The Dirty Duck Read Online Free PDF

impervious to the siren song of some truly seductive women, but made him take a dive for another sort—
    All of this water imagery was transporting him to the banks of the Avon, where his imagination rid Stratford of all its tourists and replaced them with Jenny, walking there alone. The iridescent blues and greens of the ducks bobbed sleepily in the reeds and rushes; the swans slid by in the cool, companionable stream. His mind snapped pictures: ducks, swans, Jenny Kennington. Then it moved forward to September. September would be even better. Sunlight filtering through the trees, a skin of golden light on the water. October. Better yet. Cold enough that she would start rubbing her arms and need someone to warm her up. . . .
    Ducks bobbed and swans floated up there behind the scrim of the station ceiling and Jury thought of a way to put all of this magic-act into operation. Why not invite her to dinner with him and Melrose Plant at the Black Swan tonight? And the theatre afterward? For her, safety in numbers. Plant wouldn’t mind, certainly, although he hadn’t met her when he’d been in Littlebourne last year—
    Hold it, mate. Melrose Plant must be one of the most eligible men in the whole of the British Isles. He had intelligence, looks, character, warmth. Whether Jury had enough of those himself, he didn’t know. But he knew damned well he didn’t have the rest of it, like money. Melrose Plant was filthy rich. And titles. Though Plant had given them up, his titles trailed after him like the wake of a ship. The Earl of Caverness. Lord Ardry. Twelfth Viscount in the Ardry-Plant line—
    Lady Kennington and Lord Ardry . . .
    Forget dinner at the Black Swan.
    This is ridiculous! You’re a policeman! He surged out of Lasko’s chair.
    â€œI am?”
    To Jury’s everlasting mortification he found he had spoken aloud. He was saved from replying by the blessed and sudden appearance of Detective Sergeant Lasko, who at that moment came through the door.
    â€œTrouble over at the Hilton,” he said, tossing a cap which failed to meet with an old coatrack. Lasko had a basset-hound sort of face, eyes and folds of skin beneath them pulled down by weights of sadness. His temperament matched his looks. He moved slowly, as if constricted by his blanket of gloom.
    â€œTrouble?” asked Jury, happy for anything which would pull the typist’s eyes from him.
    â€œMan named Farraday says his son’s gone missing.”
    â€œWhat’s he think happened?”
    Lasko shrugged. “Last time they saw him was at breakfast Monday. He said he was going over to Shakespeare’s birthplace. In Henley Street.”
    â€œMonday? This is Wednesday. They don’t seem in much of a hurry to find him.”
    Shaking his head, Lasko hitched himself up on the edge of his desk. “The reason they didn’t report it was apparently this kid—he’s nine—has a way of wandering off. That is, he’s independent, I take it, and I also take it from some of the things the sister said—one of the sisters, that is—”
    â€œHold on, Sammy, you’re losing me in the thicket of these relations.”
    â€œOkay. There’s the father, James Farraday—” Lasko retrieved a small notebook from his rear pocket and leafed through it. “James, the father; there’s a stepmother, Amelia-something, funny name; a sister, Penelope; another sister, no, stepsister with another funny name—I don’t think I wrote it down right—Bunny Belle? Bunny Belle is the woman’s daughter by another marriage and I wouldn’t mind disappearing with her from Monday to Wednesday, let me tell you; or, to tell the truth, Amelia’s not half bad—”
    Given his own recent reflections, Jury’s patience was not even dented. He was a patient man, in any event. He waited for Lasko to stop looking sourly at his own secretary for