The Oxmarket Aspal Murder Mystery Read Online Free PDF

Sarah Young of Detective Inspector Paul Silver’s notes.
                  Before I left, Michael Young came home for his lunch.  A small, shrewd man, and definitely less easy to be sure about than his wife.  There was a faint nervousness in his manner.  He showed fewer signs of suspicion and hostility than his wife and that I reflected was very faintly out of character.  Why should Michael Young be anxious to placate a private detective who was a complete stranger until an hour ago?  The reason could only be that I had brought with me a letter of confirmation of my identity from Detective Inspector Paul Silver of the Suffolk Constabulary.
                  So Michael Young was anxious to impress the local police? Was it that he couldn’t afford, as his wife could, to be critical of them?
                  A man, perhaps with an uneasy conscience. Why was that conscience uneasy?  There could be many reasons-none of them with Faith Roberts’ death. Or was it that, somehow or another the cinema alibi had been cleverly faked, and that it was Michael Young who had knocked on the door of the cottage, had been admitted by Aunt Faith and who had struck down the unsuspecting woman.  He could have pulled out the drawers and ransacked the rooms to give the appearance of robbery, he might have hid the money outside to incriminate Marcus Dye, because the money that was in the ISA was what he was after.  Twenty thousand pounds coming to his wife which, for some reason unknown, he badly needed.  The weapon, I remembered, had never been found.  Why had that not also been left on the scene of the crime?  Any moron knew enough to wear gloves or rub off fingerprints. CSI and television programmes like that had made sure of that.  Why then had the weapon, which must been a heavy one with a sharp edge, been removed?  Was it because it could easily be identified as belonging in the Young’s house?  Was that same weapon washed and cleaned, here in the house now?  Something perhaps a little unusual . . .  a little out of the ordinary, easily identified.  The police had hunted for it, but not found it.  They had searched woods and dragged ponds.  There was nothing missing from Faith Roberts kitchen and nobody could say that Marcus Dye had had anything of that kind in his possession.  They had never traced any purchase of any such implement to him.  A small but negative point in his favour.  Ignored in the weight of other evidence.  But still a point. . .
                  I cast a swift glance round the rather overcrowded little sitting-room in which I was sitting.
                  Was the weapon here, somewhere, in this house? Was that why Michael Young was so uneasy and conciliatory?
                  I did not know.  I did not really think so.  But I was not absolutely sure. . .
     
    6
                  In the offices of Anglia Meats, I was shown into the office of the owner, who went by the name of Andy Ottley.
                  He was a brisk, bustling man, with a hearty manner.
                  “Good morning. Good Morning.”  He rubbed his hands in anticipation.  “What can I do for you?”
                  His professional eye shot over me, trying to place me, making mental notes.
                  “I would like to ask you about a former employee of yours, Marcus Dye.”
                  Andy Ottley’s expressive eyebrows shot up and inch, and dropped.
                  “Marcus Dye.  Marcus Dye?”  He shot out a question.  “Press?”
                  “No.”
                  “And you’re not the police?”
                  “I’m a private detective.”
                  “A private detective.”  Andy Ottley filed this away rapidly, as though for future reference.  “What’s this all