Deadly Virtues by Jo Bannister Read Free Book Online Page B

establish what.”
    Murchison swallowed. “They’re going to think we’re covering for one another.”
    Fountain shrugged expansively. “They won’t like it, I know that much. I wouldn’t like it if it was my investigation. It’s always more satisfying to know what actually happened than to be left by default with what probably happened. But they’re realists. They know there isn’t always forensics, you can’t always find an impeccable witness. Sometimes, the likeliest explanation is the best you’re going to do. And unless someone comes forward to say different, the likeliest explanation is that Jerome Cardy was the author of his own misfortune. That the only one to blame for his death is Robert Barclay.” The chief superintendent looked his custody sergeant in the eye. “Do you suppose anyone will want to say something different?”
    Murchison stood up. Thoughts were racing through his head like getaway cars. “I doubt it, sir. If no one’s looking for another explanation, it doesn’t seem too likely that anyone will offer one.”
    Fountain gave a little grunt. It might have been agreement, sympathy, or just dismissal. “I think you should go home now, Donald. Try to get some sleep. Things’ll seem brighter in the morning.”
    “Yes. And—thank you, sir.”
    Fountain gave him a puzzled look. “What for?”
    *   *   *
    Most people would have turned on the television, looking for a local news bulletin. Gabriel Ash no longer owned a television. Or they might have asked around at work, or called a friend. Ash hadn’t worked for four years—was not so much unemployed as unemployable—and didn’t have any friends. There was a newsagent opposite the park. He and Patience went out as soon as it opened and bought the local paper.
    There was nothing in it. At least, there were lots of things in it, but nothing that interested Ash. Events at Meadowvale Police Station had occurred after the Norbold News went to press.
    He wasn’t sure what to do. He could wait for the evening papers, but none of them published in Norbold and might relegate the story to a couple of paragraphs on an inside page. He could wait for the next edition of the News , but it only published twice a week, and the Monday issue was mostly full of sport reports.
    Or he could do nothing. This was in many ways his default option. These days, not many things struck Ash as important enough to disturb the routine he wore like a suit of armor but still trivial enough that he might be able to do anything useful about them. The death of Jerome Cardy certainly qualified on the first count and failed on the second. If there was no point exposing himself to scrutiny, interrogation, and derision, he would rather not do it. He had never courted attention. These days he’d do almost anything to avoid it.
    But a man had died. At least, Ash thought he had. Something terrible had happened—he knew that from the silence that had descended on the police station, which even the hurried footsteps, the clipped commands, and, soon afterward, the nearby wail of an ambulance siren somehow did nothing to dispel. A somber-faced officer had asked him to leave, and there seemed to be some urgency, because he was collecting Ash’s scant belongings while Ash was still fumbling to tie his shoes.
    And even if he was right and the young man he’d briefly shared his cell with was dead, the tragedy would hardly have disturbed the isolation he’d crafted around himself, except for one thing. Jerome Cardy had known he was going to die. Had asked for Ash’s help, not even to protect him but simply to remember. To bear witness.
    Memory was one of the things that gave Ash problems these days. Remembering when he needed to, and forgetting when he should.
    He looked at the dog. “What do you think? We should leave well enough alone?”
    She didn’t need to reply. The severity of her expression—nobody can look down their nose at you like a lurcher—was answer