A Willing Victim by Laura Wilson Read Free Book Online

confirmed it – the total estate, minus the aunt’s money, came to . . .’ Grove consulted his notebook, ‘£7,217. So, nothing there unless you believe the RSPCA makes a practice of bumping people off.’
    ‘He didn’t have paid employment,’ said Stratton. ‘At least, not as far as I know, so I wonder how he got by? There was no evidence that he had a bank account, and the only money I found in his room was a bit of loose change, but the landlady told Canning he was always paid up with the rent.’
    ‘No idea . . . Oh, before I forget, she gave me a couple of photographs. That one’ – Grove proffered a photo of a serious-looking kid in flannels and a school blazer – ‘probably won’t be much use, because he’s only sixteen or thereabouts, but this,’ he laid another photograph, clearly recognisable as Lloyd the man, on the desk, ‘might come in handy.’
    ‘Thanks,’ said Stratton, gazing at them abstractedly. ‘I suppose,’ he added, ‘that too much self-belief is as bad as none at all. Mindyou, you could say that about belief in anything. There must be some sort of decent middle ground.’
    ‘Still,’ said Grove, ‘it’s normal to want to make sense of the world, isn’t it? I mean, old son, you could say that’s what we do.’ Seeing Stratton’s confusion, he added, ‘Our job, I mean. Finding answers to questions.’
    Both men considered this for a moment before making a silent, mutual decision that there was nothing more that could sensibly be said on the subject, and beating a hasty retreat to the altogether less taxing topic of Mr Heddon. ‘Barmy,’ said Grove. ‘Mad as a hatter. Still, it could be a lot worse. Remember that chap we had in March who was so frightened of living under the Russians that he clobbered his wife with a claw hammer and stuck his head in the gas oven?’
    ‘Vividly, thanks,’ said Stratton, picturing the dead woman’s caved-in face and punctured eyes. ‘But as fears go, that was a bit more realistic, wasn’t it? I mean, the Soviets actually exist. Unlike the little green men.’
    ‘Ambrose Tynan probably thinks they do.’
    ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Stratton gloomily, thinking of the regularity with which articles about evil cults and threats from outer space by the author appeared in the newspapers. ‘More bollocks.’
    ‘I’m not at all happy about having you chasing round all over the country, but seeing as you don’t have anything else, you’d better get up to this Lincott place tomorrow and find out who these people are,’ said Lamb, when Stratton had explained the situation.
    ‘Suffolk’s not far, sir, and Lincott’s on the Cambridge border.’
    Lamb grunted. ‘I suppose I ought to be grateful that you’re not proposing to go traipsing up to Norfolk.’ He made it sound as though Stratton had chosen the destination by blindfolding himself and sticking a pin in a map.
    ‘I understand from DI Grove that Lincott may be on DI Ballard’s patch, sir.’
    ‘Good officer, Ballard.’ Lamb looked fractionally more approving. ‘I was sorry to lose him,’ he added, in obituary tones.
    ‘So was I, sir.’
    ‘If that’s the case, you might have a chat with him while you’re there – he’ll know the lie of the land. I’ll give his superior a call – fill him in about it.’
    ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
    ‘Off you go, then. Stay overnight if it’s necessary. And try to make some sort of progress, won’t you?’

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Seated in the corner of a small Italian restaurant on the edge of Soho, Stratton sipped gingerly at a glass of vinegary red wine and contemplated the Alpine scene, rendered in smeary oil paint, which stretched the length of the adjacent wall. What he really wanted was a decent pint of beer, but that wasn’t available. The choice of edible food – edible, that was, without risking a lot of spilling and mopping and making a fool of oneself – was limited too, which was a shame because it wasn’t