Double-Barrel Read Online Free PDF

friendly with a young draughtsman at the factory, who had as a consequence been sacked. But this had not been taken very seriously, since the letters did not threaten her with any such thing as a scandal. It was the husband that was threatened. He was, according to the writer, a dirty dog, and the implication was that the writer would make the girl a much more satisfactory lover. Mm.
    They had been found in her jewellery box after her death – not the first to come to light, but the first series. Was it a series? There was no way of telling. Undated, and no way of fixing even chronological order. Moreover there had been phone calls, and after the first contact there were few letters – if they were, indeed, all here.
    Naturally, every possible indication had been followed up. Nothing for me there. Just that hint in the style that appeared to have struck nobody much.
    â€˜You may be of opinion … I am well aware with what he is occupied … your position of standing … wallow in corruption and hypocrisy … was that not an agreeable surprise?’ A sort of old-fashioned commercialese. All the letters had the same tone – a kind of affectionate menace. Offers of ‘rescue’ and ‘protection’. Frequent references to the Eye of God and the Ear of God – both, apparently, the writer. The later letters were lyrical about the joys of beingin bed together, but nothing showed definitely whether these joys were anticipatory or reminiscent.
    Police had raced to the director of the lunatic asylum for a psychiatric opinion. He had read the letters, shrugged, and said, reasonably, that the writer might well be insane but he had no opinion to offer on the basis of these letters alone. Handwriting would have given more and sharper indications, but … ‘I have no judgements beyond those of any normal detached person, without more to go on.’
    Quite. The letters were mildly dotty, in much the same way as the letters of a fanatic about racing pigeons or model aeroplanes. It was no more and no less to my mind than the frustrated gentlemen who make indecent propositions to telephone-service girls. Even the explicit remarks could be total fantasy.
    One letter had a different tone. It was in the dossier, but there was no proof that the writer was the same. It might have been someone who had a letter, and decided to take a leaf out of the book. It was to a young girl of sixteen – there had been an earlier letter which she had destroyed, terrified. Reconstructed it read, more or less. ‘You little fool. I saw you. Unless you do what I tell you, everything will be known. Show this to no one, but watch carefully for the next, and do exactly what I tell you.’
    The one they had read: ‘Cross the bridge tonight at nine exactly. You will get instructions at the right moment. Wear your beige coat, but under it you are not to wear any clothes at all.’
    It had gone too far. Shocked even more than frightened, the girl had done nothing, but had finally gone to Mum. Who had had the sense to go straight to the police. Too late, and there had been no more letters. It was one of the first that had come to light, and had remained disconnected.
    That looked simply like the work of some elderly voyeur. Possibly.
    There was only one other series anything like complete: the unfortunate woman who had gone round the bend. She sat all day in apathy; there was nothing to be got out of her. She had been the wife of a Protestant minister, and quite a mild, reasonable one at that; not one of the hellfire sects. A man against whom there had never been a breath of scandal. This was a puzzle. The letters were all full of religion. But if, say, Reinders was attacked for being an enemy of religion – which seemed the tone often – why attack a man known to all as deeply devout? The unhappy man had renounced his living and vanished into obscurity. Police had questioned him, but had nothing to