Crime Writers and Other Animals Read Online Free PDF Page A

kids’ll stop him, but . . . yes, I have worried about it. He’s very unstable
.’
    â€˜So . . .’ the Inspector said when the recording ended, ‘it does begin to look as if the victim was predisposed to suicide . . . particularly when your evidence is taken in conjunction with the letters we found in his pocket . . .’
    He held out a transparent folder through which scraps of torn letters were visible. As if he’d never seen them before, George read the words, ‘. . .
so far as I’m concerned, anything there ever was between us has long gone
. . .’
    â€˜That is your wife’s handwriting, is it, Mr Marshall?’
    George sighed. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. Hard not to feel a bit sorry for Mr Roache, isn’t it?’
    â€˜He also left a note.’ The Inspector produced another transparent folder, through which could be seen a printed sheet which began, ‘
TO WHOEVER FINDS ME – and I hope it’s you, Natalie
. . .’ At the bottom of the page was scrawled in biro the name ‘Trevor’.
    â€˜Of course, we’ll have to check the signature’s genuine, but I don’t have many worries on that score. No, Mr Marshall, I’d say we’ve got an open-and-shut case of suicide here.’
    But during the afternoon a few details emerged which made the case look less open and shut. The signature on the suicide note was found to match no existing samples of Trevor Roache’s handwriting; it began to look increasingly like a rather crude forgery.
    Then there was the mud, grass and cement dust found adhering to the back of the dead man’s Father Christmas costume. These traces suggested that, rather than walking voluntarily to the garage and to his death, Trevor Roache had quite possibly been dragged there while unconscious.
    What had rendered him insensible was quickly found. His children, before being taken into the care of their grandparents, confirmed that they had left out a glass of brandy and a mince pie for Father Christmas. No, they had not put any brandy butter in the mince pie. And yet the dead man’s stomach was found to contain traces of brandy butter, heavily laced with a sleeping draught. The police found some corresponding brandy butter, also drugged, in a supermarket pot in Natalie Marshall’s fridge.
    Marks on the frosty ground between Trevor’s cottage and the Marshalls’ garage doors supported the hypothesis that his body had been dragged across the intervening ground.
    Most damning of all were the deep heel prints left by the person who had dragged him. They had been made by the sharp points of stiletto heels.
    The police hadn’t got quite enough to arrest her on the spot, but it was no surprise when they asked Natalie Marshall to accompany them to the station for further questioning. Before she was taken away, she was allowed a brief moment alone with her husband. They stood in the garden, out of earshot of the police, in the dusk of Christmas Day, the frosty air prickling at their cheeks and fairy lights twinkling overhead.
    â€˜You bastard!’ Natalie hissed. ‘You won’t get away with this.’
    George blinked mildly through his spectacles. ‘Oh, I think I will. You can’t tell them what really happened without incriminating yourself for attempting to murder me.’
    â€˜Attempted murder would get a lighter sentence than murder.’
    â€˜Sure. Well, that’s a decision you’ll have to make for yourself. Anyway, if you’re already thinking of plea-bargaining, it looks like you’ve accepted what’s going to happen to you . . . darling.’ He smiled an infuriating smile.
    â€˜God, I hate you!’ Natalie seethed. ‘I’ll tell the police how much I hate you.’
    â€˜They’ll think you’re just saying that to divert suspicion. They have my word for it that we’re reconciled . . .’ he chuckled, ‘. . . and had