[PS & GV #6] Death on Demand Read Online Free PDF Page A

thought Shaw, this time of innocence.
    ‘Inspector,’ she said, offering Valentine her hand.
    ‘DS Valentine. This is DI Shaw. It’s an easy mistake to make,’ he added, smiling for the first time that day.
    Shaw noted the briefest eye movement as she clocked his absent tie. Then she saw the mooneye, which seemed to unsettle her sufficiently to force a quick switch of attention back to Valentine, betraying a strange sensitivity for disability in a manager of a nursing home.
    ‘Sorry,’ she said, flustered. ‘It’s been a dreadful few hours …’ She waved a hand, the fingers shaking, although Shaw was pretty certain this little bit of theatre was pure am-dram, because there wasn’t a bead of sweat on her tanned, taut skin.
    The hallway, dominated by a double sweep staircase, was decorated with purple and white balloons.
    ‘This was all for Ruby …’ Fortis’ eyes went down to the carpet, as if hiding an emotion. Loss, anger, irritation? There was something calculating in the soft green eyes when she did look up, as if the real her was simply looking out through someone else’s face.

    ‘Her party,’ offered Fortis.
    ‘One hundred today? Ruby …?’
    ‘Yes. Sorry – Ruby Bright. Our Ruby …’
    They appeared to have become becalmed in the echoing hallway. ‘First thing,’ said Shaw, ‘no one leaves. Not until I say so – or DS Valentine does. OK. Absolutely nobody.’
    ‘Yes. I’ve spoken to the staff.’
    ‘How many staff?’ asked Valentine.
    ‘Eight. Nurses and catering.’
    ‘Cleaning staff?’ asked Shaw.
    ‘Not yet. They’re in at nine.’
    ‘Tell them not to touch anything. Keep them here, please, in the lobby, until our forensic team arrives. No work at all; no carpets, no floors, no bins, no washing up … Nothing,’ said Shaw, looking up the stairs to the first-floor landing.
    ‘And the rest of the residents are all accounted for?’ asked Valentine.
    ‘Yes. Nineteen in total. They’re all well, thank God.’
    A sitting room had been cleared for a reception and a large iced cake stood in one corner on a gold disc: the lettering said ‘RUBY – A FINE CENTURY!’. There was a single bottle of champagne standing in a dry ice bucket.
    French doors led out on to a terrace, slightly raised above a green lawn as unblemished as a snooker table. Shaw noted half-a-dozen discarded cigarette ends by a stone seat and an empty wine glass on a white-painted iron table. Several wicker reclining chairs stood on the stone patio, plus a large telescope with a tarpaulin cover and a fire pit full of damp ashes.
    Dense sea mist lay over Brancaster Marsh, an expanse of reed infiltrated by channels which formed the watery maze between the house and the beach. On the map Shaw always thought the marsh looked like a cross section of the human brain. Into this wilderness ran a path of beaten bark between wooden boundary boards.
    ‘Someone pushed her wheelchair down this path,’ said Fortis, shivering now, without a coat, as the mist caressed her shoulders. ‘Ruby was still active and she could get around the house on the ground floor, on the lino and the parquet – but there’s no way she had the strength in her arms to use the path alone. Absolutely no way.’

    She led the way into the mist for two hundred yards, each hand clutching opposite elbows. Ahead they could hear the open sea, still building towards high tide. The air was freighted with ozone, the scent of white water. The marsh channels were brim full, trickling and sighing, as the sea edged its way into pool after pool, with a gently rhythmic surge, as if the ocean had a pulse of its own. The path took an artistic, looping curve, then a double twist before decanting into a circular area marked by a set of three iron benches. Another telescope stood here, mounted on a concrete base.
    ‘Residents come here for the view,’ offered Fortis.
    Valentine used his hand to wipe away a sheen of water droplets from his face. The damp seemed to