A Very Private Murder by Stuart Pawson Read Free Book Online

ever painted there. Blackbirds and thrushes foraged for worms on the lawns, a flock of swallows – or were they swifts? – wheeled and dived overhead, and behind all the screeching, whistling and cawing, almost lost, was the steady plunk … plunk … plunk of young Toby, measuring her skill against a wire-netting cage. I slid into the driving seat and started the engine.
     
     
    Threadneedle had told me he was going down to the Belfry for a few days, but I didn’t think Mrs Threadneedle was present when he said it. I ran the scene through my brain. That was right: he’d walked out to the car with me. He said it after we caught the dog, Wolfgang, staking his claim to my offside front wheel. I pulled into a lay-by just before the end of Curzon’s lane and dialled his number. Mrs Threadneedle answered quicker than an Indian call centre, like in about ten minutes.
    ‘Mrs Threadneedle?’
    ‘That’s right. Who is this, please?’
    ‘Detective Inspector Charlie Priest. I came to see your husband this morning. I was wondering if I could pop in to see him again, in about an hour? I have a few more questions for him. Nothing important – just background information.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but he’s gone away on business for a few days. Is it anything I could help you with?’
    ‘Um, that’s very kind of you. I’m in my car at the moment. Will it be all right if I call, in about an hour, perhaps a bit less?’
    ‘I’ll be expecting you, Inspector.’
    Sometimes, I don’t know where I get it from. Look for the weakest link, that’s my guiding principle. I turned out on to the lane, towards the A64, and imagined the diminutive Janet dashing around the house with her feather duster, plumping up the cushions, waiting for her inspector to call.
    Perhaps I did her an injustice. She was upright and coherent and politely welcoming. Or maybe she could hold her liquor. I asked for a coffee again, when invited, and this time she managed to keep most of it within the confines of the cup. She was wearing a pretend-velour jogging suit the colour of unripe bananas and as she lowered the cup in front of me her newly refreshed perfume hit me like an avalanche in a potpourri quarry. I’d found myself a seat in an easy chair; she curled up at one end of a settee.
    ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’ she asked, leaning forward, her chin on her fist. Her slippers had long pointed toes, and with a matching hat she’d have made a passable pea pod in a fancy-dress contest. I looked past her and saw the glass and Gordon’s bottle on the floor beside her settee.
    ‘I haven’t made much progress,’ I confessed. ‘Trouble is, we’re still not sure who was the target of the vandalism: your husband or Miss Curzon. Or perhaps both of them. How well did you know the Curzons?’
    ‘Not too well. We haven’t seen them for years. Ghislaine was just a little girl, and look at her now. Quite regal, don’t you think?’
    ‘You knew them through horse racing, didn’t you?’
    ‘That’s right. For a short while we had a small stable near Malton but it burnt down. Arthur had applied for a trainer’s licence. Before that he had shares in a horse called Shergar. You might remember it. He introduced Mr Curzon to the right people and he became a joint owner, too.’
    ‘Shergar!’ I exclaimed. ‘You mean the horse that vanished? It won the Derby, didn’t it?’ I was taken by surprise but it soon subsided. The two big unsolved mysteries of my lifetime were what happened to Shergar and where was Lord Lucan, but I doubted if I was hot on the trail of either. I decided she was as nutty as a fruitcake.
    ‘That’s right,’ she replied. ‘The IRA kidnapped it. The Aga Khan sold shares in it when it went to stud, and Arthur introduced Mr Curzon to the syndicate manager. I imagine they both had their fingers burnt when it vanished but you’ll have to ask Arthur for the details. He doesn’t tell me anything.’
    ‘Was it