Cast For Death Read Online Free PDF

the sergeant. ‘Not artistic.’
    ‘You’re disappointed because he was an actor and didn’t live in a Habitat setting, Sergeant Bruce,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s anonymous, certainly, but Sam was like that; he was quiet, fading into the background. He took colour from the parts he played and then came to life.’ Was that the only time? Had Sam lived only vicariously through his acting? ‘Have you found any photographs?’ Patrick asked.
    ‘No, not one. There’s no sign of a girlfriend – or a boyfriend, come to that,’ said Bruce.
    ‘If there is anyone they’ll show up soon, won’t they?’ Patrick suggested. ‘Weeping, and what-not?’
    ‘I would expect so. If you think of anyone – or of anything else that might be helpful – will you get in touch with me at the station?’ said Bruce. ‘I’ll give you the number to ring.’
    ‘Of course I will, sergeant.’
    Sergeant Bruce opened a drawer in a small cabinet and took from it a bottle of capsules, blue bullets, instantly recognisable.
    ‘You know what these are, don’t you, sir?’
    ‘Indeed yes. Sodium amytal.’
    ‘Right. If I’d these, and wanted to commit suicide, I’d take the lot, not jump in the river. Wouldn’t you?’
    ‘Er—yes. Yes, I suppose I would.’ The question was a difficult one for Patrick to answer; though he often found life disappointing, he had never seriously thought of denying its challenge. ‘Perhaps he didn’t intend to commit suicide,’ he said.
    ‘Exactly, sir.’
    Patrick had better not mention the marks on Sam’s wrists, or the fibres under his nails.
    ‘An accident, you mean?’ he said.
    ‘A gesture – a cry for help,’ said Sergeant Bruce reflectively.
    If he thought that, then he was ignoring the marks and the fibres too.
    ‘Not just before a performance,’ said Patrick. ‘He was too professional. I know what you mean – I’ve seen it in Oxford, more than once. But Irwin would have waited until the play’s run ended.’ And he would not succumb to an attack of nerves at the end of a run, surely: the start, when he was perhaps unsure of his own ability, would be a more likely time. Besides, he would never have contrived the binding of his own wrists and ankles in a bid for help and sympathy. No, he’d snap completely, or not at all. ‘Well, I’ll let you get on,’ Patrick added. ‘I’m sure you’ll soon get to the bottom of it, sergeant. We’ll meet again, I hope.’
    ‘I hope so, sir, I’m sure,’ said Bruce.
    ‘Oh—and give my regards to Inspector Smithers, if you’re in contact with him again,’ Patrick said blithely. Let Colin sweat, wondering what he had revealed of his privileged knowledge. Sergeant Bruce had been very forthcoming, on account, no doubt, of the fact that he had heard of Patrick before. But why did Colin know so much about the case himself when it was not a Yard matter?

 
2
     
    Because he was already so close to the M4 motorway, Patrick left London by that route instead of joining the M40, up which he and Manolakis had come that morning. As he drove towards the turning for Marlow he remembered the poodle. By now, the owner might have been traced; it would be civil to stop, find out, and call to apologise for causing the death of the dog. Accordingly, he turned off the main road and went to the police station where he had reported the incident.
    The constable who had been on duty then was behind the desk, and remembered the event.
    ‘We’ve discovered the owner, sir,’ he told Patrick. ‘A Mrs Tina Willoughby. She lived on the common near where the accident happened.’
    ‘Lived? Has she gone away? Did she move and abandon the dog?’
    ‘Not exactly, sir. She’s dead.’
    ‘Dead? She died recently, you mean?’
    ‘She was found yesterday, dead in bed,’ said the policeman. ‘We think the dog had been roaming wild.’
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Patrick. ‘How sad. Was she an old lady?’
    ‘No, sir. Not much above forty,’ said the policeman. ‘She’d