A Painted Doom by Kate Ellis Read Free Book Online

cheque to a middle-aged woman who was named
     in the caption beneath as Maggie Flowers, treasurer of Derenham’s village hall committee. She too was smiling gratefully at
     the camera. Happy faces all round.
    ‘Where’s Shellmer living at the moment?’ asked Wesley. They might as well get all the information they could out of Ray Davenport
     before the news broke and his opinions were coloured by thoughts of murder.
    ‘He’s rented a cottage in Whitely while he’s house-hunting. Why?’
    ‘And you actually interviewed him yourself?’ Davenport nodded.
    ‘What’s he like?’ asked Heffernan with an innocent grin. ‘I was a bit of a fan myself once upon a time.’
    ‘He seemed okay. Quite happy to chat – not like some of them. He’s been keeping busy in the music business since Rock Boat
     broke up, but now he’s decided to move to the country for the quiet life. He’s thinking of buying somewherein Derenham. He said he was interested in a place called the Old Vicarage – he’d been to see it a few times and was considering
     making an offer.’ Ray looked Gerry Heffernan in the eye. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Gerry, but a little bird tells me there’s
     been a lot of police activity up near Derenham today. And here you are asking questions about Jonny Shellmer. Could the two
     things be related, by any chance?’
    Wesley decided to let his superior do the talking. ‘It’ll all come out soon, Ray, so I might as well tell you now. There’s
     been a suspicious death.’
    Ray Davenport became suddenly alert, like a dog that had smelt an obliging rabbit. The term ‘newshound’ now seemed strangely
     appropriate as Wesley observed the journalist sniffing the air like a bloodhound on the scent.
    ‘I reckon you’ve found Jonny Shellmer dead. That’s why you want chapter and verse on him,’ said Davenport, wheedling.
    ‘We’ll make a statement to the press in due course. You know the form, Ray.’
    ‘Go on, Gerry. What’s the cause of death? Was it suicide? I can’t say he seemed depressed when I spoke to him.’
    ‘You know I can’t tell you that yet, Ray. Anyway, what makes you think Shellmer might be dead?’
    Davenport touched the side of his long, narrow nose. ‘Come on, Gerry. You scratch my back, et cetera. Was it suicide? Rock
     star’s lonely agony?’
    ‘Sorry, Ray, you’ll have to make do with the formal statements just like everyone else,’ said Heffernan. ‘But of course, if
     you know anything else about Shellmer that we might be interested in, I could make sure you got anything juicy before the
     opposition, if you see what I mean. Maybe something the nationals would be interested in,’ he added tantalisingly.
    ‘I get the picture, Gerry. But there’s nothing more I can tell you.’
    ‘Nothing he mentioned in passing while you were having this cosy chat? Something you might not have thought was important
     at the time?’
    Ray sighed. ‘I’ll see if I’ve still got the interview on tape.’
    Gerry Heffernan slapped the reporter heartily on the back. ‘See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? And for that DI Peterson
     here might even consider helping you with your piece on ethnic minorities. Won’t you, Inspector? But now you can find that
     little tape machine of yours and we’ll see if there’s anything juicy on it.’ He beamed at Wesley, who had the nagging feeling
     he had been a pawn in one of the boss’s little games. He felt mildly annoyed, but he had no option but to nod in agreement.
    ‘There we are. Everyone’s happy,’ Heffernan said as he sat down in the only comfortable chair in the office. ‘Any chance of
     a cup of tea, Ray? I’m spitting feathers ’ere.’
    It was eight o’clock when Wesley Peterson headed home. Gerry Heffernan had kept him talking, making plans for the investigation
     and indulging in his usual wild speculations about the case, as he always did before the full facts were known.
    They had listened to Ray Davenport’s taped