Wexford 4 - The Best Man To Die Read Online Free PDF

staircase and when the bridegroom reached the bottom, Burden said curtly:
       ‘Your father’s told you? Hatton was murdered last night. We want to know the lot, where you’d been and what time you left him.’
       ‘Here, go easy,’ said the father. ‘It’s been a shock. They were old mates, my boy and Charlie.’
       Jack pushed past him into the poky front parlour and the others followed. The wedding flowers had come. Jack had a white rose in his buttonhole and there were two more, their stems wrapped in silver foil, on the fumed oak sideboard. One was for the bridegroom’s father and the other would never be worn. Jack plucked the flower out of his morning coat and closed his fist slowly over it, crushing it into a pulp.
       ‘I’ll get you a drop of whisky, son.’
       ‘I don’t want it,’ Jack said with his back to them. ‘We was drinking whisky last night. I never want to touch it again.’ He pulled his black immaculate sleeve across his eyes. “Who did it?’ he shouted.
       ‘We hoped you’d be able to tell us that,’ said Burden.
       ‘Me? Are you out of your bloody mind? Just show me the bastard who killed Charlie Hatton and I’ll . . .’ He sat down heavily, spread his arms on the table and dropped his head.
       ‘Charlie,’ he said.
       Wexford didn’t pursue it. He turned to the father. “What was it last night, a stag party?’ Pertwee nodded. ‘D’you know who was there?’
       ‘Jack, of course, and poor old Charlie. Then there was all the darts club lot, George Carter, fellow called Bayles, Maurice Cullam from Sewingbury and a couple of others. That right, Jack?’
       Jack nodded dumbly.
       ‘Charlie got there late, Jack said. They left at closing time, split up outside, I reckon. Charlie and Cullam’ll have walked home across the fields. That right, Jack?’
       This time Jack lifted his head. Burden thought him a weak womanish fool, despising his red eyes and the muscle that twitched in his cheek. But Wexford spoke gently.
       ‘I realize this has been a blow to you, Mr Pertwee. We won’t bother you much longer. Did Mr Cullam and Mr Hatton walk home together?’
       ‘Maurice went first,’ Jack muttered. ‘About twenty to eleven it was. Charlie. . . Charlie stayed for a bit of a natter with me.’ A sob caught his throat and he coughed to mask it. ‘He said he wished me luck in case he didn’t get the chance today. Christ, he didn’t know he’d never get another chance.’
       ‘Come on, son, bear up. Let me give you a little drop of scotch. You owe it to Marilyn to keep going you know. It’s your wedding day, remember?’
       Jack shook off his father’s hand and lurched to his feet.
       ‘There isn’t going to be no wedding,’ he said.
       ‘You don’t mean that, Jack, think of that girl of yours, think of all them folks coming. They’ll be getting to the church in a minute. Charlie wouldn’t have wished it.’
       Stubbornly Jack said, ‘I’m not getting married today. D’you think I don’t know what’s right, what’s proper?’ He wrenched off his tie and flung his morning coat over the back of a chair.
       His father, with a working man’s regard for hired finery, picked it up, smoothed it and stood draping it over his arm like an outfitter’s assistant. Bewildered by the holocaust of events, by death that had suddenly changed a world, he began apologising, first to the policemen: ‘I don’t know what to say, his best man to die like that . . .’ and then to his son: ‘I’d give my right hand to have things different, Jack. What can I do for you, son? I’ll do anything you say.’
       Jack dropped his handful of bruised petals. A sudden dignity made him straighten his back and hold his head high. ‘Then get down to that church,’ he said, ‘and tell them the wedding’s off.’ He faced Wexford. ‘I’m not answering any more questions now. I’ve got my grief. You ought to respect my