7 Sorrow on Sunday Read Online Free PDF Page A

lead.
    Gran and Derek looked at each other. “You’re too soft with that dog,” Gran said. “What’s she done now?”
    “Wouldn’t come when she was called,” Lois said.
    “So what’s new?” said Derek. “She never does.”
    “Well, this time she’d found a rotting rabbit carcass and every time I approached her she retreated, with the disgusting green shiny object dangling from her mouth. In the end, I walked away and left her, then waited out of sight. It was hours before she came, and I’m frozen.” She started towards the door. “Oh, and by the way, Derek, I met the Colonel. He said he’d seen you and you’d been helpful, and he was looking forward to hearing from you. I suppose you know what he’s talking about, but anyway, I’m going to have a hot shower.” She slammed the door behind her and they heard her going up the stairs, tripping halfway up and cursing, and then all was silent.
    “The Colonel?” said Gran. “Old Battersby? What did he want?”
    “To shoot somebody, I think,” said Derek gloomily, and opened the sports pages.
    *   *   *
    H ALFWAY UP S EBASTOPOL S TREET, A POLICE CAR CRUISED to a halt outside one of the small terraced houses. Hazel Thornbull, looking out of the window of the New Brooms office, watched it idly. Police cars were not uncommon in Sebastopol Street. She saw an officer approach one of the neglected, peeling front doors and ring a bell. At the same time he knocked on the heavy iron knocker, and waited. Then he peered through the grimy window facing the pavement, and looked up to see the same yellowing net curtains drawn across both upstairs windows. Back to the front door. This time, it opened a fraction, and Hazel could just see a pale face. Then the door opened wider, and the policeman disappeared inside. She shrugged. Another break-in, car theft, mugging. This area of Tresham was known for it.
    *   *   *
    “N OW, M RS. N IMMO,” THE POLICEMAN SAID. “I NEED to have a few words. Shall we go . . . ?” He looked around, and could see no room that he would willingly enter. Thesmell in the house was appalling, a cocktail of cigarette smoke, damp walls and stale cooking.
    Mrs. Nimmo led the way into a tiny kitchen, where she indicated a rickety chair drawn up to a small table covered in grubby oilcloth. So far, she had said nothing. She sat down on a rickety stool, and stared at him. He smiled at her, only too aware of the nature of his errand. She did not smile back.
    “Have you got good neighbours here?” he said gently, not expecting her to say yes. Mrs. Nimmo was small and thin, with dyed blonde hair falling over her face in strands. Her fingers were a deep brown at the tips, and a chipped saucer in the middle of the table overflowed with ash and stubs. At odds with all this was her mouth, carefully painted bright scarlet, and each of the cigarette stubs bore her scarlet signature.
    “Rotten lot. Nosy parkers, all of ’em,” she growled. Her voice was husky with smoke.
    “Family?”
    “Only my Haydn,” she said. She pronounced it as in haystack. “And you know him. He’s working now, o’ course,” she added with the trace of a smile.
    The policeman took a deep breath. “Indeed we do,” he said. “Or should I say ‘did’ . . . I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you. Haydn has met with an accident.” He stretched out his arm and reluctantly took her hand. It shook violently, and he rescued her cigarette and stubbed it out.
    “What . . . where . . . is he hurt?”
    “I’m afraid so. He didn’t stand a chance. An escaped horse ran out right in front of the van. Haydn must have stood on the brakes and the van skidded into a metal post. He wasn’t wearing his safety-belt.”
    Mrs. Nimmo shook off his hand and stood up, tipping the stool over behind her. “A sodding horse?” she screamed. “I hope it was killed!”
    The policeman was shocked. He shook his head. “Bolted,” he said. “Not touched. We