Cherringham--Death on a Summer Night Read Online Free PDF

appeal?” said Sarah.
    “Lost that too,” said Tim, without looking at her.
    Sarah watched Jack nod and sit back in his chair.
    “You must have rubbed a lot of people’s backs up in the court.”
    “It’s not supposed to be a popularity contest, is it?” said Tim.
    “Oh yeah?” said Jack. “Who told you that?”
    “I didn’t kill her,” said Tim, shrugging. Then, looking away … “I didn’t hurt Dinah. That night — or ever.”
    “Beyond reasonable doubt, the jury clearly thought you did,” said Jack.
    “And what about you?” said Tim.
    “I’ll know in a day or two,” said Jack. “Right now I have some reasonable doubts.”
    “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
    “Don’t count on it for long,” said Jack.
    Sarah searched Tim’s face for any trace of emotion, but saw none.
    “Like I said before — how are you going to help?”
    “If you didn’t do it — maybe we can find the real killer.”
    “You — and her? Twenty-five years later?”
    Sarah didn’t react as Tim now turned for the first time and stared at her as if she was a child.
    “How?”
    Jack smiled.
    Sarah knew he’d be enjoying this, so used to dealing with suspects like Tim over the years. But she felt her that her skin was creeping.
    “Well,” Jack said patiently, “why don’t you start at the beginning? How you met Dinah. What happened that night. Every detail. Think you can do that?”
    “Fat lot of good it’ll do.”
    “I’ll be the judge of that, Tim. You want help … justice. Maybe we’re it.”
    Sarah watched Tim as he sat unmoving, blinking slowly, as if he was conserving energy. Then he stubbed his roll-up on a saucer, reached for the tin, and started to roll another.
    “I met Dinah at a gig at the Young Farmers’ Club, about a week before the fair came to Cherringham. She was with a couple of her mates; they always hung out together …”
    Sarah took out a small pad from her handbag and started to make notes as Tim spoke.
    She knew the way Jack interviewed people.
    And when Tim finished, Jack would get him to tell it all again. From the beginning.
    And then again. And again. And again.
    Until something was different.
    Or wrong.
    Looking for the word or fact or gesture that gave away — guilt.
    The tell …
    But finally, when all the talking had been done, and when she looked at Jack — and he looked back — she knew that … in this case, there was no “tell.”
    What Tim Bell had been saying was the truth.

7. Fresh Air
    “Outta the way, Riley, you menace!”
    Laughing, Jack sidestepped his crazy Springer Spaniel and carried the tray with coffee and biscuits up from the galley, through the wheelhouse, and out onto the deck of the Grey Goose where Sarah was sitting in the shade of the umbrella.
    “Dog’s going to be the death of me,” said Jack, putting the tray on the table.
    “I think these days … there’s a queue for that honour,” said Sarah.
    Jack poured the coffees and sat opposite her.
    “Meaning — what the hell mess have I gotten into this time?”
    “Something like that,” said Sarah.
    Jack took a sip of his coffee and offered her a biscuit. Riley shuffled closer across the deck, then lay at Jack’s feet. Jack glanced down: Riley looked back at him mournfully, knowing he wouldn’t get a bite, but never giving up hope …
    “You don’t have to like a guy to want to prove his innocence,” he said, looking back at Sarah.
    “Are you kidding? The guy’s a self-centred, arrogant bully, humourless, merciless …”
    “Hmm, is that all? There’s plenty I can add to that—” Jack said.
    “I’m sure you can. I’ve not even begun on his attitude to women — offensive, misogynistic, patronizing — and probably violent.”
    She took a deep breath, exhaled as if shaking off the feelings.
    “My skin is still crawling, Jack.”
    “I’m sorry. I needed you there.”
    “I know. But that’s two hours of my life I’d like back, please.”
    “Not worth the iced frappe,