhan Duffy in the least. “I know I’ve been a pain lately but…”

“But…?”

“I love you so much.” She burst into tears and fell into his arms.

Liam held his mother close. This was so unlike her. It must be hormones. All the same, he was as pleased as Punch and sensed the coming months, although tough, would get a lot easier now.

………………………………

“It’s very nice of you both to come and see me,” Max Cutler told Mary Pike and Billy, “I appreciate it, I really do. I don’t get many visitors...apart from my mother,” he felt obliged to add.

“We have a little surprise for you,” said Mary Pike, “Well, Billy has.”

Billy took a paperback book from his pocket and handed it to Max.

“Why, a book of crosswords!” Max was genuinely moved as well as pleased, “Just what the doctor ordered. It gets so boring in here, I can’t tell you. Thanks, Billy. Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome,” said Billy grinning from ear to ear.

“I love crosswords,” Max began before it dawned on him that Billy had spoken. “Billy, you’re talking! That’s fantastic!” He grabbed the boy’s hand in both of his, shook it until his chest started to hurt and he was forced to lie back on the pillows, still expressing delight.”

“It was just after that detective fellow Fred Winter called,” said Mary Pike choking back tears, “Billy came into the kitchen and I said I’d made a quiche for tea and he said he’d much prefer a Chinese take-away. I started to get cross until I realized what he’d said. Those were the first words I’ve heard him say since…”

“The fire, mum,” said Billy, “and it’s okay, really. It doesn’t scare me to think about it any more.”

“Whatever Mr Winter said, it has certainly worked a miracle where you’re concerned.” Mary Pike regarded her son with undisguised pride. Billy shrugged. “He doesn’t say a lot, but it’s only early days yet,” she told Max over Billy’s shoulder.

Max Cutler nodded, thinking about his mother and Nina Fox. The one he was stuck with while the other...

He was desperate to see Nina if only to explain things. Could they start over again, he wondered?  He hadn’t believed so until he received a letter. He had recognized Nina’s handwriting on the envelope at once, but couldn’t bring himself to open it. He sighed. There would always be Nathan Sparrow’s ghost haunting their every move not to mention Pip’s. But it was, as Billy’s mother had so rightly said, still early days yet.

He cheered up, looked from mother to son and couldn’t help reflecting, with growing optimism, how recent events had proven much could change in even a short period of time. Where there’s life, there’s hope, he told himself, matching Billy’s expression grin for grin.

In this spirit of newly discovered positive thinking, Max took an envelope from a cupboard by the bed where it had lain since his mother had brought it, and grudgingly handed it to him. Annie Cutler hadn’t minced her words, making no attempt to conceal either her anger at his receiving it or annoyance at his adamantly refusing to read it in her presence. “Hasn’t that woman done enough harm? Oh, but what am I saying?  Her sort never knows when best to leave well alone. Nor do you if that soppy look on your face is anything to go by!”

 Now, he opened it and read:

Dear Max,

               I thought you should know that Ray was HIV positive. As I have been recently tested positive as well that means you must be too since I could only have caught it from you. Will you tell Pip or shall I?

Love,

Nina x        

The smile on his lips died.

......................................

“That’s wonderful news, Winter exclaimed, “and, yes, I’ll be sure to pass it on... Goodbye for now, and thanks for calling.” He replaced the receiver and turned to Carol. “That was Mary Pike on the phone. Billy has started talking again. Apparently, he began chatting away non-stop shortly after I left.”

“Don’t tell me,” Carol groaned, “let me guess. Now it’s Freddy Winter, miracle worker!”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic. Maybe I helped clear the boy’s mind, and maybe not. Whatever, he’s a nice kid and I, for one, am thrilled he’s talking again.”

“So am I,” said Carol, “of course I am.” A thought occurred to her, causing her to sit bolt upright in her chair. “Will he testify against Pip, do you think?”

Winter spread his hands in the familiar gesture. “Maybe, but it’s early days yet. More to the point, would anyone believe him?”

“We do,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but would a jury?  I’ll have a word with Lovell, but don’t get your hopes up. I fear it won’t be too many years before our Pip is back in the bosom of society leading an apparently healthy, normal life with no one any more the wiser than they were before.”

“Heaven help society,” muttered Carol.

“Hear, hear,” Winter agreed, sat down opposite her and grabbed a newspaper.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she warned him, “since you’re driving me back to Camden tonight, although why Liam wouldn’t let me stay and help him run the pub is beyond me.”

“You do have a job,” he reminded her.

“Only part-time though. I could give it up and find another easily enough.”

“Ah, yes. But would you ever find another boss who will let you twist him around your little finger whenever you want to take time off?” Winter put it to her, correctly interpreting her silence as an acknowledgement that his point had struck home.

“I’m bored, Freddy,” Carol declared sulkily. “Helping out at The Green Man would have been fun.”

“Liam is capable enough. He doesn’t need his mother getting under his feet all the time,” Winter felt obliged to say, “but if you’re bored…” His voice tailed off indecisively.

“Yes?” she prompted.

“Well, you could always move in here with me.”

“Huh!”

“Why not…? We make a good team, you and I. And there’s plenty to do. The garden, for a start, it’s a jungle out there. You wouldn’t have time to get bored.” Carol promptly seized a cushion and flung it at him. “Hey, watch it!” he shouted, laughing.

“If you think I’m moving in with you just to sort out your bloody garden, Freddy Winter, you can think again.”

We do make a good team though,” he repeated, “and, well, we love each other, sort of, don’t we?” Carol’s expression instantly softened. “Stanley would adore it if you moved in, wouldn’t you boy?” The little white dog wagged its tail, cocked its head on one side and gave Winter a disparaging look as if to say, you’ll have to do better than this.

Winter grinned sheepishly at Carol. “I do love you, you know.”

“I know,” was all Carol quite trusted herself to say.

“So you will?”

“I’ll give it some thought,” she promised.

“You’re supposed to say you love me too,” Winter growled.

“I need to give that some thought too,” she retorted, but not unkindly.

“Yes, well, you know what thought did…” Winter muttered while pretending to scour the headlines, “it killed off more damn cats than curiosity.”

Carol got up and went to sit on the arm of his chair. Stanley leapt forward and sprang into her lap so that she almost lost her balance. Laughing aloud, she scooped up the little dog and stroked its head with one hand. Violet eyes met brown. “Another fine mess you’ve got me into, Stanley,” she giggled. The dog licked her face and wagged its tail.

Knowing full well he’d pretend that he hated it, as he always did, Carol ran the fingers of her free hand affectionately though Winter’s stubborn shock of grey-white hair.

Winter frowned, the more so for the way his heart skipped a beat, laid the newspaper aside and tilted his head back for a better view of the violet eyes smiling down at him. He felt his lips twitch and failed to prevent them forming a soppy grin.

Stanley barked approvingly.

The End

Author’s Note: Apologies for the fact that Google has messed with the font for various chapters. The book is not available in print form, but I hope to upload an e-edition later this year. A new serial will start on Monday 1^st October. (I will post a synopsis tomorrow.)