Dying to Write by Judith Cutler Read Free Book Online

morning light, the halfdozen who’d watched Nyree being taken away, and tried to find something to say.
    Shazia was dithering; I put my arm loosely around her shoulders. ‘We might as well get everyone in,’ I said quietly. ‘There’s nothing we can do here, and we can’t risk Agnes catching cold in this rain. I’ll get the kettle on, while you have another go at waking Kate and Matt.’
    â€˜I don’t like –’ She stopped.
    â€˜OK, you do the tea. I’ll roust them out.’
    I could see why she should be reluctant. One room or two? I tried to work out a strategy to minimise embarrassment.
    As it was, I need not to have worried. There was no reply from either room.
    Gimson was talking to a policeman in his twenties when I came downstairs. I picked up the words ‘inquest’, ‘post-mortem’, ‘alcohol poisoning’. Gimson spoke with cool authority; the constable listened with respect. Until he saw me.
    â€˜Were you wanting something, miss?’
    â€˜Not specially. I was interested because I found the body. Me and Shazia. We called Mr Gimson.’
    â€˜I dare say we shall want to talk to you later, miss.’
    And so I was dismissed. I would go back to my own room and try to write.
    My route did not, of course, take me past Nyree’s room but I found myself going to it. The door stood wide open. No one was inside. But it occurred to me that if Nyree had died unnaturally – and that accorded with what Gimson thought – the room might contain useful information. Using my handkerchief in the best Agatha Christie tradition, I closed it. It would lock automatically, like all our doors, on the Yale lock. But I felt the constable had been careless, and made it my business – I wish I weren’t always so damned officious – to stroll back and mention it. I would be as tactful as possible. I hate people telling me how to do my job, and I didn’t want to put his back up. I need not have worried, however: his panda drove away even as I reached the front door. And then I was worried.
    I went in search of Shazia. I found her coming down the stairs from her flat with an armful of bed linen.
    â€˜I thought I’d get the room straight as soon as I could,’ she said.
    â€˜No! You’ve got to leave it as it is,’ I said, and then wished I hadn’t been so schoolmarmish. ‘Evidence – there may be some evidence there. That’s why I locked it.’
    â€˜But the smell – we ought to let some fresh air in. And the constable didn’t say anything about evidence or anything.’
    â€˜I was friendly with a detective once. A rather senior one. He dinned it into me: never touch anything.’
    â€˜But there’s no reason –’
    â€˜Just to put my mind at rest – please. Don’t even go in there until I’ve phoned my friend.’
    Shazia was plainly unhappy.
    â€˜In any case,’ I said, groping for something persuasive, ‘someone’s got to decide whether the course should go on. And I’m afraid that someone’s you.’
    I watched her retrace her steps. A pillowcase slipped from the pile, and she had to pick it up. I made my way to the office and the telephone.
    The last person I wanted to contact was the man I’d described as my friend. Not because I didn’t like him; I did. But because he liked me, too much. We’d formed two sides of an eternal triangle in the spring, and I liked and respected him too much to want to stir up hopes I knew I couldn’t fulfil.
    I dialled and waited. I looked around: her office was neat and well organised. It put mine to shame. The plants grew, the calendar was up to date, the furniture newly dusted and the bin empty.
    â€˜West Midlands Police?’
    â€˜Can I speak to DCI Groom, please? Rose Road Police Station.’
    â€˜I’m afraid he’s not available at the moment. Can anyone else