A Talent For Destruction Read Online Free PDF Page B

have meetings to go to, I believe.’
    â€˜Yes, school governors’ for me, Mothers’ Union for my wife. We’re kept very busy.’
    â€˜So I see.’ The phrase ‘pillars of the community’ came into Quantrill’s head; Robin and Gillian Ainger were certainly that, by all accounts. He moved into the hall and put on his overcoat.
    â€˜Mr Quantrill!’ said Ainger abruptly.
    The Chief Inspector turned. Gillian had emerged from the study and the couple stood stiffly side by side.
    â€˜Yes, Mr Ainger?’
    â€˜Can you tell me what’s happening? Have you discovered how the – the person died?’
    â€˜Oh, it’s early days for that. But there was no obvious evidence on or near the body.’
    â€˜And the identity?’
    â€˜No idea. Inspector Colman agrees that it’s male, and that it has been there for a matter of months rather than years, but he hasn’t had time yet to make a detailed examination. With luck there’ll be some means of identification in the clothing.’ He paused at the door. ‘There was one interesting detail, though: a ring on the left hand, a big silver knuckle-duster, very unusual and noticeable. If we have to start asking round the town, that’ll probably help to jog someone’s memory.’
    The Aingers neither spoke nor looked at one another but, unobserved by the Chief Inspector, their hands met behind their backs in an anguished clasp.
    Quantrill smiled at Gillian, thanked them for their help, and wished them both good-day.

Chapter Five
    â€˜DC Wigby! My office, if you please. When you’ve finished keeping fit.’
    The snow had hampered Detective Constable Ian Wigby’s resolve to get his weight down after Christmas, but now it had begun to clear he started every morning with a brisk trot round the station yard. Chief Inspector Quantrill had caught sight and sound of him as Wigby forged in through the side door, and had decided that he was the best available man for the Parson’s Close investigation.
    Wigby was thirty-two years old. He had been at Breckham Market for six years, and knew the town as well as anyone. He was noisy, cheerful and irreverent, but an experienced and competent detective with a magistrates’ commendation to his credit. His methods, however, were suspect. ‘You’ve got to know’em to catch’em,’ was his motto, ‘and you’ve got to mix with ’em to know ’em.’ DC Wigby spent much of his working time in pubs, mingling with local villains and their hangers-on and picking up information. Sometimes he solved the crimes he worked on and sometimes, unaccountably, he failed. Nothing had ever been proved against him, but his colleagues were of the opinion that he did remarkably well to maintain his smart bungalow, his pretty, well-dressed wife and his two immaculately turned-out small daughters on a detective constable’s pay. On the whole Quantrill liked him, but he did not entirely trust him.
    DC Wigby barged into the Chief Inspector’s office. He was of medium height, and beefy with it. His hair and eyebrows were a bristly blond. He wore a heavy white sweater, and a pair of pale grey trousers with an aggressive red and green overcheck.
    â€˜And what can I do for you, sir?’ he enquired breezily.
    â€˜You can do something about the skeleton that was found yesterday.’
    â€˜Aha – Boney the mystery man. It’s a bit much, I reckon, to have strange corpses littering the town. Gives the place a bad name.’
    â€˜Quite. Forensic are still working on the cause of death, but I want you to find out if anything was known about him locally.’ Quantrill picked up the pathologist’s preliminary report. ‘Male, height six foot two, aged between twenty and twenty-four. Death occurred seven to eight months ago – say July or August last year. He was wearing denim trousers and jacket and canvas shoes.