Gift Wrapped by Peter Turnbull Read Free Book Online

had gone on to disappoint his father-in-law by buying a new-built house on the edge of a village. It was all very well for his father-in-law to have given that advice, he had argued, but let him try buying an inter-war house in the area of a town, any town, where he and his wife would want to live and do so on a detective constable’s salary.
    He and Carmen Pharoah walked slowly but purposefully from where they had parked their car at the kerb in front of the lawn of Mrs Wenlock’s house, side by side up the driveway, at the top of which they turned to their right and walked past the first bayed window to the front door. The door, like the rest of the wood of the house, the window frames and the garage door, had been painted a loud canary yellow. The battery operated bell, when pressed, they discovered, rang the Westminster chimes.
    â€˜A burglar deterrent?’ Carmen Pharoah glanced at Reginald Webster. ‘What do you think?’
    â€˜Sorry?’ Webster, listening with interest to the plethora of sound, the birdsong, a railway locomotive’s two-tone horn in the far distance and the low rumble of traffic from the road beyond the lawn, was caught off-guard by Pharoah’s questions.
    â€˜The colour of the house,’ Pharoah explained, ‘the yellow painted wood and the drainpipe too ... it’s not at all to my taste.’
    â€˜Nor mine,’ Webster agreed.
    â€˜But it might deter a burglar?’ she suggested.
    â€˜You think?’ Webster raised his eyebrows.
    â€˜Well, yes ... colours have different effects on people and yellow is a colour you shy away from.’
    â€˜Really?’ Webster was intrigued.
    â€˜Yes, I believe so.’ Carmen Pharoah turned and pondered the large amount of work that had clearly gone into maintaining the garden. ‘All things being equal – all other things, I mean – a burglar would be less attracted to a house painted yellow than he would to a house painted black, for example, which is a colour which folk apparently find attractive and welcoming despite its association with funerals. The burglar would probably not be conscious of being attracted or repelled by a colour but I bet the influence would be felt on a subconscious level.’
    â€˜Maybe ...’ Webster also pondered the garden. ‘I confess I didn’t know that ... about colours, I mean.’
    â€˜Oh, yes ... for example, haven’t you noticed how all the fast-food eateries lure you in with a bright red sign on the outside of the building, and yet once you are in and seated you are assaulted with the colour yellow glaring at you from every angle? The red pulls you in, you see, and then, once they have your money, the yellow hastens you on your weary way.’ Carmen Pharoah raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s quite true. Believe me. There’s thinking and pre-meditation behind the red and the yellow in these places.’
    â€˜My eyes,’ Reginald Webster inclined his head in gratitude, ‘have been opened, widely so.’
    Any further discussion about the influence of colours upon the human psyche between our two heroes, was, dear reader, prevented by the opening of the front door. It was swung open, widely so, in a confident manner by a slender, middle-aged lady who was dressed in a yellow blouse which was the same shade as the colour of her house, a white three-quarter-length skirt, light shaded nylons and yellow shoes with small, sensible heels. She wore her hair short cropped. She had rings upon her fingers and bracelets, and a small watch upon her wrist. ‘The police?’ she asked. Her face was narrow with high cheekbones, her voice soft and pleasing.
    â€˜Yes, ma’am.’ Webster took his ID from his jacket pocket and showed it to her. Carmen Pharoah did likewise. ‘You are Mrs Wenlock?’
    â€˜Yes, yes, I am, and I am, of course, expecting you. I spoke with your Mr Hennessey earlier today. He indicated that