Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle Read Online Free PDF

squared her shoulders and jutted out her chin. “Sure, I have enemies. You can’t deal in money without angering someone. Peter Weiss handles them.”
    “Anyone threaten you? Threaten your family?”
    She scowled, the softness of a moment ago quite gone. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Inspector. I can be abrasive, but no one hates me that much.”
    “Believe me, Mrs. Blair, there are all kinds of nuts out there. Would Mr. Weiss even bother to tell you?”
    Her eyes hardened, and she stared at him for a moment. Then colour suffused her face. “If he didn’t, there would be hell to pay.”
    Weiss hustled back into the room, paper in hand. Green had heard no footsteps approaching on the marble and wondered if Weiss had been listening at the door all this time.
    “Peter!” she snapped. “Have there been any threats against Jonathan that you haven’t told me about?”
    Weiss stopped in his tracks. “Certainly not, Marianne. Our investigators don’t tell me all the details, of course—”
    “Bullshit!”
    Weiss coloured. “But I’m sure anything as important as that—”
    Mrs. Blair swung on him, eyes blazing. The fighter had returned. “I want you to tell this officer everything! If I find out you’re withholding information that he needs to find my son’s killer, you’ll be pumping gas in Flin Flon!”
    The sight of Weiss’ face was repayment enough for thepompous aide’s earlier disdain, and Green was hard put to keep a smile off his own. Returning to more neutral ground, he spent ten minutes trying to trace Jonathan’s movements on the three days before his death. He learned that Marianne Blair knew very little about her son’s daily life, a discovery which distressed her but did not surprise him. How much had he let his own mother know about his activities in the years before she died?
    Afterwards, Weiss showed him upstairs so that he could search Jonathan’s room. It took little time. The small room contained nothing but a single bed, dresser, desk, computer and shelves and shelves of books. His closet held a modest collection of conservative but expensive leisure clothes, as well as two dress suits and a Harris tweed sports coat. His desk was crammed with notes, articles and papers, but there was no diary, address book or appointment calendar to shed light on his activities. If Jonathan Blair kept any personal records, he kept them elsewhere.
    On the desk lay a computer printout of a complex statistical analysis which Jonathan had obviously been studying. Red underlinings and asterisks peppered the pages. Was this what Jonathan had been working on the night before his death, when he had come down to his mother, upset and wanting to talk? Green examined the printout curiously but could make little sense of it. He had been forced to confront statistics for his forensic science course at the police academy as well as his masters thesis in criminology, but he had avoided them when possible ever since.
    He was puzzled, however, by the array of numbers on the desk of an English literature student, and became even more so when he turned to the books on the shelves. He expected Chaucer, Dickens and an entire shelf of Shakespearean plays.Instead, he found formidable tomes on disorders of the limbic system and the neuropsychology of memory. Suddenly he remembered Marianne Blair’s use of the word ‘lab’ and cursed himself for failing to pick up on it. In the excitement of Sullivan’s tale earlier, they had both made the leap from the place where Jonathan was stabbed to the subject matter he was studying. A rookie’s error in logic, which neither should have made.
    Pulling out the nearest book on the brain, he headed back downstairs and found Marianne Blair on the phone in the living room, looking all business.
    “What was Jonathan working on at the university?” Startled, she swung on him and pressed her hand over the receiver. “He was doing his Masters in cognitive neuroscience, conducting