The Judas Sheep Read Online Free PDF

Mrs Norris, carrying her purchases, and had seen her into the car.
    ‘I don’t suppose she told you where they were going next?’ I asked.
    ‘I’m afraid not, Inspector.’
    ‘But everything appeared perfectly normal?’
    He thought about it. ‘Well, yes. Harold was asleep, or deep in thought, and didn’t see her coming. That annoyed her, but it wasn’t unusual. We shouldn’tspeak ill of the dead, but he was a bit of a doylem.’
    We shouldn’t, but we usually do. He told me that Harold had been happily married, with a seven-year-old daughter. Maybe he wasn’t too bright, but somebody loved him, was mourning for him. I thanked the manager for his assistance and headed south, out of the revitalised city and into the leafy towns and villages of Cheshire. Except that they’re not very leafy in January.
    Mrs Norris wasn’t officially missing, so I hadn’t mentioned it at Town & County. At the Royal Cheshire Hotel I said that I was trying to piece together Harold Hurst’s last movements. ‘I understand he brought a lady called Mrs Norris here every Wednesday afternoon?’ I said. Faces turned hunting pink and eyebrows shot up like flushed grouse. The register was sent for.
    A Mr Smith had a regular booking, with a table for two at lunchtime. ‘We do not let rooms by the afternoon,’ I was assured. ‘We are not that sort of establishment.’
    ‘Yes, you are,’ I replied. ‘You just charge overnight prices.’
    The staff were more forthcoming, and knew exactly who I meant. She wasn’t brought in a Rolls, they told me; she drove herself there in a smart little Honda. The bloke came in a Daimler and gave good tips. I bet he did. Nobody could put a name to him other than Smith, and he paid in cash. Somebody’s got to be called Smith, and no doubt a few of them are having affairs. I promised to send someone round for a fuller description and headed home. It had been a long day.
    Somewhere on the Tops, up near Scammonden dam, I wondered if the Town & County security cameras had captured Mrs Norris’s last visit. The Archers finished and a programme about gamelan music came on Radio Four. I hit the off button so hard I nearly pushed it through the dashboard. The local traffic police had been asked to examine their films for shots of the Roller, but I couldn’t imagine what we could learn from a few frames of grainy videotape showing her in the store, and decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. That was my first big mistake of the day.
    The choices were wide and cosmopolitan: was it to be fish and chips, pizza, curry or Chinky? Or maybe a few slices off one of those big lumps of reconstituted meat that rotate perpetually, so the grease never quite makes it to the bottom, like the base of some horrific 1960s table lamp? I decided to stay with the faith and pulled up outside the chippy. They also sold floury bread-cakes there, so I stocked up with half a dozen of those, plus a Special and chips and a portion of mushy peas.
    I dashed through the house, turning on lights, kettle and gasfire, and within five minutes was tucking in, a large steaming teapot before me. It had been a good day, but I hadn’t come to any conclusions. Strictly speaking, that’s how it should be. First of all, we gather the evidence. Then we form theories and put them to the test, just like scientists do. Non-judgemental. Personally, I’d rather have a confession, or a gun with fingerprints on it. Failing that, it’s useful if there’ssomeone in the frame that you’ve taken a dislike to. Norris, for instance.
    I placed the teapot within easy reach and telephoned Gilbert, to give him an update. When we’d finished he said: ‘So Doc Evans said it’s OK for you to start work?’
    ‘Er, no. I haven’t had time to see him.’
    ‘Bloody hell, Charlie, you’re out of order working when you’re supposed to be off sick.’
    ‘I’ll get him to backdate it.’
    I flicked my radio over to Classic FM and caught the end of the Enigma Variations.